Murky Waters

Apologies.

2005-10-25T19:57:00.000+02:00

Apologies for lack of recent updates (apart from linkage). Bigger, more physical projects eat up most of my creative energy at the moment. Be back soon-ish.

Storytelling.

2005-10-22T17:25:00.002+02:00

Hmm. I might be over-linking you kids, but okay, here's one more snippet I'd like to share: World Tales. Australian animations of global fairytales. Nice material for a rainy sunday afternoon.

My favorites: "Maui Slows The Sun", "The Black School" and "The Bird King".

(And now, enough days of random surfing. Be posting some original stuff soon.)

Bling-blung.

2005-10-22T15:40:00.000+02:00

Nice piece of film, via Gibson. Ancient info-clip on despotism vs. democracy, with a strong anti-fascism flavour. Oddly current, all of a sudden. Watch it here.

Shiny.

2005-10-20T20:44:00.000+02:00

"The Shining"-redux is out, and the trailer scares the hell out of me. Watch it here.

Rolling dice along the Wharf.

2005-10-19T07:49:00.000+02:00

Amsterdam's NDSM-wharf is a place of beauty.

Here, she dwells in large things:

And the small:

Plus, there's interesting things happening with lines & compositions:

Rooftop Seer. (Coffee with the Devil, 4.5)

2005-10-19T07:03:00.000+02:00

She has flowed upwards, along the scaffolding of a building unfinished. She sits in the moonlight, feet dangling over the edge of a growing tower.

She likes places like these, perhaps even best of all. Tangible evidence that the city is growing, expanding itself. Also, it is high, and with many places to hide. Shadows play harsh and intricate games with the streetlight here, diffused darkness contrasting with sharp white blazing spotlights.

Up, up she goes, enjoying the game of climbing, seeing how far she can get without her feet touching a straight horizontal surface. It is surprisingly easy, the combination of scaffolding and young concrete-and-steel providing enough oddly shaped grip to make her way to the top, without having to touch a conventional surface, like the floorboards of the site's scaffold-jacket.

Once she has reached the top, she seeks the edge. Wind seeks to lash her in the face, but to her, it feels like a gentle caress on her cheek. She has other things on her mind. So now, she sits down, and sets her feet free from the ever-present touch of the bottom. It makes her feel good.

Leaning back, she lights a cigarette, and allows her curious eyes to dart across the city's roofscape, from chimney to gutter to roof-gardens to the gleaming silver windows of the buildings in the distance that are higher than the one she's sitting on now. It calms her down, to see this panorama.

A flock of pigeons wants to land around her. She eyes the fattest one hungrily, and they decide not to. She narrows her eyes, but rests contently with her smoke.

A crow is less scared, or more careless, and sits down on a length of steel near her. It caws once, and she caws back. Crows are not food. Like the reddish-brown wild dogs, the ones with the pointy noses and the large fluffy tails and the eyes like cats and the guts and nerve, they are like her. Like the cats themselves, adaptive, observant, and stern and engaging at the same time, a tiny mirror of the city's personality. There is an understanding. They converse information, of a sort, and do not, in any case, eat each other.

It is different with the pigeons and the rats. They too, spread messages, tell her things about the city's goings-on, and even more, often, than the crows and the foxes and the cats, because their numbers are greater. But because of the same fact, there is less of a care between the species. She is solitary. They thrive in masses. It's an essential difference, although she does feel that deep down, she could not exist without the mass of people and buildings around her. And, but she does not know this, it is the same the other way around. The city needs her, to see and hear and smell and touch and feel, to process all of itself through a single source instead of spread out across all of itself.

Still, plural and singular do not agree, and she does not think that strength lies in numbers. Strength lies in her (although by leave of the city). This, she thinks, is odd, that she knows the strength is hers alone, but still granted by something else. But, like all things odd and not readily explainable, she does not dwell on it any longer.

Instead, she looks out over the city, smoking, and smiles. She lives purely for herself, and is thus as much the city as the city is her.

Worldwide Calibration.

2005-10-19T07:02:00.000+02:00

I suggest you get yourself over to Post-World Industries over as soon as possible, to get the excellent "Lost & Stolen Goods"-mix by Sonar Calibrado if the following blurb tickles you in a pleasant way:

Divine smashup of d&b, batucada, hiphop, Egypt pop, capoeira, and extra-broken beats, in a borderless conundrum for the ears.

(Incidentally, Filastine is one half of this soundsystem, and he is fast becoming one of my favorite artists.)

Coffee with the Devil. (chapter 4)

2005-10-19T07:00:00.000+02:00

Seething, I walked all the way back home. Those fuckers. What the hell did they have to go and do that for? What is wrong with some kids using a vacant space for recreation? By using the building, don't we show more respect for it than by leaving it empty? Fuck rights of property. Property also means having a certain responsibility to care for an item, or person, or building. Neglect is the very worst thing you can do. Worse than mistreatment.

My head was going on and on like this, as the first birds started their intensely annoying songs. It had been a good party, until the door was wrecked (at least we had had the courtesy of just picking the lock), and all hell broke loose. Dogs ran wild, the soundsystem got smashed, people got arrested and beaten for no reason. I was able to make a narrow escape, through some broken window, somewhere up and in the back.

Too hyped to sleep yet, I made tea, and flopped down on my couch. First Sunday sunlight trickled filthily through the window, and I yanked the curtains closed, angrily. I sat there for some time, petting my cat and smoking cigarettes, until my doorbell rang.

Great. It was the Devil. I just nodded, and turned around, trumping back to my living room. I heard the door click shut, and she followed.

"Good morning!" she chirped. I just looked away from her. "What?" she asked.
"Why are you here?"
"Thought you might need some cheering up."
"I don't."
She chuckled.
"What are you doing here?"
"And good morning to you too," she said, raising one eyebrow.
"Not in the mood, sorry. Any particular reason?"
She chuckled. "Look at you."
"What you mean?"
"All anger, frustration, knotted up."
"It's been an intense night."
"What, your party got busted by the cops? Poor baby." The sarcasm dripped off her as she pinched my cheek. "Not the first time, right?"
"No. But it still pisses me off, the way they act."
"I don't think it's just that."
"Oh?"
"Nope." She grinned, obviously enjoying herself for some reason unknown to me.
"Care to inform me as well?"
"Maybe later. You hungry?" She revealed a white paper bag and pulled two croissants out.
"No."
"I still think you should eat."
"Later." I sighed.

She took a bite, and stared at her croissant for a while, musing. She murmured softly to herself: "Still, beats me what the Muslims want with it. The Ottomans have been gone for a while now." She turned to me, then.

"Interesting shape, don't you think?"
I didn't answer, being preoccupied with being irritated by her presence and current events.
"The crescent moon. Croissant-Lune. At least as interesting as her full face, if not more."
"Why?"
"Well, with a full moon, you kind of know what you can expect, right? Same as a new one."
"That's your moon, right? New moon, trickster moon?"
"Please. Next thing you're gonna tell me you actually believe in astrology."
"So what's so interesting about the crescent, then?"
"Ambiguity. Nuance. Close to darkness, but not quite. Makes you see things in a different light. "
"But you just said it doesn't have any actual influence on people."
"No, I said that the new moon isn't assigned to me, or anyone for that matter. That's not to say that people can't believe that it has some sort of mystical significance. Belief is a strong thing, you know."
"... Okay... so these things do have influence?"
"Only if people want to. As with everything, you know. Me and mine, we're not even really needed. People just want us to be, so here we are."
"Yeah, about that 'we'..."
"Hmm?"
"This girl."
She smiled. "Ah, there we go."
"What's it about her?"
"You smitten?"
"I don't know. She's done something. Left an impression."
"Obviously."
"So... is she... like you?"
"No... I've been wondering too, though. But I can assure you she's quite human. Very much so. "
"So what do you think about her?"
" I don't know, actually. She's... different. Interesting."
"Interesting?"
"In need of change, so interesting for me."
"... Like me?"
She laughed. "Oh yeah."
"You think I'm stuck, then?"
"I don't know. Do you think so?" She grinned.
"Fuck off. I don't need any Socratic shite now."
"You don't? Why?" She kept grinning, and took a cigarette from my pack.
"Look, miss Tricksy. I'm really not in the mood for you now."
She clapped her hands, once, and laughed again. It was a laugh reminiscent of a coyote's yapping howl across a moonlit prairie, of a spider's chuckle, a raven's mocking screech.
"What? Fuck off."
"You like her, don't you? I know you do."
I frowned, and lit a cigarette, taking deep drags. "I don't know. Yes, I think so. You know why?"
"Yes, but I'm going to let you work out that one on your own."
"Thought as much."
"Anyways... she has something in common with me, I think. We both exist only for our surroundings."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well... " She thought about that. By now, I was less irritated, just curious about this other girl. Then, she shook her head. "Nah, I'm not going to tell you. You'll meet her again, before you see me."

She got up. "You should get some sleep, kid. See ya later." And like that, she left. I fell asleep on the couch one cigarette later.

Pawprints.

2005-10-19T05:30:00.000+02:00

Tigerbeat's "Paws Across Europe" -tour 2005 was good, last night. I was really looking forward to see Drop The Lime again, and I'd never seen Kid 606 live. Still, I couldn't help but be... well, not exactly disappointed, but still, I'd expected more.

DTL played a lot of 4-to-the-floor beats with some acid-y basslines. I was hoping for more of his freaky cut-ups, live MAX/MSP-programming, but I had learned the same day, via his site, that some ass-monkeys in Berlin stole his friggin' Powerbook.

This pisses me off so much. In a scene that's still largely underground, which really thrives on the symbiotic relation between low-life audience and performers alike, I'd kinda counted on more respect, solidarity. He told me after his set that they also stole his KaosPad and all of their merchandise (including some 100 records). Luckily, he'd been able to get a new laptop and Pad, but his MAX didn't work because of Tiger's annoying attitude towards (risks of) software piracy. So, his set was done with Ableton Live, with hastily sampled bits and patches.

Still, it's a treat to see him perform. It's great to see an electronic musician not just staring at his screen, but actually taking up the mic and singing live. No cuts, no loops, just some processing. And he always, even with a room only half-full, gives a lot, freaking out like a tightly wound, broken clockwork punk. (And oh, he had grimy bits, which I totally digged.)

Kid 606 was cool too. Little too much 4/4 beats again, but that's just my taste, and his sounds are just great (funny, how much all these guys like the 90's Dutch Gabber sound. The Kid was even wearing a shirt that said "Gabber". By now, I'm enjoying all of it's derivatives tremendously, but back then... No. But of course, that might probably have more to do with the whole cultural phenomenon around it here, all the neo-nazi-skinhead-connotations.) . The freestyle bit he built around his "Who Wah Kill Sound?" just kicked mucho booty, and after that I left, because excessive weekend-behavior forced me to retreat to my nest. (Last saturdaynight had been amazing. Last party of a nice little squat that was being evicted soon.* I'm not quite sure, but I do remember spending a lot of time in front of a +10 kW tekno-soundsystem. Also, I think at some point some people got naked, but I'm afraid my memory is a bit hazy on that.)

*: There's been another wave of evictions. At least three places I know of have been forced to move out. This morning, I was late at work because the Heiligeweg, which I always walk through, was blocked up by riot-cops, three rows thick, with at least four vans and one water-cannon. Bad craziness.

Early-morning Gargantuan.

2005-10-13T23:17:00.000+02:00

Alright, let's start this with a cliche:

Beauty hides in unexpected places.

Good, now that we got that over with... Niceness, this morning. While going to work, I sat down in the tram right behind a huge mo'fuggin' dude. He took up the space of two seats, to give you an indication of the sheer enormity of this man. For a good five to ten minutes, I just sat there, staring in amazement at the bulging rolls of fat in his neck, visible because his head was shaved, completely bald. I gawked. Also, the amount of gold around his neck and fingers was probably too much for a man of lesser size to wear. I know I'd simply collapse, my spine snapping like a dry branch under a heavy boot. His bright white tracksuit, pledging allegiance to an American sports team he probably never even had seen playing (thank you, C.M.) served to emphasize his extremely dark skin.

Of course, almost everyone in the tram was giving him nervous glances. He sat there like a saltwater crocodile between a herd of gazelles. We were intimidated.

Then, and old lady steps in, and he is the first one to get up, hastily, and offer her his seat. Well, as hastily as possible, given his size. The lady blinks, her eyes widening with fear. He smiles. We melt.

Intrigued, I follow him as he gets off a few stops later. (Well, okay, it was also my stop and he was going the same direction as I was. But still.) A few paces behind him I walk, curious to see what he was up to.

He stops, in one of the busy shopping streets, and picks out a spot to the side. It's still quiet, sunlight playing lazily through the misty smog-haze, silvery gold in the morning. He takes off his jacket, spreads it in front of him. Early consumers, delivery-men, random passers-by give him suspicious glances. He smiles back. Puffs up his chest, plants his feet firmly on the ground (feel free to imagine a cup of water with circles playing on the surface from vibrations, Jurassic Park-style). And there, he burst out in song. His voice was beautiful, high, not unlike Amadou (you know, from Mariam). He sang an entrancing song, something African (I think Malinese, even, but I'm no expert), with notes long and drawn-out. All with that shockingly bright smile, which he gave to everyone.

I smiled back, and came to work late. But it was worth it. This was a real good morning. Thank you, sir.

Deflatulence.

2005-10-11T20:33:00.000+02:00

I have new heroes.
Anyone feel like joining me to raise an Amsterdam franchise?

(Thank you Reasoner.)

Castaway Things. (Coffee with the Devil, 3.5)

2005-10-10T14:30:00.000+02:00

They didn't see her, right? The thought is quickly pressed away as she flees from the spot. Close call.

She is overly cheerful, as she makes her way through the streets. She even smiles at the market-vendor as she palms an orange, a mango and a banana, slipping them unseen between her clothes. Then, she heads towards a spot near the park, one overlooking it, from the heights of the steel girders of a bridge. Nothing happened, she tells herself. She was quick enough, as always.

Tonight, she will go to that large hall in that part of town where it's always noisy, not of people, but the mechanical noise of machines. There is a building there, it's walls made of thin metal plates, like it could be blown away in a storm. It was once a warehouse, a past betrayed by the leftover wooden crates, scattered throughout the space. It is high, and has been empty for a long time.

Every once in a while, she goes there, when the young people gather. There is no system, no regularity at all, but she knows when they'll be there. She feels a buzz in the city all day, increasing as twilight falls.

They will not start until long past dark, so she waits. When it's time, she climbs up the side of the building, and enters through a broken window. She already felt the deep, low throb from outside, in her belly. Climbs up more, until she is high inside, near the roof, up in the rafters. From here, she can see the whole room.

The people come here to listen to the city speak. She feels sorry for them, because they cannot hear the city properly. They need these large boxes, out of which the city's sounds pour and blow. It is loud, very loud. Crude. Almost all of them stand facing these boxes, their bodies moving to the city's song. It is like the song she keeps in her small white box, but vastly different. She likes the sounds. It is a different side of the city, younger yet much older. Cymbals crash, unfamiliar electronicals fly high and swoop low, the bass engulfs her. The heartbeat is overwhelming, and steady, all night long.

She enjoys watching them move, as if they answer the song with the movement of their bodies. Somehow, it seems much more pure, more intense than what they ever could express in words. She is glad to see people that love the city as much as she does, in their own way.

They go on all night, and she is entranced. She has played with the idea of joining them, but knows that she shall never. Instead, she just watches, and smiles.

She is happy, too, that this building is not forgotten, like so many. She knows that some of these people here, work hard to find other forgotten places and make them alive again. It is a way of life that echoes throughout all they do, and the way they look. Finding old, castaway things, sounds, buildings, and giving them a new life.

The way they transform this space is amazing to her. Usually, this is an empty, barren space, oppressing with it's size. Now, they have colored lights, cloths, people playing with fire, tents put up inside. Even the building itself seems to be celebrating.

Then, she sees him, the young man, in a flash, a face in the crowd. She ducks away, but realizes he probably cannot see her. He looks different, happy and worried at the same time, and like he cannot reach any of those feelings properly. He is here to forget something, she thinks, and, like the rest, to pay tribute to the city. She follows him with her eyes for a long time, until the monotone hard beat lulls her into sleep.

Sudden absence of sound wakes her up. Through a dirty roof-window, the morning sun has risen already. She looks down, and sees people scattering, running, and men in blue and black, with helmets and shields and clubs and dogs enter. Some people are caught, and beaten. The boxes through which the city speaks are taken away. She suddenly realizes her fingers hurt, as she is trying to dig her nails deep into the steel beam, and a soft, low growl comes from her chest. She wants to go down, enraged at the interruption, but realizes that will not do anything. She will just be beaten, like the others.

She watches the whole scene, until all is quiet and empty. The young man is gone, too. She doesn't understand why those men wanted them to stop. She doesn't understand why they thought it necessary to fight for that. Not quite crying, she falls asleep again.

I'm in love with a construction site. (again)

2005-10-08T02:51:00.000+02:00

Like some terribly intimidating crossbreed between a battleship and a 21st-century mad professor's mountaintop castle, she winked at me, and I swooned. Her walls are still open, her towers are impossibly high. She seems to float on the water, and is connected to terra firma by way of several bridges that seem extremely temporary to me.
One of these days, I'm going in.

(And yes, I know these pictures don't actually tell you a lot. It's a clever combination of me keeping you on your toes, full of anticipation of expeditions to come, and me getting to know my new camera. Patience please.)

Boston.

2005-10-08T02:24:00.000+02:00

I dig the bounce.

(Go on, get DJ C's mix. Bounce with me.)

Coffee with the Devil. (chapter 3)

2005-10-05T11:43:00.000+02:00

It was one of those days, you know, late summer getting cozy with early autumn to produce a crisp mix of clear blue sky, piercing sun and a nice chill in the air, just that bit too much for the amount of clothing you decided to wear that morning.

Having nothing to do, and, maybe even rarer so, not feeling any guilt about it, I decided to take a stroll in the park. It was nice. Dry-land skaters carved curves and pirouettes in the tarmac, dogs ran free despite the ban on free-running dogs, even the bums were cheery, non-pressing with their alcohol-fueled presence. My phone rang. I frowned.

"Hey, it's me."
"I noticed."
"How?"
"My phone played the Nokia tune."
She giggled.
"I hate the Nokia tune."
She giggled again.
"... So, what's up?"
"You wanna come to the entrance?"
"Sure."

I made my way to the park's gates, rusted solidly in an open position for as long as I can remember. The cast-iron and granite had been overgrown, with ivy and passion-flower, organic matter slowly eating up the artificial. It was okay. They had time.

She stood there, bundled up in various layers of (oddly fashionable) garments. As I approached, she grinned, sidled up to me and planted a kiss on the corner of my mouth. Pressed a paper cup of hot coffee in my hand, and slipped her arm in mine.

"C'mon, let's walk."
I nodded, and sipped my coffee. Nearly burned my mouth.
"Watch it, might be hot."

We walked for a while, in silence. Well, almost, anyways. She was humming some current poppy tune, smiling. I wasn't sure if she tried to annoy me or not. If she did, it wasn't working. It was far too good a day to be annoyed by such things.

"Can you love?" I asked.
"Define love."

I had to think for a while.

"Giving purely from yourself. Care, energy, that sort of thing. Wanting the subject of your love to be nothing but happy."
"Without expecting anything in return?"
"Ideally, yes."
"Tricky. You think anybody can do that?"
"I'm not talking about anybody, I'm asking you."
"Okay..."
"...So?"

She was silent for a bit, sipping coffee as we rounded corners.

"Yes. I think, somehow, it's all I can do. I want this place to be happy, this world, God, whatever, to feel complete. It's why I ask these questions, show people the workings of their ways. Funny, that."
"What?"
"You asking me these things now."
"Why?"
"Because that's not usually how it goes."
"Do you usually let people know who you really are?"
"Not really. Sometimes. Rarely."
"So you think it's weird that I'm curious?"
"Not at all. Guess I should've seen that coming."
"You mean you didn't?"
She just gave me a look, and smiled somewhat mysteriously.

"Can you love?" she asked.
"Of course."
"No, I mean, can you love the way you described? Wanting nothing in return?"
"I like to believe so..."
"...But?"
"But I think I'm not there yet."
"Why?"
"Because I'm still young, and... I don't know. There's always this fear of giving too much, leaving myself drained."
"Fear." she smiled.
"Yes."
"Why? Don't you believe that everything you give, comes back to you eventually? It does, you know."
"Yes, I know that. But knowing it is not the same as feeling it."
"You don't feel it?"
"Not yet."
"How come?"
"Not sure. Too much on my mind still, I suppose."
"Maybe you just think it's inappropriate to be that wise, so young?"
"...hmm... Maybe, but I don't think so. All I know is that I still have fear, somewhere."

I finished my coffee, and offered her a cigarette. She declined, and I lit mine.

"Don't be so cautious," she said.
"I know. I try."
"Don't 'know'. Feel." She touched her fist to my stomach, knuckled it briefly.
"I'll get there."
"You really think so? Isn't that too easy a way out?"
"No. If it happens, it happens at the right time. Wu wei, and all that."
"Ah, Taoism for the modern man." She chuckled. "Can backfire, you know. Make you lazy."
"I can see that happen." I had seen it happen, before, with myself.
"Sometimes, you just have to take the dive."
"Even if it doesn't feel right?"
"Sure. Take the dive, bite the apple, hurt, or get hurt. Learn. Grow."
"Like Nietzsche?"
"Hmm?"
" 'Everything that doesn't kill me, only makes me stronger...?'"
"Exactly. Is a very Taoist thing to say, you know. All you do makes you who you are, and will be."
"But isn't it also possible that it weakens you?"
"For a while, maybe. That's when you learn, grow. Hey, you were the one with the wu wei, remember? So everything that happens, happens for the good. Thus, you will come out stronger."
"Okay..."
"Don't let fear suck you in too deep. You'll end up like her."

She pointed at a girl, seemingly roughly the same (apparent) age as herself. She was standing in the balding growth of a copse of trees, regarding us. Odd figure, streetkid, obviously. Pretty, in a wild sort of way. I hadn't seen her there. The moment she was pointed at, her eyes grew, and she ducked away. Gone, just like that.

"See?"

I was speechless. She was... I don't know, but something just happened.

"You... know her?"
"Yes."
"Friend of yours?"
"I like to think so, but I don't think she does."
"How-"

But then her phone rang, and she picked up. Spoke quick, fluent Brazil Portuguese. After some time, she hung up, and smiled apologetically.

"Gotta run, kid. Take care." She pressed a kiss on my cheek, and took off, leaving me there, bewildered, on the spot where three worlds met, and left one standing without a clue.

Life and Songs.

2005-10-04T23:14:00.000+02:00

For the first time in my life, I have read a book of poetry all in one go, cover to cover.

Thank you, Ted Hughes, for writing 'Crow'.

Beautiful, silly, raw, epic, outrageous, raging, intimate: a treasure.

One of my favorite passages:

Man awoke being dragged across the grass.
Woman awoke to see him coming.
Neither knew what had happened.

God went on sleeping.

Crow went on laughing.

(From 'A Childish Prank')

Sewer Nymph. (Coffee with the Devil, 2.5)

2005-10-01T19:01:00.000+02:00

She slips between the tracks, deep underground. Tunnels below city interconnect, intertwining pathways for the snakes that people ride. She knows the paths that run between these tunnels.

She is wary around the snakes, knowing that they will not stop for her, that they probably do not even see her, while they do (occasionally) inhabit the same darkness. Down there, she is as alert as above, only now more by touch, because vibrations, the city's shivers, tell more than sight or hearing can, here.

She enjoys wandering through the dark corridors, even if she doesn't come here all that often. There is no food here (for her), although plenty of treasures to be found. Something in her tells her to leave anything she finds here. Not like above, although, like above, she has her places here too, where she can rest, or hide.

She rarely meets people here, and if she does, she disappears so fast that they aren't sure they've seen her at all. Most of the men move about there with purpose. Some don't. The ones that don't, she finds more scary, because like her, they have their spots here, territories, allegiances. The ones that do are merely there to do a job, to maintain, to get from one place to the other. The ones that don't hunt for treasures, and even food. Rats are plentiful down here.

She mostly manages to steer clear of these underdwellers. Unlike her, they choose never to go up, into the light. They prefer their burrows here. She can understand that. They all live on the edges, narrowly managing not to fall off, although she is not aware that there is an edge, since any ties between her and others are nonexistent (in her eyes). Scowl though they might, the underground people cling feverishly to this thin link (even though they would never, ever, admit it), so they have something to look down upon. Denying the (right of) existence of one part of society is only another way to acknowledge it, maybe even more so.

Those few flashes that people do glimpse of her, in the brief gloomy encounters, in the strobe of trains slithering by, in footsteps heard splashing away, are enough to spawn numerous urban rumors, legends, whispered tales. Tunnel-sprite, sewer-nymph: she is talked about as if she were some feral representation of the city's patchwork soul. A sliver of ancient animistic traditions filtering through the concrete and steel.

She likes the darkness, finds comfort in the damp scents and the feeling of the city's weight above her. Down here, she only has to worry about the snakes. When she feels one coming, she slips into an alcove, presses herself against the wall and watches the lights flash by. Faces, lots of them. Almost always impassive, drained. Most of the people seem too accustomed to the life above, so down here, the city's weight is pressing rather than comforting. She wonders why they feel that way.

The snake rushes past her, and she looks inside. The same faces as always, but then, her eyes lock with the other girl's, the one that's not really what she seems to be. A moment passes, stretches, lasts. Her upper lip curls up in a snarl, while the other's does the same, but in a smile. The snarl audible now, but hardly so, above the snake's sharp rumble as it speeds away, and she ducks into the darkness, needing to go up, up, craving light and air.

Ascension, until she is high up on a building, cool dusk sky blowing around her face and hair, and she slowly catches breath, regains calm.

She realizes now, why that smile distressed her so.

It was an invitation.

Comfortably numbed down.

2005-09-30T18:01:00.000+02:00

Jace sums up one of the main reasons for my antipathy towards the term 'world music' quite nicely:

"World music festivals love “fusion” groups whose members draw on diverse backgrounds to produce an anodyne sound seemingly intended to reassure the predominantly Western, middle-class festival audience: world music as foreign music with its distinctive features rubbed off, now suitable for mass consumption anywhere on the globe; difference with a jazzy backbeat you can groove to; the exotic but never the extreme."

(The full article can be read here.)

Also, the term itself is annoying. Why do we classify anything that's not Western as "world music"?

(Sorry, Putumayo, I'm sure you guys do great work in bringing not-so-well-known sounds from all over the world to our attention (kinda like Diplo and his "On Blast"-series but without the street cred.), but what's with the happy-colour coffeehouse-aesthetics album covers? To me, that speaks of the same kind of non-extreme exotism that exists in world music 'fusion' groups; an idealized version of faraway places, comfortably numbed down to paint us a picture of one happy planet. ["Look kids, this is Sri Lanka. They eat a lot of mangos there. And it's always sunny."] )

Coffee with the Devil. (chapter 2)

2005-09-23T00:26:00.000+02:00

The next morning, I woke up at half past ten.

Then I woke up again at five to eleven. Crap. No time for shower, breakfast and such. I pulled the least smelly clothes I could find on, apologized to my cat for not having food in the house yet, and stumbled my way downstairs, around the corner and into the café.

Smoky blues wafted into my face, Robert Johnson standing on the crossroads, and the Devil sat there, in the corner near the window. She was reading a newspaper, peering through a pair of ridiculously large sunglasses. As I approached, she looked up, put her coffee down and smiled. Got up and planted a kiss on my cheek, as if we knew each other for years already.

"But we do, don't we?" she whispered in my ear.
"Don't do that," I frowned.
"Do what? " she asked, innocently. I sighed.
"Look... I know, as you being... you know, who you are, that you'd be able to, you know, do things like ... that."
"Yeah?"
"But don't do it around me, okay? Or just pretend you're not doing it, or something. It's very disconcerting. "
"Oh... all right, sorry... " She paused, looking guilty.
"...What?"
"I uhm... already ordered for you. Hope you don't mind. I'll stop now, promise. Honestly."

I gave her a suspicious glance as I sat down. My coffee arrived, and not very surprisingly, just the way I like it, with lots of milk and foam and two sugars. Stirring the cup, I lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag. Not a great way to hide your anxiety, I'll admit.

"You nervous?" she asked.
"A little."
"Why?"
I shot her a glance, over the rim of my cup. "Come off it."
She chuckled. "Hey, you asked me to not read you, so I'm not. Why are you nervous?"
"Oh, come on. I'm sitting here, drinking coffee with you."
"So I make you nervous?"
"Yes, kind of. "
"...Oh." she actually looked like she regretted that.

A silence, then, mildly uncomfortable. I smoked, sipped, and looked outside.

"Why me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, obviously, not everyone knows who you are."
"True... well, I'm not sure. You seemed nice."
"Nice? The Devil picks his followers because he thinks they're nice?"
"You want to follow me?"
"Well, no. But still... 'nice'?"
"Like I said, I don't know. I guess you could say I just follow my instincts. More of a feely-type of person, know what I mean?"
"I suppose, yes. "

Silence again, less uncomfortable this time.

"...so... Do you think I'm evil? Root of all, etcetera?"
"I don't know, I've only just met you. You seem nice."
"Nice? You call the Devil nice?"
"Sure. You seem allright. " I grinned.
"Dude, treading thin ice here. You do not call the Devil 'nice'." She grinned back.
"Why not? Especially like the skirt. Very cute."
"Cute? Cute? Watch it now, kid."

We just sat there for a few moments, grinning stupidly.
"I like you." she said.
"You already said that. But why?"
"You're innocent. In a way. You look at things differently."
"I do?"
"Sure. It's like... a lot of times, you see things as if for the first time. Fresh eyes, like a kid. Or an animal."
"Gee, thanks. "
"It's a compliment. Also, I can't figure out if your soul is young, or old. "
"So it's true then? Reincarnation and such?"
"No comment. Anyways, you seemed less inclined to freak out, once I'd let you know."
"You could've picked some goth kid. "
"Please, they're so boring. They always want to call me "Prince of the Night" or something like that. Do I look like a prince of the night to you?"
"Well-"
"Of course not. Over the years, my image has really gone in a wrong direction, I can tell you that."
"So you're saying you're not evil at all?"
"I don't think the term 'evil' is relevant here. It's very relative. The reason you think I am the Devil, is because that's the quickest reference for you."
"I wasn't raised a Christian."
"No, but it's all over your culture. I've been known by all sorts of names, through the ages."
"Like what?"
"Iktomi, Kitsune, Loki, Eshu, Puca... But that's beside the point. "
"No,no, it's not. Those are all tricksters. Not necessarily embodiments of evil."
"Okay, name me a trickster in Christianity then."
"... well, there's you. Judas, maybe?"
"Judas wasn't a trickster. Nice guy, by the way. Bit rash in his decisions, but terribly misinterpreted, all in all."
"So what about you?"
"Think about it. First, there was Chaos. Or void, or darkness, or whatever you want to call it. Then, one bit of that became Order, because if you have infinite possibility, the possibility of Order will pop up sooner or later. So, there was Order. You may have read about that as God. Order wishes to know itself, but can't do that on it's own. Chaos is too vast to talk to, and too, ha-ha, chaotic. So, Order tries to make a smaller version of Chaos, one that he can contain, but with enough of the original Chaos in it that it remains unpredictable, able to ask questions. That's where I come in." She paused to take a sip of coffee, and steal a cigarette from my pack.
"Anyways, fast forward a few millenia. Or none, since time is such an outdated concept. Anyways. At some point, people come in. They respect Order. Write books about it, think it's the greatest thing in the world. So, automatically, anything to do with Chaos becomes the antagonist, or Evil, if you will."
"So what you're saying is-"
"What I'm saying is that people who build a system, often don't like to have to answer tricky questions about that system. Afraid that it will fall apart. You see?"
"I think I do. So it's all a question of propaganda."
"Exactly. Luckily, there's enough people who do respect the value of Chaos."
"Okay... " I checked my watch.
"You better go, you'll be late for work."
"I know... thanks for the coffee." I got up.
"See you next week?"
"Sure. Call me."
"I will."

Urban Animal. (Coffee with the Devil, 1.5)

2005-09-17T22:12:00.000+02:00

She crouches low, in the shade between two buildings. Bony fingers, scratched hands hastily tearing open greased paper to reveal the lukewarm treasure inside. Dough, though greasy and squashed, encasing a core of vegetables which would probably look too old to sell on the market, but make excellent filling for overspiced, oversalted snack. Dinner for her. She bites into it, although not greedily, not hastily like one would expect, but slowly, taking small bites, trying to make it last.

Shade, food, non-disturbance, and warm late summer air. For now, all is good. Slowly but surely, she munches her way through the risolles. Her only focus-point now, and she is perfectly in the moment, as always, although guard-senses would never be let down. Corners of eyes still function, ears are still attuned to any sound out of the ordinary, ready to pick up anything different from the city's usual flow.

The city. All she ever knew, the different layers, from rich to poor (she considered herself neither of them, or all of them), the veins through which they move. She loves the city, loves the way it provides safe spots (like this one), excitement (like where she gets her food), beauty (nearly everywhere), contrasting ugliness. She knows that, without places where the metropolis is torn open, it's guts revealed, it's innards shown, or where it's building are crumbling, slowly dying to be inevitably replaced by something newer (or not), she could never appreciate the other parts. And, when she thought about it, even the decay itself was a beautiful thing, living (dying?) proof of the city's age and wisdom.

She loves the way the city sometimes provides gifts, for her to stumble on. Like now, as every night, she unwraps a piece of oilcloth from her pocket, carefully, so as not to break the fragile white wires, not to scratch the surface of the small white box, no larger than a pack of cigarettes, even more. She finds the ends of the wires, and holds them close to her ears. Presses the button, and that beautiful sound comes out. To her, it is the city talking, singing to her, all the traffic-noises and mumblings, whispers, shouts and yells of people warped, rearranged and composed into this piece. It tells her of the city's rhythm, that it will go on no matter what, even though that high sound will try to keep interfering, even though the beat sometimes stumbles, falters, and picks itself up again. The music she hears is an alternate take of John Coltrane's "Greensleeves", but the reference would be lost on her. To her, it is simply the sweetest fifteen minutes in a day.

When the piece finishes, she tucks the box away, as carefully as she unwrapped it, stands up, brushing crumbs from her clothing. Licks the crumbs from her fingers, rearranges the blanket-turned-scarf and jumps down. Ledge, ledge, hold on to rainpipe, pavement. A passerby looks up, bewildered at this filthy angel that fell from the sky, then prejudice kicks in and another bum is filtered out. Another one frowns, as he sees a girl that is, in his eyes, no older than sixteen, light a cigarette. He gets a feral stare in return, and the girl disappears in the comforting folds of uncharted inner-city back alleys, trailing smoke and a tiny orange glow.

She steers clear of people, knowing that they want to decide for her. All she needs is the city. The city doesn't judge, the city doesn't care, and the city cares more than all of them. Yet she knows that without those same people, the city is nothing.

Occasionally, somebody catches her interest, and she follows them for some time, taking care to remain unseen (which, by now, has become not so much second as first nature to her, making it harder for her to be noticed than not to), their lives becoming her stories, until she loses interest and moves on. Like now, there is this boy who is touched by that lady, the one that looks like a girl, but houses so much more. She recognizes a lot of herself in the lady, which is probably why she dislikes her. The lady seems to be noticed only by the people she chooses to be noticed by. Like herself, only she chooses to be seen by no-one. And, even though she is unseen by the city's life and blood, she knows this lady knows she is there. The lady knows, and she knows, and that is enough.

But this boy (or man, she isn't sure, he hovers in between) is now touched by the lady, and tomorrow, they shall meet.

She finds her spot for the night, in the street where he lives, and waits for stories to unfold.

Exciting things with beamers.

2005-09-16T16:12:00.000+02:00

This weekend, friday the 23d and saturday the 24th of September, I'll be doing all sorts of terribly exciting things with beamers and megaphones on wheels, in the Central Library of Den Haag, together with a bunch of other people. The fest is called Today's Art, and the line-up looks promising (Jason Forrest/Donna Summer! Kevin Blechdom! Bunker! Chris Cunningham!).

Too bad Robodock is in the same weekend. Way to go on the planning, guys.

Mystery Machine.

2005-09-16T16:05:00.000+02:00

Well, the mystery of the homeless robot is solved. Apparently, his name is Dirk and he lives at Robodock.

Wet dog, damp human.

2005-09-15T22:10:00.000+02:00

Rainy season has started, killing any hope of an indian summer in one fell swoop.

Yes, I realize that we are not somewhere around or south of the equator, so technically speaking, we do not have a rainy season. But bear with me here. Global warming will eventually level out any different types of weather we have, I suppose. Already our winters aren't any real winters anymore, only perpetual rain and wind from September until March. And no, the whole rise in temperate also doesn't seem to affect us. Summers are just getting wetter and wetter.

Who knows? Maybe in the future, we will not have any seasons anymore. Only lands with different weather. "And here, children, lies Summer. This used to be known as Egypt, but we stepped away from nationalities like that back in the late 21st century. Now, can anyone tell me where Spring lies?" And so on.

Normally, I wouldn't be so bothered by such trivialities as weather, but today, it seemed to have a devastating effect on society.

Traveling from Amsterdam to Den Haag, door to door, I haven't seen a single smiling face. It started already while waiting for the tram around my corner. A drunk bum started ranting to this girl. As usual, I didn't pay any attention, but when his volume started to rise to levels that interfered with my MP3-player, I hit the "pause"-button to eavesdrop. Apparently, the poor girl was to blame for this man's current habitat. Truly, it all was entirely her fault. I shuffled closer, still under the snug cover of my headphones, even bobbing my head a little to keep up appearances that yes, I was just listening to Radiohead, and no, I wasn't eavesdropping. The man started getting rowdier and rowdier. The girl, by now, had switched to ignoramode, which didn't help at all. Scenarios of silly heroics started flying through my head, should this spin out of control. Me jumping in (no, I'm not that much of a macho, but I daresay that youthfulness could hold a candle against drunk homelessness. Come to think of it, this assumption might well prove to be my undoing someday), saving the girl, glory, fame, pats on the shoulder etcetera. Luckily, the tram arrived, leaving the man raving against a trash can and an empty bottle.

Then, in the tram itself, things didn't improve much. Aside from that curious smell that you get in a tramful of rainy people (wet dog, damp human, foggy windows, squeaky rubber etc.), the damn thing was just too full. Same for the train. Sad faces, sad (but beautiful) music, and the current state of the world all piled up to make me as gloomy as possible.

Anyhow. My sincerest apologies. I didn't plan on posting a rant like this, and I do not plan to make a habit out of it. Really. There are enough "Dear diary"-blogs out there as it is, and I like none of them.

So, I promise, next time around, only urban peculiarities and music and such again.

P.S.: Yes, the whole Katrina-aftermath is terrible and devastating (really! no irony or sarcasm here, dammit. I live in a country below sea level; the chance that this happens here is too big to make jokes about it.). But don't tell me that there are no European leftishists secretly gloating over yet another failure of the Bush administration.

I want to be a chair.

2005-09-14T20:49:00.000+02:00

New musical obsession: Gnawa Diffusion.

Nice mix of gnaoua, rai, reggae and other sunny things. French Algerians/ Algerian French I believe, although I might be wrong there. They've played with the likes of Nass el Ghiwane and Manu Chao, to name a few.

Of course, there's the risk of being labeled as "multicultural" or some other non-term, but frankly, I do not give a damn. The reason why they stole my heart has also a lot to do with the fact that the chorus of one of their songs translates to something like "I Want To Be A Chair In A Ladies' Hairdressing Salon". Or anyway, that's what I understood, with my somewhat limited command of the French language. Further on, he wishes to be various other inanimate objects (a belt, a shirt, perfume), all, I assume, to be closer to the object of his affection. (which is all in all quite predictable, but fun nonetheless)

Nice cure for early post-summer blues. (I will try to upload something later, maybe. I think there are also tunes to be heard on their site.)

On a side note: to anyone still consciously using the term "world music" to describe a genre, I hereby declare a personal vendetta. Seriously, I will hunt you down and eat your brain.

Gracias.

2005-09-13T21:02:00.000+02:00

A respectful nod towards Mr. Clayton for mentioning me.

For tonight, we are Gypsies.

2005-09-12T12:33:00.000+02:00

Tough choices last night. Odd, how these things often converge. For months, there can be nothing to do, and then, one night, you suddenly have to make the gut-twisting choice between the Boban Markovic Orkestar and Ove-Naxx.

No one should have to make this choice. It's Sophie all over again. Balkan brass versus Japanese breakcore. Both are among my favorite artists/ music styles.

So, I did what any sensible person would do. I outsourced, letting someone else make the choice for me.

And gods, I'm happy for what she chose. Boban Markovic, again, rocked our gadjo asses from here to Serbia and back. This orchestra, 10 Roma strong, is amazing. They play with so much energy, so tight, so good. Trumpet solos soar over thumping basslines, intricate rhythmics mingle with highly catchy Romani melodies. Drums boom, horns blare, and for one night, we imagined ourselves on some wedding-party in the Balkans, getting drunk on homemade vodka and dancing until our poor feet begged us to stop.

The crowd was, how shall I put it, not entirely what I expected. A lot of 30-somethings, undoubtedly with semi-creative office-jobs, who justify their mildly boring lifestyles by watching what they call 'arthouse'-films; that is to say, ethnically correct non-Hollywood cinematic food. So, from Emir Kusturica to Boban Markovic is not such a big step.

Now, I might sound mildly disdainful here, but of course I'm all for more people, no matter from which background, listening to this music/ watching these films. Only thing is, if they go to a concert like this, they should at least dance. Don't stand there in the back of the hall with your arms folded, sipping your beer and nodding your head.

Of course, we youngsters, with our ever-present blatant disregard for our surroundings, started our hip-swinging and feet-shuffling from the very first notes, and soon, more followed.

Sometimes, you just have to set an example, and all will turn out right.

Automated homeless.

2005-09-07T20:28:00.000+02:00

Weirdness. At Leidseplein, just the other day. I walk home from work, which usually means that my perceptual abilities are slightly diminished anyways. Pupils have difficulty adjusting from dark cellar kitchen to light bright sunny outside, so most of the distance is covered squinting.

I arrive at the aforementioned Leidseplein, and dodge some bum pushing a shoppingcart. Not giving him a second's thought, I walk on, until something catches my eye. He has a wooden leg, or otherwise a strangely stiff one. No second thought, but he does get a second glance, and there's something odd about this guy.

All hairyness, the back clotted together in organic dreads, a torn nondescript army coat, plastic bags hung all around the cart. Something odd. What is it?

Not the way he looks.

The way he moves. Not one, but two wooden legs. How does he walk? More people have noticed him by now. The cart had got stuck in the tramrails for a moment, but he managed. Crossing the square straight through the middle. And then I see it, as the first one it seems, and I follow, get close to get a better look. Yes: this isn't a man.

A small mechanism, hidden behind the plastic bags, in the cart, moves the legs. It's a dummy, a crude robot. Really well done. Really really well. I walk closer, circle the automaton, and then _he looks at me_.

Remote controlled. Wow. I look around to see who controls it, but I can't find anyone. By now, more people have discovered the secret, and point, and laugh. The puppet looks around him, at everyone.

I love these things. Random, unexpected. Hopefully, this will happen more often.

Makeshift wind orchestra.

2005-09-06T18:51:00.000+02:00

Construction sites, they continue to amaze and fascinate. Even if not for the reasons planned.

Again, I stumbled upon a sonic pearl, a lump of coal with diamond-potential. No, that's not doing it credit. It is way beyond coal-status, this one.

(Dammit, I really need to start carrying some recording equipment.)

As I was walking home last night, I heard it coming a block away. All the while, I was puzzled. A low hum, a sub-dermal vibration, always staying just that bit too much out of hearing range. Something airy, fleeting, reminiscent of ancient carnivals, circuses, but then too monotone for that. Melancholy, more and more so as I closed in on it.

And then, I turned a corner, and there she stood, in all her glory: an impromptu organ, a makeshift wind orchestra.

They were building something high, and for some bizarre and probably completely sanctified construction-technical reason that's beyond my grasp, there were only floors yet. No walls. At least seven stories, and by the look of it, it's not finished yet. Seven floors, only supported by scores of metal pillars. These pillars are probably adjustable in height, since they sport a row of holes on their sides, so to pin it on one size. And these holes, they were magic.

Wind came from just the right direction, and got caught in these holes to slip into trunks, and there, was turned into music. All these pillars, must have been hundreds of them, all catching wind, all playing the same, but slightly different, note.

Haunting, beautiful, and the aforementioned melancholy, were all words that popped into my head only later, after I stood there for what seemed ages but turned out to be a mere twenty minutes.

Coffee with the Devil. (chapter 1)

2005-09-05T18:54:00.000+02:00

Behind me, in the line at the supermarket, stood the Devil.

Admittedly, he didn't look like the Devil. He looked like a pretty girl, no fashion model or anything, but just cute. The kind of girl that you feel a bit guilty about when you think about her like that, no older than seventeen. That kind of cute.

So, no horns, no tail, no hooves, no pitchfork, but if you half-closed your eyes, and made your focus go a bit woozy, you could just pick up the smell of sulphur from the corner of your eye.

He (she?) smiled at me. I smiled back. I paid, put my groceries in my bag and for one bizarre moment, I considered actually asking her if she wanted to have coffee with me sometime. I quickly put the thought away. You don't ask the Devil if she (he?) has coffee with you, right? Weird.

Now, of course I wondered why I knew this was the devil. I'm not particularly inclined to take up religion as a hobby. I wouldn't go so far as to call myself atheist, but that's only because there's always this gently nagging thought that there might be 'something' (ooh, apostrophes!). I don't quite buy the idea that there's one Supreme Being that created all, knows all. Maybe I'm too afraid to dismiss the idea completely just in case I'm, you know, wrong. To be short: I never actually considered the idea that there might be a personification, an embodiment of all evil.

Still, there she was, trying to jam half a loaf of bread in her bag and counting her change. One last look, and I turned around, quite disconcerted. Didn't anyone else see? I still don't know why, but I was absolutely certain: this was Satan, Shaitan, the fallen angel, ruler of Inferno, the Devil.

I was almost at the exit, the automatic doors had already slid open, and I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there she stood, smiling broadly, obviously burdened by the weight of the plastic bag full of groceries.

"Wanna go for coffee sometime?"
I blinked. "Uhm... "
"Just say yes, c'mon. Will be fun." Again, that smile. Really cute, the way she did that.
"But..." I started.
"Yeah, yeah, I know, you also read Faust."
"Yes, so..."
"Don't make such a big thing out of it. Just coffee. No strings attached. Really." She nodded, for emphasis. Then, she leaned forward, conspiring, an impish gleam in her blue eyes. "Don't believe everything they write... it's mostly propaganda anyways. " Wink.
"... no strings attached?"
"Yup. Tomorrow? You're not doing anything in the morning, right?"
"Uh, yeah, no, I'm not, right, yeah...." I didn't quite know what to do with this. This could turn out to be a very bad decision, but then again, I had to admit I was fascinated as well. This, of course, was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
"Good. Say.. eleven, at that place around your corner?
"How do you know where..."
But she smiled again, and said: "Great! See you then."
And she was gone, on an old noisy rickety bike.

I walked home, mildly confused. What had just happened? Was I really going to have coffee with the Devil? Could I believe her when she said "no strings attached"? Also, I found it all rather interesting. What was going to happen? Was she going to try to get my soul, in return for riches untold, fame and power? Would I get to hear juicy gossip about God? I didn't know.

Divided we stand.

2005-09-05T00:33:00.000+02:00

T-shirt spotted at party last night at Stubnitz :

"My subculture can kick your subculture's ass."

Heh. See title.

Funky business.

2005-09-03T18:41:00.000+02:00

I think, by now, we can all agree that Baile Funk, or Funk Carioca if you will, has taken the world by storm. Or is heavily involved in the act of doing so right now.

Now, the question is: will the sound change? I mean, surely they must make tons of money now, seeing as how the stuff's being played all over the world...

Yeah, right.

I think MP3's are largely to be credited for the sudden rise of this music. So, unless you're DJ Marlboro or something, I think it's quite hard to make an actual living from this music. But then again, I've never actually been in Rio or São Paolo, so I might be wrong there.

Also, I kinda hope it won't change. A large part of why I like this stuff is because it sounds so damn cheap. You can just hear the 486 or early Pentium humming in the background in some hot, stuffy favela backroom.

No, I think the real question we have to ask ourselves is: will the performers ever learn any actual MC-ing skills?

P.S.: Don't know what I'm talking about? Do some research, dammit, or listen. MC Galo, incidentally, does boast some skills in MC-ing, off-key as they are.

Sovereignity.

2005-09-03T18:21:00.000+02:00

Lady Sovereign's latest single rocks. Or at least I think so. We need more retro-ska riddims.

Now, I was gonna say "Lady Sovereign's NEW single", but it was dropped about a month ago, and in internet time, that means ages. So.

Usually, I have little to no patience for star(let)s who whine about how hard their life as a celebrity is, and how much they have to work. Screw you, choose a different profession then.

But Sovvie is just charming, and she has a great sense of humour. ("Hold on, I was drunk last night!") Hell, I think you have to, being the only white girl in the grimescene. But since other (and better paid) people than me have already written tons of articles about her, I'll refrain from doing so.

Just listen to the song. You can get it here.

Sad cranes.

2005-09-01T00:38:00.000+02:00

Around the corner of where I live, they are building a new apartment-complex. Or something like that, I haven't bothered to actually look at the "artistic impression" that graces the sign in front of the site yet.

In order to do so, they had to tear down a large flat, that was abandoned and subsequently re-used by squatters. Inside, there were studios, a café/restaurant, a movie theater, a place for performances, both theatre and music, and living-spaces. This was all more than a year ago. I expect the new apartments to go for sale for an incredible amount, furthering the cause of upyuppie-ing the neighbourhood. I suppose that's what you get for squatting a big building and doing nice things in it on a top-level location (it's about 10 minutes walking from Leidseplein).

For a city that wants to promote itself as a place where a lot of creativity is happening, they sure are working hard that all the places where the really interesting stuff (i.e. the stuff that doesn't necessarily make money) happens are being forced to move or closed down.

But before I sound too bitter: this is not the point of my post.

My point is: at this construction site, there are cranes. Several huge cranes. These cranes need oiling. Badly. But I wish, I really wish, that they won't do that.

Because you see, everytime these cranes move, they make a loud noise, like only huge metal constructions that need oiling can. They moan, they groan, they howl. A beautiful hymn, a symphony of gargantuan, sad, sluggish mammals, possibly from the Pleistocene. Slow to build up, it sustains for several seconds, then fades out. Sometimes they sing together, creating a dissonant harmony. It reverberates against the walls around my house. Sometimes haunting, melancholy, then hopeful, as the younger, sorry, smaller one joins in with it's high-pitched whine. When I close my eyes, I can sometimes see these creatures, somewhere in between Woolly Mammoth and Dire Wolf, call out to each other over the span of an ancient plain, a tundra with a crack in the middle, unable to reach each other, their only comfort each other's voices.

And then the hammering starts, because Amsterdam soil is soft, and apartments need to be built, money needs to be made.

I get out of bed and get ready for work.

Kickoff.

2005-08-31T00:57:00.000+02:00

So, here it is. My brand-spankin' new bloggyblog.

Although I know that you're all dying to read more of my fabulous textually-conceived offspring, I regret to announce that it's late, I have to work tomorrow morning early, and frankly, I don't feel much like doing a lot of typing now.

So, hang in there kids. I'll get back to you.