Shadowplay

I decide a line has been drawn, I decide I'll turn and walk away, no love lost.
In the background the appropriate bass drum of Warsaw.

But whenever I decide, whenever I put my foot down, the lines around my mouth feel like I trace them on my mother's face.

My curse might have been that she forgot.
But looking at some video's of her last months, to her sweeping was business, and forgetting was release.
In the background Piaf sings she gives rat's ass about the past.

Goodnight, mom

Been a while, hasn't it.

Things came to a close, faster than light it feels.
She started losing the way home, and now not only me saw that things had to change.

So she moved to the home, where she unraveled faster than how faster than light feels.

She was lost for words, but also lost the sharp edges. Spent hours coloring away, humming along to music. Nurses said she had a will of her own, but was a really sweet lady. With me, she kept that shadow of muttering darkness and hissing curses, but then, I was fully attuned to the people in the ceiling.

But it was true, for long periods at a time, their malignant voices would be quiet.

Sometimes I thought maybe she lost the voices.

She searched for what she lost.

She put needles in her chocolate paste poking about, jammed colored pencils in a tube of hand cream, would peek in every cup, bottle or vase, behind every curtain or door. Not a cap was safe of being unscrewed and put somewhere else, while she was searching, searching.

And then she got ill, but better.
The second time around, I was wise enough to understand the people in the ceiling acted as harbingers.

The doctors started searching, but how do you ask someone who's been losing words and meanings where it hurts.

In the end (the third time around) one runs out of options, and somebody has to make the call.

I silenced the people in the ceiling.

And from time to time my body hungers. My ears want to hear her voice. My eyes want to see her laugh out loud at some joke. My arms want to squeeze her tight in a goodbye.

And as if that neuromuscular memory isn't torture enough, I keep remembering telling her: It's okay, you can go now. We'll be all right.

All the invisible people

Humans have the capacity to get used to anything.

When we moved from a relatively quiet neighborhood to a house on a major national road, with a bus stop practically at our doorstep, light sleeper that I was, I had a lot of difficulties of getting a decent night sleep. Two years on, I started waking up every Sunday morning before sunrise, the kind of waking one does when the cat swipes something from the table during the night, the sort of waking one does when something is wrong. Turned out the bus schedule changed and the first bus on Sunday morning was abolished. Five to ten minutes after that bus would have passed, my brain jerked me awake. Danger danger!

Shit rains down every day, it becomes normal.
I read somewhere Syrian children don't even cry when there's explosions and dead people everywhere. All part of normal everyday shit.

I've come to terms with the people living in the ceiling and the walls. The ones that through invisible electric lightning beams torture my mom with a little pain in her big toe, or elbow. Like a woman in labor I breathe through it, trying to listen if the people in the ceiling or the walls aren't hiding something important. Does her big toe hurt, or is it just a spasm? Is she tired, or did she forget to eat? Maybe I should simply ask them, the people that live in the ceiling or the wall, then the circle would be complete.

She worries, she does, about what the invisible people do when she's not home and she can't keep an eye on them.

I nod, and I breathe in, breathe out.

There are ups. And sometimes, there are downs, into the pit of hell.

Only yesterday I was Alice in Wonderland.

The Imposter, invited to a meeting where none like me would ever get.
But by their own blood, sweat and tears.
Skin of their teeth.
The slaying of their firstborns in name of his Majesty of the Be-tentacled Face.

Like a secret council meeting where the destiny of the kingdom is decided.



(sigh) I'm telling this wrong.

It is the secret council meeting where the destiny of the kingdom is decided.
The kingdom which has been poisoning my soul, my dreams.
The kingdom I've protected blood and nails, at the neglect of my own health.
That stupid place which I used to love so dearly, and which has been killing me softly.

Up until recently, that is. You see, the mayors of the country, the bourgeoisie who think they rule the land, decided they had to teach me a lesson. I had to learn my place, or some commonplace drudgery those imagination impaired see as their lofty goals.

Me, the only one booking results against the wildebeests and wildermen infesting the land.
I ravaged at my finance just for those!
My health.
Everything.
Including my own love for the kingdom.

So. I went Chernobyl, tssssssssssssssssss.

Strange how people hearing those words imagine blinding flash, mushroom cloud explosion, heat wave turning everything into ash. Even you, dearest digipblip, even you saw those iconic images.
Did you not pay attention when it happened? Did you not read up on history?

Chernobyl was: no flash, no mushroom cloud, no heat wave.
Like a pit of gravitational vengeance it burned (still burns) itself into the earth.

It changed the course of evolution.
If malformed frogs don't scare you: it halted decay in the forest.
There is no Roman or Greek god who ever claimed that power: the trees died, and time stopped.

(whisper) it keeps things from dying, mommy.

Oh no, it's not so much the explosion or heat one must fear, around Chernobyl.

But Oh! Its cold dismay for time.

And, Ach! Its utter neglect of the force for light and warmth it used to be.



And oy vey, its never-ending power for destruction.

Time flexing like a whore

Too little of it, need more to look at a picture of black and white fur. Nights are desolate places in my mind, no one watching, no one purring.

And too much of it. How much longer obliging this hobby-turned-into-job-and-hating-the-hobby. I had so many dreams, had so many break throughs.

Can I go back over twelve years, when the deadline was tomorrow and I wasn't even 30? Where I'd work a full day, come home and tend the flowers and weeds, and still find energy and time to spend with my friends who now sometimes keep me awake anight with their urgent questions. Always the same questions, as it is. Where will we go? How will we end? Tell us, write it all down...

Is that you, CowWatcher?
What was the name you called me? (wind - called - crow - lift head - lonely)

Head like hole

Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.

It sucks

like mud covered up by a fine layer of dust and a tangle of flowers.

There you are, all  ladeedaying about in the busy busy life and then some little synaps suddenly decides to make your skin and muscles remember how it felt, the weight of him on one arm and all spread out over your lap, the very gentle swell of his breathing, the little rumble with which he'd start purring, the total abandon after a deep sigh of content. An infinite universe of memory compressed into a little black hole that pulls an alien croak from your throat.

And you stumble along through a day suddenly broken, one feet naked, boot still stuck in the mud.

Wrath & tears babeh.

THEY took him, digiblips.
The sole living creature that has accepted my crap for 16 years.

The problem is, life has been so much crap, for months, the last couple of years, I can no longer feel. It hurts, but I feel the festering below, the no-hurt festering, the slow sleeping toxin.

He's gone. poof, like that.

HE WAS HERE YESTERDAY GODDAMMINT.

I'm so anrgy. I'm angry because I'm angry; I've got more self control than this. Angry at being angry helps.

Helps them.

They don't see. They don't know.

I see them, whispering, there she comes, that hysteric cunt.

They don't know the hysterics are all that keep me from simple killing them. Killing is easy. You don't even need a Kalashnikov like those bastards in Paris. A car, a bit of fire, all will do. There's a wind out, and it's howling King Lear's speech. They'll drown. I've got lightning at my fingertips if I call for it.

Killing is easy.

They are all digiblips.

Bastards. They took my Steerpike from me. They will pay.

Karma

Bitch.

The Cross

Hello there, strangers, we must stop meeting like this.

How are you, digiblips?
Because, I'm having a major bum day.

A sort of AA day.

Hello, my name is Wildheit and I'm addicted to saying yes. I will try to help you, and anybody that asks for that matter, to the detriment of my own life and health.


Add some tears for effect.

Also add a sprinkle of failure, because you can't help everybody. You just go tits up.

The tats... The tats you get in people telling you no and sorry and all the lame and half-assed excuses you know so very well because they bounce around in your head, day in, day out, but never roll, slip or stumble from your tongue. They make it sounds so easy!

And when you're really done with trying and trying, there is but one option: admitting failure.

Rat's ass, that's even harder than saying no.

Cue the flood.

Edge.

Things have edges.
Sometimes sharply defined.
Sometimes fuzzy and rounded and toddler-safe.

This thing today has the tact ('tactility' whispers Cow Watcher) of blunt force trauma with the in-your-face sharpness of a razor.

That was what it was, you see.
Razor sharp, the knife wrapped in a towel, which she had stashed in her bag.
Razor sharp, her drawn and grim face, eyes crazed and furious and the unseen people that live in the walls of her apartment.

If that's how your mom responds to an invitation to coffee and cake, it's time to get your head out of the sand.

This is going to be one hell of a fun week.

Messiah-cell

Woke up and didn't know where I was and what day it was.

That's okay, the brain said, let's just turn over and sleep some more until we do.
But through the haze came the screaming of one little braincell: Hey, we haven't felt like this in ages, so this must be wrong!
Rest of the brain went: Blah blah, too busy turning this lump of flesh on its other side to understand a word of what you're saying.

So then I found out that this one braincell is where my savior complex and megalomania live, all of my universe saving in the face of Armageddon powers reside. Because that tiny little braincell kept on whispering 'Alert! Alert!' but helped turning over the lump of flesh anyway, because its a cunning little braincell, you see.
All it had to do next is open one eye, just a tiny bit while its colleagues were snuggling down into sleep again.
And there it was.
Victory.
08:15 screaming red in the dark.
Look, messiah-cell pointed, look. It's past seven!
It took another second for the message to gently roll home.

And then it was out of bed, stumble downstairs and grab a cat...

Snot Fair

Few days ago I had a message from my brother on FB.
Kinda 'Hey how's it going'.
It's been months since I heard of him. Months since last he needed me and I helped him out and I haven't heard of him since, except, since.

Maybe the answer scared him off, enough at least to ask the original question. It wasn't my usual logorrhea, not my usual attack-kill-you-useless-piece-of-shit-I-haven't-heard-of-you-since...

Maybe he realized that when he says he can't come and visit because of new job and visa and money and blahblahblah and two months later he is is in South-Africa and Australia and whatnot, and FB tells me such, I'm his sister, that one woman who never ever forgave him something because he blinked and smiled and shrugged and said 'shuggs'. It there. He dune it. What the question?

Maybe I scared him off with the nutcracker attitude or some such. Maybe he was truely interested. Maybe he was finally planning a visit home not to see all his friends and drinking buddies and whatnot as usual, but to see his sis, and really ask her how she is. To visit mom, and dad, and help out.

And not try to compete with idiot elder brother who's even more of a shtako.


Doubt it, alas.

Real question is, can I blame him?

We always were with or against each other.  Always needing excuses to see eachother. Talk to eachother. Sis-in-law used to make jokes about it when I called my eldest brother. "Computer broke down again?"

We never were the kind of bros and sis you see in the movies.
Only refuge.
Let me sit five minutes with you and just laugh or talk or cry. And then I'll be on my way, no bother to you. Dad won't be funny anymore, and mom will have found her sense of humor again, or some such.

And then they walk away and I'll be right here stuck with their bother, and no younger sibling to stick it too.

Oh, brother...

E-day

Oh hey, we had election day in Belgium. And 30% of  60% of the Belgians voted for one party and, like, it's a sign!!!!!
Of course, not quite the same sign as another 30% of the same 60% gave when telling that the leader of said party winning with a MAJORITY (we're not so big on calculus obviously) should be sent to an uninhabited island, but hey.
Polls are polls, elections are elections.

To all the blablah naynay notquite people I say that the discourse sounds to much like:

The NVA concept of the ideal social system was called the “people's community”. The NVA used propaganda and economic and social policy to win the population's commitment to the community. After the turbulent years of the PS, many people saw BDW as the guarantor of strength, security and a better future.

At the same time, the NVA never hid the fact that the “people's community” did not necessarily include every Flem.

 Ladida. 

On a whole other subject matter, we might have gotten a lead on the Gang of Nivelles, but who cares?  Only the people who own 10% of Belgium's riches, i.e.1%, because we've always know they were involved in that particular pile of shit.

Oh beautiful day: part two

The Polish and African neighbors were all in it together. You wouldn't want to be talking too loudly, because then they'll hear we would be leaving. The manic paranoia crushes your a heart a bit as it stares you into the face. Am I really going to do this with the mum and the dad? The sun's out, warm and comforting, oh glorious Sunday, but there's a nagging chill inside. One could say it is fear and trepidation.

Dad's all ready for it, with sturdy walking shoes, and a backpack for the books. Mum and dad chat away about the places they used to live long before I was born. About people they used to know, but oh how they can't remember their names. They share some comforting cliches about old age and the memory going. Mum asks whether we're being followed by a car. That's a conversation stopper right there, mum.

We walk into the tent, get our bearings. They both get a pull cart for the books, and off they are, dad towards the science and life books, mum towards the English section. Dad bunkers down solidly. Mum's looking slightly panicked, not really looking at titles or covers, just breezing past, one eye looking for the exit.

I ground her. Together we do the English section. The urge to flee is right under her skin, groping for excuses. Shouldn't you look out for your dad, where is he? But dad's only five meters further down the isle he started by the time we're finished. His cart is filled to the brim though. All books of science, very interesting! We need to check out and come back for more! I drag up the zen mothers all over the world find somewhere deep in their bellies when talking to wayward children. We're not doing that, dad. Don't you have plenty of books already? Besides, my car isn't big enough. But some of these books are only 2 euros! The manic desire to own everything that's on cheap offer staring brazenly into my face. They start chatting, hoorah, and mum forgets she wants to flee and dad forgets he wants to by the world for a penny.

The chill nags, like a sleepy cat repositioning on my lap.
I come from these two broken people.
Am I like this?
If not now, than later?

And upon this burden gets heaped the praise for their prodigal sons, who are not here to drive them to bookfairs on their only free Sunday this month. Not here to face their demons. Their amazing first born. Their amazing second born.

And by the time we're home, and they can rest from this formidable excursion, the world has gone grey to me, again, and tasteless. No matter how well the sun shines.

Oh beautiful day: part 1

The sun shines bone warming rays. The air still got that brittle cold from a spring night with clear open skies. Today we go on an expedition, me mum, me dad, and me. But first, what comes before...

Mother
Me mum threw everything out, old clothes, old books, old friends. There are walls around her. Within she is alone. All alone. Nothing but strangers around her, and new things she doesn't always remember buying. New stuff that isn't as good as the old stuff, but the envious and petty people took all that stuff away. She doesn't remember throwing everything out. I've learned not to point that out, because she's a proud woman, and she forgets many things but things like that. She's not crazy, I'm a snotnosed brat that always knows better, is what it is.

So there, I shrug, and frown a bit, and make noncommittal sounds and just let her explain the strange world she lives in, when I'm not around. Everyday I fight silently, to get her past her own walls. Small steps, little sips. I visit every day. When I don't I call. Everyday five minutes or more to break the monologue in her mind with which she builds those walls and mans them with envious neighbors that live in the ceiling and make noise just to spite her.

Father
Me dad's a hoarder. Discounts are his addiction. Five for the price of six makes him buy two packs of something he does not need. The amount of stuff a person can buy in case per chance one day one might need such a handy two-penny piece of plastic crap is amazing. We should go back to his house one of these days to get a few bobs and bits he still needs, and then he can sell the house.

Me dad, like my mother, forgets. Since the brain clot, not a lot gets written down in long term memory. He manages, with little notes. He adapts. He's a good little soldier like that. But what he doesn't remember is: things change. At first it's maddening, having to explain again that the clothes he has in the apartment are all the clothes he has, and no, there is no closet in the old house filled with clothes. Then it becomes maddening, because every time again I have to explain how come all his cameras are gone, all his flashlight, all his clothes, anything of value, and every time again it breaks his heart. And I wonder if he's ever going to remember once we do sell the house?

Events leading up to the expedition
Dad saw a notice for a bookfair in the paper. He's never been to one. He lies, because he thinks it will get him what he wants. In this way parents become like little children. But yes, I'll gladly spend a few hours of those hard to come by free days, to visit this bookfair with him. I'll be having to break his heart about the amount of  books I'm willing to stow away in my car. He might not be able to cope with it when there's too many people around and than he'll want to go home before have laid eyes on a first title. But I'm thinking maybe I can get me mum along, out from behind her walls? I'll sell it as like I don't know if I can cope with dad if he gets funny. I know it makes her feel strong, when she thinks she's in better shape than dad. So of course she will come; she won't tell me it's because she really needs to get out of the house but is too afraid of the world, but says she'll help me with dad. So in the end we all lie in preparation of the great expedition.

The Valley

Goddamn, and it's hot and dry here. For as far as they eye can see. Wish I had a smoke now.

I dared God didn't I? Said next time I would hold up my goddamned dead cat as the accusation it was meant to be.

'xcept, cat didn't die. Just got that damned luxury hoe disease: diabetes. Yup, right when I finally thought I got my life back where I wanted, with dad living in his own place, crazy mom in the other, 'social' brother somewhere where everybody can see the pics and nobody ever question whether dude has his very own mom and pop alive yet besides mom-in-law in the pics.

It's in the little big things, isn't it? Seriously, I'm so happy it ain't the kidneys that went kaphloey. Slightly gnnnignni at the vet for not wanting to check his blood earlier because something's been wrong for a while, and no it's not a sudden flea allergy but hey in the meanwhile he lost all his ballast and more.

Happy happy. But this is me, getting up at least 7h30 to feed a cat and jab him with insulin, for the next ten years or more. Being home at 19u30 to 20h to do the same. Shit bastards were supposed to be my freedom in comparison with kids.

I hear you say, digiblips, that's where and when one learns not to dare God and shit.

You're using my cat against me, bitch? I'm going to find the nastiest chthonic bastard and team up to bring that fuck down, yeah.

Spring

There's no fresh eyes like your own after taking a break from writing for whatever reason.

Existence of flow, and happiness, proven when you encounter well written scenes that you don't remember writing. Might look like modesty failing, saying such, but imagining some other genius writer hacked my computer to patch up my stories might be more than modesty fail alone.

All that was planned is either filtered and crystallized or erased.  In this time has a no nonsense, firm and patient hand.Choices I hesitated to make, now obvious.

Starving the Cow Watcher may have shriveled my language skills, but it seems I came out of the dark tunnel with a map in hand. Places I needed to go if only I knew the route lay waiting.

Let's go.

Oh hay.

Am back.
Stuff happened.
Let's make this a new beginning,
but mind, easy does it.
Slow steps.
& small sips.

Oh.

Probably I was.


Not so much reading now. Kill Tinkerbell on sight, daft idiot twinkling firefly.


If I survive this shit with my soul intact, I'll be able to log this filth as "research" for a book or two.

It's probably gonna be Man of Mercury and the full rewrite of the Barynn trilogy or quadrilogy (when/whatever I make my mind up about the amount of human ugliness the average reader will shovel).



I'm losing my writing muscle, dear old digiplips, and it makes me thoroughly unhappy.

Because nothing matters *that* much.