timpeltje

Rain on freshly styled hair, wrinkly fingers from bath water, angry bus drivers who are rude because they hate their lives, cold feet, blackouts, (most) jumpers, FedEx (right now for not delivering my book I ordered), Erik when I want sex but he doesn't, myself when Erik wants sex but I don't, religion, interviews on TV where some drunk queen says he doesn't care about safe sex because "I mean, you can cross the street and get hit by a bus too", strangers who glare at me or Erik, spaghetti in my soup, spiders crawling in my mouth when I am asleep, spiders not crawling in my mouth when I'm asleep, arrogant art, stupid questions, screaming children, silent children, water bills, etc?

Hmmm, I thought I could find more.
Still, my life isn't that complicated at the moment so there isn't much to dislike.

Apparently, the Flemish neo-nazi party Vlaams Belang is thinking about targeting a wider audience of voters. They feel like they have exhausted the "poorly educated, white man's vote" (their words) and are considering various new pools of voters. The funniest one they picked out must be "artists", a group of people they have never been able to convince with any of their half-witted ideas and opinions. I also feel that even if they would get the artists' vote (supposing all artists go simultaneously bonkers), that their overall score wouldn't be that much higher (there are more "poorly educated white men" than there are artists of course).
What would art work look like for a party that's inherently racist, discriminatory and intolerant? Perhaps some artists might be challenged to try out if they could create work that would discriminate against one group and also glorify the past of the Flanders region. With a couple of adaptations to his cloaca machine, Wim Delvoye could become popular amongst the fascists (if he were to feed Arabs/Walloons instead of food to the cloaca for example). They are perhaps looking for an idealised art form that can be positioned against the "Entartete Künst", which they would later burn.
I wish them the best of luck in their attempts to convince the art world of their intentions. In the meantime, I am enjoying their imminent collapse.
And then there was much rejoicing...

In a course on artist's books, I analysed an article by book artist Johanna Drucker on the subject that said that "artists books are the only art form where anyone can follow a weekend workshop, take some scissors, tape and a pencil, produce a book, call it 'art' and try to sell it as an artist's book." What she was saying, was that artists' books (I forgot where to put the apostrophe, so I'm alternating) are seldom true works of art. As if the field of artist's books is the sole container of what we in laymen's terms would refer to as CRAP work. Damien Hirst rapes painting with every drop of ink he dribbles on a canvas, leaving said canvas shocked, traumatised and violated, in need of immediate psychiatric help and/or euthanasia.
While I wasn't very much aware of the medium of the artist's book, I don't think the amount of CRAP exceeds what the field of photography gets. People don't even take weekend workshops for that. Forget the tape and scissors!
Give me an automated device with a button or two and I can be the better of you. You study photography you say?
-I wish I hadn't told you-
Look at these amazing photos I took of my baby. I used the SmlieRecognition on the camera to get the best result. SEE?
*shows 744 eerily similar pictures of overexposed ugly babies in nappies*
Do you know who I'd have to talk to to sell these?
-Try Sotheby's, or Damien Hirst's 'White Cube Gallery'-
Thanks!
-No worries, mate. Keep on the good work.-

If Johanna Drucker reads this, and if she has half a brain, she will (coughs, burps and snores), then I'd expect her to make a reconciliatory sacrifice of some kind. Or give me a cookie.
She misled me, at first I'd have been tempted to believe her misguided claims (that only book artists were meant to read). But the bitch is wrong! If anything, the crap work makes the good work look better, and that goes for every medium methinks. So let's cherish the diversity and its practitioners (and let's remember to say we study advanced microbiologic algae influences on cell division during photosynthesis).

If this were a dream diary, I would write of how, in my dream, Erik and I killed an Asian guy in our apartment and then cooked and ate his remains ("tastes like tuna"). I'd talk about what I remember from my dream that started out as Part 2 of another dream I had a while ago. In Part 1, no Asians were killed or eaten, just so you know that this is not a theme in my subconscious. My brain seems to think it's more interesting as a plot, perhaps. I don't think I'd remember it now, almost a day later, without the cannibalism.
In another scene, I went down the stairs, very early in the morning and lots of drunk people were going home, even some of whom I knew. There was a city festival, but the city itself was in ruins. I ran around, afraid, not knowing what to do. The third scene I remember has me in a prison bubble bath / swimming pool (yes!), because I had apparently repented for killing the Asian and gone to prison (Erik hadn't for some reason, he's such a cannibal :-)). Perhaps I'm idealising prison life a bit, considering I'd imagine spending it in bubble baths and swimming pools, but to me, this could perhaps be torture, since I really don't like the wrinkled fingers you get after having been in water for a long time (it's the reason why I always have my hands above water when taking a bath).
Sometimes dream worlds are so much more exciting than the real world.

It's a bit of a sad day today for my beautiful boy whom I love so deeply. He decided today he couldn't continue with his course in shoe design, a course he'd been wanting to do for years and passed the entry exam for (only 7 people out of many many candidates were selected). The reason for his quitting is a lack of funds, the most annoying of all reasons to quit doing something one really wants to do. I didn't know what to respond to it, because I hoped that he wouldn't give up the thing he wants to do for something he doesn't really feel like doing (i.e. working a silly job). I always told him he has to do the thing he wants to do, like I'm doing, and make every sacrifice necessary for it. The reality is that he doesn't have any more money and that the course is costing him a lot. Also, his blunt parents (who'd have rather wished he was a heterosexual lorry driver with an interest in sports and/or macho culture) made it clear to him that the shoe design course is not something he should continue, explicitly saying that they won't chip in any more at the end of the month if need be. Maybe he "should consider cleaning toilets, or working in a supermarket". Four years to get a university degree and your parents want you to clean up a supermarket toilet? Christmas dinner with them promises to be very pleasant this year.
I regret the fact that he has to stop and I cannot deal with the reason why.

I hope that one day, sooner rather than later, I will be able to employ him and he will be free to do the things he wants to do, free from parents who don't believe in him and free from the job market who looks down on him because he's a very intelligent lad who studied something he loved to do without wondering how corporations could exploit him the rest of his life, paying him just enough to get by, enough to keep him dependent.

Today I thought about asking him to move to London in January, but I didn't because I still want to finish my MA degree here. Maybe I will look into whether or not it would be possible for me to complete my degree there. But I also want out, out of the mediocrity of the general mentality here (the academy is an exception to this, luckily).

Below is a true Erik Van Den Storm © shoe...





How I adore my boy....

My fellow Europeans,

You may have noticed that I did not become President of Europe today and, like you, I feel this is very unjust. I would like to express my congratulations to the winner of this competition, a competition in which I believe I had more style and sexiness than any of my opponents.
I ask you not to riot or respond with terrorism and farts. Today we begin a new campaign: the Timmytimtim Presidential Campaign of 2012,5 (since Van Rompuy will hold the position for 2,5 years). We will be better organised, better equiped and even hotter than today.
Not being president for at least 30 more months will be a good thing too, however. I will have more time to spend on my family, my gorgeous husband and my pretty cat who, much like me, enjoys licking herself.

We will see you in 2012,5.
Bigger, better and with much more explosions.

Every bit of memory fades, becomes redundant. Useless in the eternal sequence of events. It is in the nature of the universe to destruct that which has been constructed, to tear it all apart and let it be sucked into a black hole for eternal safekeeping.

My fellow Europeans,

It has come to my attention that the position of President of the European Union is now vacant and while it is an unwritten rule that one should under no condition mention say that one is a candidate for the job (since such hubris is frowned upon), I feel that I must come forward and tell you I AM a candidate. Am I then not content that our very own PM Herman van Rompuy is now the name on everyone's lips? Should I not give him my full support? Well, the man didn't even want to be Belgium's PM, so why would he want to be Europe's first president? The thing about Herman is that he's a "nice guy", but I believe that what I lack in niceness, I make up for in handsomeness and modesty (hmhm).
I know that many of you will be confused by the fact that you will not be able to elect me, but unlike any of the other candidates, I do feel the need to talk to you as if your opinion mattered. Because deep-down you know that what you say doesn't really matter, but at least it's nice to pretend like this would be so.

So how does one become president of the EU? Who do I talk to about my ambitions? If nobody seems to want the job, I don't see why I shouldn't apply for it. To whom do I address my lettre of motivation? To those it "may concern"? 

But what does my candidature has to offer if I were to become EU president? My first order of business would be to stop all the bad things that happen and significantly increase all the good things that happen. I will achieve this by systematically calling individuals who do bad things "fat, ugly and reeking of my cat's excrement" (because you know kitty's packages can REALLY smell!). Increasing the amount of good things will also be high up on the agenda, and I promise I will start with the things that are good for me, because if your president is happy, then his people will also be happy! 

Second order of business will be WAR. I know it is not a popular theme in Europe, but I fear that we have no choice. Every new ruler needs a way to get the people behind him, which is why I will draft an army of 20 million slim, young and handsome men to come fight a war with Liechtenstein and annex the country to the EU to give us the Lebensraum we so desperately need. Liechtenstein has been taunting us too long with their clear skies and stupid trousers, and since Wikipedia tells me that it is a country that has "no military", I feel now is the perfect time to strike. After the war, which will approximately take 23 minutes and cost 17 billion euro, our heroes, the veterans who fought and won this war will come to parades all over Europe where people will embrace the idea of a EU that defends them, of a Leader that gives them good old-fashioned victories! 


Tim van den Oudenhoven, the only true candidate for the job!



Paid for by the Timmy the TimTim for President of Europe 2009 committee. 

(I am recruiting people to launch smear campains against my various opponents. Tony Blair doesn't really need a smear campaign, his appearance is enough, I reckon; maybe the same goes for Balkenende (did you see that video of him dancing to Franz Bauer? Is that who you want as a leader?), but dirt on Van Rompuy? I think he's bald. Do you want a bald person in the Blue House (since we're Americanizing things, I will paint my residency blue (though Erik might prefer black) and call it thusly - I *really* think I am the only one who thought this presidency through... ). 

I've had two stimulating encounters this week. The first one was with Michael James O'Brien and the second one was with Shelly Silver. Michael had contacted me to be a model for his "Portrait as a Young Man" series, of course the title already a reference to hubris-infested characters like Stephen Dedalus of the James Joyce book, though I had to think more of Dorian Gray and the kind of sad beauty it portrayed. I saw that in many of the pictures (and I think mine will also have that). I had to think of the very sec Thomas Ruff portrait series and had to admit I actually like this series a lot more, because of the emotion it involves. It doesn't attempt to be neutral. Good. Michael then showed me some of his work, from his cooperation (10 years (!!!)) with Matthew Barney unto more diverse projects. What I liked about his work was the sheer diversity of it. We talked a bit about some photographers and ultimately agreed on one basic premise: "you cannot keep doing the same thing over and over again". E.g. Gregory Crewdson for instance. He's been taking the same photo over and over again for so many years in a row. Sad, no? One recipe for success and then never try anything else? I've asked him to be my external mentor and he agreed, which made me smile, if anything he can be a stimulus to try new things, even in collaboration with him, who knows.
The second encounter, on Friday, was in a presentation by American artist Shelly Silver, she makes poetic video art pieces which start out from reality. She explained how she conceived her films, with limited means, but pursued to make them anyway, because it's what she had to do, and then hoped as many people as possible would see them (not limiting the DVD's to like a series of 5 copies so that virtually nobody ever sees the works), because she wasn't interested in making a profit off of her work. It's nice to hear such things, what with all the Damien Hirsts and Jan de Cocks of this world, whose "art" only serves the cultivation of their ego. What it comes down to is commitment. Are you committed enough to make something of it? Erik and I felt a bit sorry for her that only about 20 people had made the effort to come to this artist's presentation (she's only been at MoMa, you know), even the fellow students from my video art class didn't bother to show up (except about 2 of them). When I started out at art school, I imagined there to be more commitment, more interest into the arts. But the contemporary disease of "We Don't Care" has permeated even academies, it is simply cool not to be interested in anything... But even only two academy teachers showed up, so if even they can't be bothered any more... (you would at least expect a fellowship of teachers who are all artists or wannabe-artists to be interested, right?). Anyhow, the reason I mention this apathy among the commoners is that it is something that convinces me more of my own voice. 

There is some kind of light burning on the horizon. Alien life forms exploring with their headlights on. By now, they know that nobody will notice them. They know that only the crazies and the video-camera-less will berate of their visions. Perhaps the ones with bad eyesight too, and that includes me, will also think they've seen something odd. And only these 3 groups will attempt to speak up. To be then silenced by disbelief and jealousy for getting their ten seconds of fame so early. Most people who claim to have been abducted may look like they have a screw loose, in fact they just went loopy because everyone ignored them. This actually gives me the idea of starting a self-help group for people who've been abducted by aliens: the Alien Abuctees Anonymous (alcoholic drinks welcome). In the group, we'll be able to talk about our experiences, about the people who've neglected us because of who we were, about why we want the right to marry each other, etc... We'll have sing-alongs group hug sessions. 
Now that they know I've seen them, they will perhaps attempt to abduct me. I am ready. To make it more comfortable for them, I could perhaps void my bowels, but I'm going to make it hard for them and not go to the toilet. Not that it'll matter if they don't want to insert anything in my anus. I wonder why alien abduction and anal probes are always so entwined, I doubt that the aliens are as anally fixated as some of these abductees were. Would you really travel lightyears and lightyears to put a device into someone's bum? If man ever discovers another planet with living beings on it, will the first thing we will do when we get there be to abduct some of the creatures living there, study where their anuses (ani?) is and then stuff it with electronics? Well, perhaps I would if I were in charge of the mission, but then again, I am someone who is about to be aducted by aliens on the horizon, so perhaps my opinions should be taken with a pinch of salt. 
I wonder why the aliens try to hide so much. People get killed and beaten up on the street of our cities without any passers-by reacting (take the mob murder in Napels for instance), so I think we can take some aliens doing their thing on our streets as well, nobody would really notice (though I guess it would give right-wing parties a new scapegoat for problems; "immigrants from outer space, taking our jobs ('dey tuk our jobs!"), our women and our cows (for some reason, the aliens *really* like the cows)").
Anyhow, I think they're floating outside my window here. Looks like they're still keeping it a "night thing", it's more atmospheric when filmed, I must admit. Perhaps I should open my window (it gets stuck easily, they might not get it open - I'll save them the embarrassment).
Now, on to the abduction...

I was back at university today, loaning a book that I hoped contained a play I wanted/needed to read (it didn't), and it was rather odd to walk around there. I would like to say how it reminded me of good days, but all I could think of was that there wasn't all that much to it. The place was just so "still". And this was only 4,5 years ago, but it seems like so much more. 
I saw an irritating linguistics professor who looked at me as if he was looking through me. The memory I have of him is of an oral exam in which he yawned all the time, slurped his coffee, sighed, rudely looked at his watch (while yawning) and gave you 5 minutes to answer a question that required a very long answer.
I do not recognize myself in my memory of university (no, it's not just the hair that's changed). What I find strange now, in my current state of mind, was that I produced almost nothing creatively, bad poetry aside. Of course the environment wasn't stimulating that, the first time I talked about writing a novel as a thesis was not this summer, for my current MA thesis, but 5 years ago, an idea that was encouraged by my teachers at Stockholm university but ridiculed by those in Belgium (which is perhaps why I do recognize parts of myself from when I was in Sweden). My writing a novel now is not a revenge, I swear. What I find strange is that it seems to me that at the time, I wasn't passionate about anything besides random sex, waiter work and going out. 
I definitely do not regret the diploma, without it I would not have the freedom to do what I do now, I wouldn't know Swedish, I wouldn't be a translator, etc, etc... I do wonder... about Belgian youngsters are always 'pushed' to go straight to university after graduation from secondary school, choosing a degree not so much because they want to do it, but because they have to do something, so they can get an MA diploma at age 22 (!!), start working immediately ("save up for your retirement!" to quote Erik's father yelling on the phone at him explaining why he should have a job), do the job until they're 65 and/or dead.
At least I'm glad I got out of the second part of the deal. 

(I was also thinking about this today, because there was an article in a newspaper today about these student 'baptisings" in which first-year students have to do all kinds of humiliating tasks, so they can be "part of the group". I remembered how sad I always thought those student unions that organised these baptisms really were.)

 It's the calm before the storm. My mind couldn't handle the appointments/courses I have in the coming weeks, so I started looking for that diary I get every year from school. I couldn't find this year's diary (which I'm sure I got), but I found the one from 2008, but if you just change the dates a bit, it can work. Apparently, November 20 2008 was a Monday, so if you just remember that Monday is Tuesday, and Wednesday is Thursday, then it won't be difficult to remember that Thursday is Friday and so forth. All these people buying new diaries, while they could be using old ones and test their brains while they're at it (okay, not test them, like astrophysics or something, but keep them vigilant). 
The thing with me and diaries is I always forget them, I never fill them in, except for on a moment like tonight, where I get overwhelmed by this feeling of wanting-to-be-structured-for-once-in-my-life, a feeling I don't get all that often. Each year I try to keep a diary, but I always end up neglecting it. And maybe there are far worse things than neglecting your diary, neglecting to wipe your bottom after an attack of diarrhea for instance, it's still a sad picture. 
Because maybe, when we're dead, my biographer will find this diary and look at it, thinking: "oh, he had bugger-all to do in his life. Let's write about someone or something a bit more performant. Let's write about toasters, instead!" They'll think I had no appointments, no dates, they may think that my life was an invention of some very lazy God, who could always write the beginning, but got bored half-way through and did something else. 
At least the next few weeks are filled in. And it will take some kind of genius to decypher that my diary for 2008 serves as one for 2009, creating more mystery and suspense in the rollercoaster ride that is my life *coughs*. Let's see, how about that suspense? Hmmmm... there's some lectures, driving lessons (!), film nights, exhibitions, a photoshoot to have my portrait taken as some kind of Dorian Gray, a performance in London about some Tennessee Williams adaptation, and to spice all this up, some big translations scattered around the weeks. It's not that bad, I guess. 
Why am I still awake?

I tried waking myself up this week, get into action instead of always pondering and doubting and let those voices in my head scream so vigorously at one another, keeping me awake at night. I like it that the next couple of weeks will be busier, that way I'll be more inclined to spend time on my work. 
I've been pondering the "business offer" I got last week and accepted to do. Being a local representative plus market share holder for some long term project I cannot tell the name of (as well as amounts of South-African currency I am not allowed to mention, but think lucrative). If it works out (and I kind of think it can), there will be some changes into the organisation of my life, hopefully with my love Erik as a possible "employee" (**excellent**). But nothing's sure yet, I'll know in March, but some of the work will start soon. Change is always good. 
As for my MA art project, I'm considering different options, and I'm going to try out some things, my mind has been bombarding me with all kinds of different thoughts and I need to see something put into practice. Otherwise I just turn passive I guess. I was able to talk to Erik about the different concepts I'm thinking about and I was glad I did. Since my mentor didn't show up last week for our appointment (*growls*) I hadn't actually talked to anyone about the directions I'm thinking about. In general, that's not a bad thing, because ultimately time will pressure you to execute the ideas (now there is a lack of time pressure, so most of what I have is talk talk talk, bla-bla-bla). 
For most of my photos, I think I will be needing an automobile to take me to and fro. The problem was always that Timmy The Great Crusader was always in fact Timmy The One Without A Driving License At Age Twenty-Six. But last week I decided it was time to learn, so I went to the driving school and asked them to teach me. Besides, I already know how to drive a car, I've played Gran Turismo & Mario Kart & Destruction Derby (and driven a real car twice, once with an inebriated crash at age 16 *whistles*). I just need to learn not to get bored and crash. Or not to get drunk and crash. 
The novel is on hold for now, but it can happen. When I have my structure, I'll be fine. Structuring it is the hardest part. And writing it of course. Oh, and deciding on the details. 

I haven't got many words inside of me these days.

I need to punish myself for my behaviour. Funnel the screams into at least something intelligible. 
Poor Erik, I feel my mood swings are worse than a pregnant woman with bad menstrual cramps (because she's still laying eggs during her pregnancy or something - it's possible, the Internet told me so - not that I care so much about female anatomy, but still, you have to get your similes right, right?). 

Erik-The-Lovely introduced me to Romeo Castellucci's theatre & I absolutely love it.
Wish I could have seen these things live....




Both images: from plays by Romeo Castellucci

Oh do not worry, countrymen, -women and -singers alike, The Tenacious Timmy is still producing. The reports of my impotence have been greatly exaggerated, I can assure you! For He (i.e. Me) is building up all the words inside him to come to an orgasmic eruption of epic proportions. Double-entendres aside, I am of course only referring to my visual and non-visual work.
Non-visual, you say? Youre thinking: Is he planning to get castrated and record a high-pitched classical album? Well, there is that, and also the book thing. Sometimes at night, some words or structural ideas appear and I write them down, neglecting my 13 billion blog readers in the Brshseg galaxy (speaking of which, don't trust those creatures, I'm still waiting for my Brshseg love doll I ordered on eBay 3 months ago - worst postal servive EVER!).
There is no time-based pressure on my body. No decomposing horse carcas to carry around as I do my things (a powerful image). But we're still working, I do my thing, take my time to let some ideas simmer. Passive?
London is going to be conquered soon. I am planning the Norman Invasion Part II (subtitle, "They Came From Belgium, They Did!" - it's a historical comedy, Angelina Jolie plays a tomato; it's complicated). Granted, it'll only be a two month intervention, but the pyromaniac in me believes he can completely burn down the city (this is not a terrorist threat, but an allegory - you can stop listening in on my phone calls now). The day will come when people will ask "where were you when London was conquered by Timmy The Helpless?" (Timmy's nickname might sound somewhat dubious, but he got the nickname many years before his conquest of London, in a situation involving a banana, a broken zipper and a lot of ice).
Oscar Wilde said it: 'There ain't no way that moddafucka gonna step on my turf!" Admittedly, it wasn't Oscar's brightest moment, but the raw emotion is something we can all relate to. From the tiniest little infant happily wetting himself to the wrinkled old man... err... wetting himself. The circle of life. Oscar Wilde (or some other housewife) added: "Those Pampers nappies suck monkey balls, dude! My kid just pisses right through them!" and the pope then said: "I know, man, and, oh my Gawd, Pampers are also sayin' on their website that my kid is too fat? They too fat! Don't them no go on sayin' my kid fat!"
Poetry of the 21st century. Everybody's a fan (just as we don't have to read it).

And Timmy, oh, he just played along...

Inside, I am an oasis of light.

Do I want to become a fan of chocolate cookies? Am I convinced enough of Chocolate Cookie's good intentions that I would like to endorse it on my Facebook profile? Is Chocolate Cookie something that defines me, that tells people more about who I am as a person? Does Chocolate Cookie make me unique as a person? Apparently not, because 4 million people are already fans. We could form a nation together and bake chocolate cookies all day until one day we're all fat and ten minutes later our hearts fail on us. Would I support Chocolate Cookie more than Chocolate Mousse, or can I support them equally? Though put a gun to my head and I'll say Chocolate Mousse even before you have time to pop the question (if the question would be to choose between the two, if it would be a question for my wallet and mobile, my answer might not be appreciated). Hmmm.... am I really supposed to be asking these questions and not the most important one: why should I bother?
Someone wants me to find out what type of sock suits my personality. Sigh. Can one define my personality in a sock now? Am I not man enough to find this out for myself that I am more of a black stocking than a white tennis sock? I fought in two World Wars, for fuck's sake! (There may be a slight exaggeration on my part here; more truthful would be: I have watched documentaries about two World Wars. Oh... for fuck's sake!) I look down at my feet and I notice that today I am a blue sock on the left and a greyish black one on the right. Look at them: two existential questions nobody ever took the time for to ask. 
Meanwhile.
The clock ticks. 

Put yourself in write mode. Is that with legs horizontally placed, half lying down, like a Roman gulping down some grapes, or do I need to be sitting down for this? Probably sit down properly, you don't want to grow a hump, do you? Certainly not from writing, from boning my boyfriend, sure, that's a cool way to get a hump, but writing, that's just plain unsexy, man.
Mentally, the switch is there too. Everything depends on what happens in this write mode, late at night and all alone. Okay, not *everything* depends on it, but in this battle between me and my anxiety (big words to describe a fart cut in half by a proverbial thong).

A voice screams: "You're not a writer, you little fuck, you're not even a good Madonna impersonator, I mean look at this:



You yell back: "You stupid cunt! You don't even see that this is all a set-up for which I got paid by Madonna herself!"
"The holy virgin or the singing anti-virgin?"
"It doesn't matter, okay? And besides, that could be ANYONE with the blonde wig and skinny hairy legs! And I am a writer, or at least, I think I am!"
"There the monkey comes out of the sleeve!" the voice says like a Flemish person trying to sound smart in English. 

You stare at a white page. The page gets filled with words, because you forced yourself to excrete these words even though you are unsure of their quality. You wrestle with them a bit. You turn a phrase, erase the parts that are redundant (while still making sure you don't end up with a blank page again (the most difficult of tricks)). How do you structure anything as massive as a novel? Charles Dickens just wrote starting on page 1, not exactly knowing how each story would end or how many chapters he'd have. But then again, Charles Dickens is such a BORING read that I don't want to write like him. It seems like the most tedious part of my plan is to find a structure for the novel and then stick to it, like a fly on a pile of very juicy monkey diarrhea. Perhaps the puzzle will be easier once I have the map of the storyline. Let's try and work on that now. Just see where it goes, okay?

Maybe I could hire a ghost writer. I wonder if any famous "author" would do that. Say, like Dan Brown (BARF-PUKE-VOMIT-BARF-BARF!) who gives a Wikipedia article about something Christian to a bunch of literate monkeys who in turn put this into story for the masses (and the monkeys are subsequently keelhauled by Dan Brown himself, because he's too stingy to pay them). The ghost writer could then just use the chaotic material in my head and write something with it. After which I'll have to kill him, because, like Dan Brown (BARF-PUKE-VOMIT-BARF-BARF!) I don't want to pay him.

Or let's just try and write it ourselves and see how it goes. 

So many decisions already in the first week of the academic year?! For fuck's sake. I'm going to do a Master's in TWO whole years and it seems as if everything needs to be decided in a quick rush. In my summer, I was mostly focussed on trying to earn enough money to fund my ridiculous lifestyle. 
One such thing is the internship. I have to know pretty soon whether or not I'll be going to the States or not, the deadline is November 15, then the contracts will need to be signed and sent back to me. I'm thinking it might not be possible now. I've asked CS Leigh (for whom I modelled last month) if he wouldn't know anybody in need of a slave (and kind as the man is, he told me he'd look for a place for me). There are a few interesting internships to be done in Belgium as well, so it's not all too dramatic. Of course it'd be nice to be outside of Gent for a while. But we'll see. I'm writing the novel too, so perhaps NY might be too much of a distraction, who knows?
Another choice was the mentors/supervisors. Who to choose? I could think of many arguments in favour of the several candidates I had shortlisted. I heard a rumour that there'd be a "gathering" in the beginning of the year where everyone could talk to the available mentors, something I was looking forward too; sadly, this didn't happen. I am happy about my choice, but I feel it's a shame I didn't really get a chance to talk to some of the people I didn't know, like from other departments (and this would be more interesting in a dialogue rather than via e-mail). 
Next choice. Subject of MA project. Pffff, I'm not even finished with the last one, anything new consists of nothing more than crude, sometimes unrealistic, megalomaniac ideas. I'll write something very vague in my project description which is due next week. Luckily, I have the ability to say very little using very big and important sounding vocabulary. 
And then some other minor choices. Like do I go to sleep now or will I drink some orange juice first? (no, drinking orange juice is not a euphemism for masturbation, not everyone's mind is as twisted as yours!). 
And this coming from someone who is normally very decisive! 
*burps decisively*

Since what I'm having (as in disease) might have something to do with the Mexicans and the diseases they are spreading across the globe and considering there's a 0.000001 % chance I might die from this very disease, I feel I should think of my legacy. 
When I die, I want my body to be taken to a taxidermist so that it can be stuffed and put in my living room so that Erik may forever have me at his disposal (therefore it is important I be fully erect). If the technology ever exists, I will gladly donate my stuffed body to some robot scientists who can insert a fully functional robot so that my bodily shell may be more than just a dead love doll (a living one!).
I am not the type to donate my body to science, since acne infested medical students will only use it to slice open, take things out and throw them at each other. Get some other schlomo to play your dirty games with! I can just imagine them cutting my arms off and sword fighting with them (I think the right arm will win though, all those years of pleasuring oneself and others with it must have some effect, right?)
But I digress. I don't really care about my things, I'll let Erik choose whether to keep them or donate them to an orphanage in Luxemburg of his choosing (yes, Luxemburg). The money is his too, since I can imagine those Luxemburg orphans being already pretty wealthy, I don't think they'd really care about my money. 

*sneezes*

Collisions in my head. Massive traffic jams populate the nerve connections that make me think cohesively.
The universe can calm me down.



Oh, how pretty. On the NASA-website in a picture comment (which I gave a thumbs-down), some Brazilian wench exclaimed that there are still people who do not believe in God, despite pictures likes these. I am puzzled. How does a (granted, very beautiful) picture of millions of lightyears of Death with capital D become proof of a God? Death? Well, you can't call this area very hospitable: insane explosions, a series of very boring physics theories put into practice, a nonsensical battle of fire and matter. Sure, you booked a room with nebula view, but don't forget to wear your sunscreen when you're out bathing in the nebula clouds. 
And I'm sure, if you connect some of the dots, you get the number 665, which is just one short of 666, telling the Brazilian woman to be aware of the Devil. 

Here on earth, Caster Semenya's sex test proved she has testicles inside her body (I also had a testicle in my body once, but surgery fixed that... but that's another tale, for another late night). I bet she didn't even know that. Turns out she has no ovaries as well. Strangely enough, the reports mentioned nothing about the presence/absence of a penis, suggesting she had a vagina. Again, poor woman, now I feel she should have just pulled her pants down at her gold medal ceremony, let the world decide what her sex is, like. I feel sorry for her, nobody likes finding out they're a hermaphrodite the day after you win a gold medal at a stupid sports game. How degrading these tests must have been: 'Sorry, lass, we're just gonna see if ya don't have any balls in yer belly, oh look-see, there they are!" And now I'm thinking: what if they discovered Usain Bolt was really someone with ovaries and XX-chromosomes, but just coincidentally also a penis? 

And God created Men and Women.... and something in between when he was drunk. Or maybe, just maybe, gender isn't something you can just split in two. Nature creates a variety of examples on a scale between masculine and feminine. Nobody is ever 100% male or female, anyway, so let us embrace this world's Caster Semenyas rather than put them in a circus.
And don't take away her medal. Amen.

 I half-decided on a subject for my MA thesis, the proverbial "Mountain" of my title, and while in a fine arts degree, a thesis should be nothing more than a mere "afterthought", a mere pebble and not a mountain, something you finish while hung over in a pool of day-old excrement, I chose for a thesis that might actually bring me somewhere. I am announcing it so that I may continue with it, since I am embarking on a journey I have talked about so much, but never actually started with. 
My thesis should be a novel and the starting point for it should be my work from my last term, since I conceived the project as a kind of "unwritable novel". Of course it is writable, of course the multitude of voices can easily be put in writing, of course it will be labeled as "experimental", "obscene", "horrendous", "nonsensical", "gay" and other epithets I would take as compliments. 
But it hasn't been written yet of course. Jon Buscall, the writer who was in charge of my Creative Writing class in Stockholm 5 years ago talked about the writer "who always talks about being a writer that he actually forgets about writing". Before and in Australia, I found it easier to talk about writing than to actually write, before abandoning the idea of writing a novel completely. 
Until now. We are five years older, five years prettier (though I hardly feel my looks will influence my writing in any way), five years more certain of what we want and don't want from life. So perhaps it is time. I can fail, but ultimately it's the best chance I have to work towards a finished product. Deadline: July 2011. 
I spoke with a writer (Bart Koubaa) who is going to be my supervisor for my MA project and he was of course very excited about my proposal, and not only for the fact that he won't have to spend ages rewriting some other student's "afterthought". It is an advantage to have someone who has published a couple of novels as supervisor and it will definitely be an extra stimulus. 
Will I succeed? Who knows, but if Edmund Hillary had said "Nah, it's a bit chilly today, I'm not going up there!" his Nepalese slave-friend would have taken all the credit as the first person to climb the Everest, not him. And just for the record: I still think mountain climbing is stupid. But that's another story (and feel free to write this other story in a book of your own, you have my permission). 

"You look amazing," I vomit but quickly swallow my crowning puke. My corpse is used, deformed and groomed to hide its god-awful core. Braindead, I gaze into the void and before I know it, my insides have all been rearranged to suit my master's ideal. They removed the pancreas ("that's so 2005"), pimped my gall bladder ("it looks a lot thinner if you paint vertical stripes on it") and dyed my oesophagus green ("Eco-friendly is all the rage nowadays"). I look at my back and notice they have installed an extra anus as well, because the crowds can't wait any more to screw me over, now the rate is doubled and profits are soaring.
The profits aren't mine, though. As a corpse, I cannot claim anything of the kind ("Still, you're one of the lucky ones, man!" they say, though why I do not know). All I gain from it is yet another day and another night of more of the same. Perhaps we have moved a step more to the edge of the flat earth and in due time we'll have travelled far enough to reach the end and fall to our doom. 
I am a statue, made of bronze and finished off with a clay-like composition of horse dung and cat litter (they were out of funds for bronze, which is why they had to use "creative" solutions instead). I stand alongside you in Lethe waiting for my base to erode and drag me into the depths of this wonderful river. All I hope for is that I was built from the bottom up, so that they only used bronze instead of horse dung and kitty litter for my base. 
Luckily, we're all already dead and it doesn't really matter.

"I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you will never be happy. I don't mean to hurt you by saying that. I say it because I think it is only fair that I be honest with you before we begin. I hope you appreciate this because no one will be fair or honest with you from here on out. So again, I'm telling you right now: You will never be happy. I've put it in writing for you, and you're very welcome. 
I want you to go outside on the sunniest, sweatiest day of the year and quietly say it aloud. "I will never be happy." Even in the heat, you should be able to see your own cold, smoky breath acknowledge the statement. The only way to avoid seeing your breath is to say it proudly like a wise man. "I will never be happy!" Try it sometime.
When I think of you, I think of a cartoon cloud hovering over your head, a private torrential downpour. I see you soaking wet, your entire being drooping, and you're always sick because you can't stay dry. Depressed by the bad weather, you cry yourself a little river, but the tears evaporate and form into another cloud that rains on you even more. You can't win.
It will be sad. You will never get the girl. You will not save the world. You will never find true love. You will not find a trustworthy friend. You will never be satisfied. You will never have enough. The grass could always be greener. The grass will always need mowing. Your days will be long and contain no fun. Your nights will be lonely and not much else. You will always be waiting for better days that will never arrive. And you will most definitely never have peace of mind.
There will be days when you will collapse on your knees and screamingly plead your case to whatever might be listening. But The Thing Called God can't help you, and It won't. I think of heaven as being a radiant crystalline metropolis, and in the tallest, sparkling skrscraper, The Mayor stays busy making deals behind a door with no knob. He's forever inaccessible, not taking calls at this time. And then I envision all the perfect blond angels, devoid of genitalia and feet, congregating and pointing and laughing at all of us down here, saying "Those poor little things!" in between giggles. They will get a kick out of you.
We are more likely to answer or not answer your prayers than they. We will control your destiny and watch over you. Not gods or angels. Not the dead. Us. Men and women. Adults with tangled webs and hidden agendas. Former children.
We will allow you your needs but deny you your wants. We will see to it that any requirements for long-term happiness are kept just out of reach. If by some mistake you experience a sensation that resembles happiness, then by all means, embrace it for all it's worth. Make the most of it because we will not let it last. 
Again, I'm sorry. It's true what they say. Life's not fair, especially for you. The only consolation I can offer is that the things you will be making amid all the loneliness and suffering will by far outlast your despair and our cruelty. Our torture is temporary, your work is forever. With this in mind, we all win in the long run. 
So on behalf of everyone that you will ever meet, I apologize in advance for every heartache we will cause. You're in for a rough time, kid. Consider yourself warned."

(From Torture the Artist, by Joey Goebel)

As part of my application to get an internship in the US, I have to write a motivational essay and a cover lettre directed to the person/organisation giving me the placement. I have found that it is not as easy to write these things as I initially thought. For the motivational essay, it feels like I need to find 100 different ways of saying "I want to live in New York and do something artsy if I can". And then there's cover lettre (though I wrote "letter" because it's for Americans; oh how it hurt my lingustic soul to write it thusly! *dramatic turn*): how to write something that's general, but still specific enough that a reader will feel addressed by it? (and this could be anyone from professional photographers to artists to galeries or museums).

A version we shan't use (though it was much easier to write):


"To Whom it May Concern:

I am writing because I want to do an internship for you or your organisation. I have always been attracted by you or your organisation because you or your organisation are perhaps well-known. But then again, I may not know you or your organisation after all. 
I am Timpeltje, a 26 year old buttplug from Belgium and I would like to offer my talents to you or your organisation. I'm sure if you or your organsation are active in the field of photography that I can be of help. Suppose you are a reportage photographer, I could offer valuable counselling and therapy to relieve you of your ailments and I would help you get your life on track so that you can be an insurance salesman and stop bothering me with your passé line of work. If you are a commercial photographer, I could help you put some soul into your work, something I would gladly do at no extra charge.
Though please don't despair if you or your organisation are something else, I have more talents than I have armpits, so even in other situations, my free hands may come in handy (oh how I hope you like puns!). Suppose you are a gallery, I could help you set up an exhibition about my work, absolutely free of charge (not counting expenses for transporting my work, my lover and my cat over here of course). Please do not ask me to make coffee, however, as I will refuse. Nor will I collect coffees at a local Starbucks, because the chances of it catching fire are always much higher when I'm around *schoolgirl giggle*.

Please, please, please take me. I have a cute arse - sorry, ass - and I can suppress my gag reflex. 

Hoping that this letter may lead to an internship with you or your organisation, because really, you or your organisation is where I always wanted to do my internship. 

Yours sincerely,


Tim

 Poor Caster Semenya. She's the centre of a media storm that openly questions her gender, claiming she would really be a feminine boy, and not a masculine girl. It's my childhood all over again. How many times was I not at the butcher shop when the half braindead shop assistant asked me: "what do you want, little girl?" But I was a boy, I tell you! I was a boy then and am a boy now! Sure, my voice had not reached the deep and booming tone it has today (my boyfriend tells me my voice on tape sounds like Tom Cruise's voice, though I don't know if that really is a compliment), at the time my voice was indeed more an open plea to accept me into the Wiener Sangerknaben castrates. 
But I kept my balls. 
Of course for me, also in recent years, it was mostly a hair and dress thing. Long hair confuses people, like leggings and women's tops do. It's also not really a trauma for me, since I'm a Judith Butler adept, which means that I'm convinced that androgynous people are the true heroes of this world (if you read between the lines of course).
 
The gold-medal winner on the 800 metres dash Caster Semenya is now going through a similar ordeal. There was so much commotion that they've forced her to undergo a "gender test", something that will apparently take two weeks. Two weeks? Does it take that long to determine someone's sex? Or are there a series of test involved? Do you have to iron your way through ten laundry baskets and if you're too slow on them, you're definitely a man? Or do they send you to a football match and record the number of primal reactions you produce durin the game, again too many monkey noises and you're definitely a man! 
The poor woman was so upset that she first refused to go and receive her gold medal. Instead she should have climbed the stage, accepted her gold medal, and as soon as her national anthem started playing, she should have pulled her trousers down raising her middle finger towards the crowd and cameras (if the contents of said patents consisted of the right amount of vaginas of course (1?), if not, she'd better keep her trousers on). 
At least, that's what I would have done....

My fellow sheep enthusiasts,

You may not believe it looking at me, but yes, I used to be fat. The question that is now no doubt burning on all of your fat lips is of course: 'How did he lose his excess luggage?'
Did I spend a fortune on expensive aroma treatments that drain all the bad Chi from your body and insert (the much less voluminous) Chu?
No, I did not.
Did I put my finger in my mouth after putting it in my anus?
No, it should be the other way round anyway.
Did I go on a diet consisting only of elephant meat (considering how hard it is to find elephant meat in a Western supermarket, this might perhaps be a good alternative)?
But no, I did not.
Did a team of so-called "doctors" insert tubes in my layers of excess volume and did they then suck the juice out of me?
If only, my friends... if only!
Did I spend the best years of my life on a treadmill, sweating until I imploded?
Good heavens: NO NO NO! 



No, it was a newspaper article, my friends, an alarming article that convinced me. I filled in some forms and soon I was going to get help. Today it happened. I asked the kind man at the reception of the hospital where I had to be for my sperm donation. I figured he didn't like the word "sperm" because he looked at me as if I was a criminal of sorts (so he wasn't all that kind after all). Of course it makes more sense to take exception to the word 'sperm' as opposed to 'donation' or 'where' or 'the', etc... Naturally, he thought that fat people like me should not give away their seed for reproduction, because he looked just like a nazi, only shorter, and not blond, and maybe a little bit too round a face. Okay, so maybe he didn't look like a nazi. But seeing how there is such a shortage of donors, they really have to take anyone.
It's a weird setting. A small hospital room with some 1970s or 80s nudie magazines with really ugly and really straight protagonists. I cannot imagine anyone getting off on this. The view over the city is really nice from the seventh floor. But we're here on a mission, not for tourism. That mission is: to get skinny! 
It was the first time in my life people so publically thanked me for touching myself (something I can only applaud). 
Soon, it was time for a big alteration. Considering I had been abstinent for 15 years*, the amount of juice was just too much for the cup to take. 
And ten minutes later I noticed. I had given the bucket of my produce to the local sperm collector (a young, rather handsome looking doctor**), who immediately tasted it for quality and inserted it in some hamsters for tests and drank the rest as a refreshing drink, considering it was a hot day (I imagine these things happened).
I was in the lift when I noticed it. I had gone out on the fifth floor, thinking I was already on the ground floor (not thinking clearly for obvious reasons), so I had to hurry back into the lift, while some other rather handsome looking lad** entered the elevator trying to seduce me. That hadn't happened in 15 years. And then I saw myself. Reflected in the mirror. 

Skinny again. Hallelujah! 


Footnotes

*Or rather: what felt like 15 years of abstinence
**Men seemed more beautiful than they must have been (for obvious reasons)

 I have a hard time falling asleep lately. I could blame the insane man who is screaming down on the street right now, but it's not his fault. Maybe he will stop screaming and kicking trees and cars if I hugged him and told him it isn't his fault. Gently, I would make him aware that he has anger management issues, to which he would probably explode and damage my pretty body, certainly when realising that the person uttering those words would be standing half-naked and barefoot on the street, probably with a half-erection because of the cold wind (or whatever causes half-erections (while we all know what causes full erections: Erik!). And for some reason, I assume that anyone shouting and kicking insanely down on the street at half past one at night wouldn't be a staunch defender of gayness, let alone my tender and warm embrace (which of course shows my prejudice towards insanely screaming & kicking psychopaths, but then again... you know I'm right in this case). (he's come back to scream some more, some guys living across the street are recording it, soon on YouTube no doubt). 
But like I said, it's not his fault I cannot fall asleep (though I always eventually do). My mind is firing thoughts at me at an intense rate when I lie down in my bed to sleep. My next project is the subject of some of these thoughts. I think the work I make is always the result of a trip down Anxiety Lane (just off of Murder Avenue and Passion Boulevard), as if what I produce is these anxietes made tangible (which I guess goes for some of the things I write too). For said next project, there is some stress as to what form it will take and how much it will radically differ from/resemble the Chris-Winston.com project (something I am not completely done with, however - I want to take another episode for it, which will probably happen too in September). Naturally, I will still be looking for intensity in and from my work. It makes sense for this that my body will remain central for this to be achieved (perhaps in combination with Erik's or someone else's, I don't know yet), that the photographic/filmed result is more than just a photo/video, but also a type of transgression (if that makes sense).
Also, thoughts pop up for what I can do to get that internship in New York that I'd like to do. Yesterday I fully read the requirements to get a visa to be able to be an intern in the US and they were quite disappointing. I thought at first it wouldn't be that hard, since the labour I will provide will essentially be free and I wouldn't be allowed to work for a US employer anyway (not that I'd want to; I'd be translating anyway). But apparently, it's a lot harder, certainly in the arts (now it would be easier if I'd be a Business Student, but odds are I'd have probably already raped and shot myself ten times over for thinking myself boring). I thought the Americans would be more receptive towards institutionalised slavery, given their hands-on experience. The NY-thing is still possible if I could get an employer willing to fill out some paperwork for me that proves he's looked for Americans for the same position, but didn't find anyone suitable (how does one prove that?). Another option is through a government sponsored organisation that organises interships in the arts; I might try those. Well, as long as I don't end up doing an internship with baby photographer Wilbert, I guess it can't be that bad... (though if that would be the case, I would frame Wilbert for crimes he didn't commit, like pleasuring himself on his baby pictures and things like that (why would I do that? Well, I would be bitter of course, seeing how I didn't end up doing the internship I wanted to do). 
Well, the insanely screamy guy must have already gone to bed. I can imagine him right now (insanely) sucking his thumb, lying in foetal position, all curled up with himself. I'm sure he was tired after all that raging. 
Time for me to follow in his footsteps (the sleep bit, not the violent bit). 

Our Hero awoke drowsily with half of his right leg unsubtly sticking out of his bed. Heroically, he tasted the remains of what once had been a mosquito or a fly, presumably a specimen he had killed in his sleep, for even in sleep, our Hero was ready for battle. He raised himself up to take in the morning view, to look out over his land and claim it his anew. An inhabitant living opposite our Hero had noticed him appear in front of the window. She started giggling as she spotted our Hero's Morning Glory (despite it being past noon already), but confident as he was, our Hero interpreted this as a gesture of shyness and awe. 
He went about his wicked ways, cleaning out his heroic armpits and his voluptuous belly button. For today was a good day. Decisions would have to be made. The future presented itself in the shape of a Nutella covered sandwich and a fresh pair of underwear. After an intense struggle, our Hero won the battles with both the sandwich and the pair of underwear (though the battle against the underwear had to be decided on penalties), meaning he was ready for the day's challenge, which today would consist of a long journey and many a dangerous battle.
Though our hero had already gained the Princess' heart, he knew he had to conjure up some tricks to keep it in his possession, for chaining it to his bed post had proven a useless strategem (and messy too, for soon the bed was all covered in the heart's pumping blood). 
A carriage of no horse drawn transported him to his destination (having to bribe the carriage's owner not to be seated next to the smelly, farting lady). Our Hero handled his affairs in a manner befitting any epic hero, i.e. with lots of bombastically justified behaviour and a minimum of excrement. His final affair was the trickiest one: it involved meeting up with a sorceress of some kind who created an edible love potion made of roses (though our Hero himself despised the taste, he knew his Princess would appreciate the jar of jam, i.e. the love potion). The sorceress told our Hero his journey was in vain, for she could not offer him any potion that day. Furious with rage, our Hero kicked his foot against the woman's shinbones, and then again in what used to be her vulva, but alas, to no avail. 
He travelled back, thinking he had lost his Princess' heart for all eternity. He sacrificed two pedestrians to the Gods to ask for a solution. But only then he realised the solution to his problem had been there all along, why in the form of Morning Glory's brother: Evening Glory! And sure enough, love potion or not, all was well again in his kingdom and peace in the universe was at long last restored...