Ik ken al je best verborgen geheimen, ik weet alleen niet wie je bent, maar dat wordt bijna irrelevant, iedereen zal wel geheimen hebben, alleen andere. Het blijft wel iets om moeilijk over te doen. Vertel me je geheimen, dan doe ik mijn best om je gezicht te vergeten. Wat krijg je ervoor terug als je biecht, publiekelijk? Op TV, of op Youtube. In de kerk had je de belofte op een verminderde kans in de hel te komen. Hebben Jerry Springer’s gasten een theekrans in de hemel, met bijschenkende engeltjes en zijdezachte wolken als zetels? De psycholoog deelt zijn beroepsgeheim enkel met zijn vrouw, of een willekeurige ander die zich op dat moment in zijn/haar bed bevindt, en ik zelf moet een geheim aan minimaal één persoon doorvertellen. Maak je geen zorgen, als je gelovig bent ga je er sowieso van uit dat er altijd iemand meekijkt.

Licht je keuzes toe over je leven in een TV-programma en wordt herinnerd aan wat er écht toe doet in het het leven. Pas als je spreektijd wordt teruggedrongen to vijf minuten, snap je waar het werkelijk over gaat, vier van de vijf minuten ben jij niet aan het woord, want wijsheid, zo is door anderen besloten, kan beter niet aan jou worden overgelaten. Als er met behulp van jouw beeld, zielig of ecstatisch, in combinatie met drie bevestigende antwoorden, de juiste conclusies kunnen worden getrokken, en het grotere geheel wat telt is vastgesteld, kan jij tevreden, voldaan en met nieuwe beseffen terug naar huis, maar niet voor het angstzweet voor de onherroepelijke teleurstelling je uitbreekt. Intussen ben je al gearriveerd, thuis en wel, waar je ook al niet telt.

Waar de twijfel toeslaat/ fotografie

Waar ik naar zoek inde massa zijn vrouwen of meisjes die vooral alleen zijn, omdat iemand sneller twijfelt als die alleen is, een dekmantel van zekerheid van gezelschap afwezig is. Mensen zijn naakter alleen, maar soms ook niet. Soms is samen ongemakkelijker dan alleen. Ook dan slaat de twijfel toe en wil ik vastleggen hoe iemand daar niet onderuit kan. Misschien ben ik de enige die deze twijfel ziet, als ik deze foto neem, is de relatie enkel tussen mij en de gefotografeerde, en is er niemand om dit subject te redden uit mijn vangnet, waar ik dingen zie die jij wilt vergeten.

The society of sleeping women, where the number one priority is to sleep and nap as much as possible. Pretending to sleep is also totally accepted as well. As is sleeping with your eyes open. It’s a place we all dream of, with soft late-afternoon sun, where there is no shame in being lazy. Soft transparent curtains in different colors frame the open-air beds, billowing in the wind. Movements are made in slow-motion, as are the smiles constantly forming on everyone’s faces, whilst the eyes are closing. Skin is always glowing and soft to the touch and soft-focused. Hair is loosened, moving in the soft breeze but never getting tangled. It smells like whatever your favorite smell is. There is no need for food to be prepared, as there is no energy being spent. 

Welcome Home.

The rats ate everything in my house. You wouldn’t have imagined it, but this is what happened. Thick plastic lunch-boxes, is how it started. Then the metal trash can, there were holes in it. I had already stopped eating in my house, there was no food around at that point. Already then, it didn’t feel as it used to, coming home. Eating is a very intimate thing, a ritual related to feeling at home. I am not comfortable with eating in public, so this had an impact on my state of mind. I am comfortable when I am with a friend or someone I know, eating in public, but eating alone out in public, it just feels kind of.. vulgar. Anyway, you’d think that with no food around, the rats would have nothing to eat and therefore stay away, and find some other place to score, or they could just die, maybe. But this didn’t happen. First, having started eating anything any food had  even been stored in or prepared in, when all those things were gone, also including pots, pans, the stove and oven, they started gnawing on all other furniture that had nothing to do with food. If your eyebrows hadn’t been raised yet, now’s probably the time. No-one was coming to my house anymore, I made up stories for them not having to come to my place. Really, I dared to tell no-one because it was shameful, and I’m sure it would have sounded disgusting to say ‘hey, my house is being chown down by rats’. What can you say at that point, still wanting friends around and all. And I was itchy all the time..

At this point I had no furniture anymore, just some chewed-on remnants of my belongings. Actually for a moment I like this new sparse interior of my apartment, and did a little dance on the bare floors. With now nothing left to eat, there was only the house left.. The way I see this occurrence in my life is as a reason to be more ‘one with nature’. The forest is now my home, but I don’t bother building a shack because each time it’s chewed down to the floor. I am at one with my fate, I embrace it.

The best medicine against feeling bad is to crawl into bed under a blanket and to be trying to prevent yourself from crying. You don’t leave from under the blanket until the feeling of ‘bad’ is over. It is allowed to order food from the bed, but only if the food can be taken in with a straw, through which you suck the food. Don’t allow anyone else near or under the blanket. In these moments of ‘bad’, isolation is key. Failing to take certain steps from this plan is a recipe for the failure of your self-treatment. When in doubt, try not to cry harder. When trying not to cry doesn’t work, assume an uncomfortable position for extended stretches of time. While it may never end, cheer yourself up with the thought that other people are not feeling bad.

Plastic is just fine with me and in all kinds of colors. Although I do not eat plastic, I consume it, and though I don’t feed liquid plastic to my new-born baby through my breasts, it could be like that, my breasts are plastic. If someone had a nightmare about my plastic breasts, that fear would be based on a hard reality, though newer forms of plastic breasts might be softer and more flexible to the touch. Not all types may be able to knock you out cold anymore, through plastic having become a part of my body it feels natural. My breasts may outlast me, only slowly disintegrating, after my death, somewhere par on the speed of my bones decaying, resulting in a coffin’s contents overtime looking different than the traditional old church remains. Perhaps more like a glow-in-the-dark keychain skeleton you willingly make dance to your whims, a ‘danse macabre plastique’, perhaps? The skeleton maybe more willing to tango for two than you had previously imagined.