We like texture

I set out to take some nature pics at our house in Holland, but each one I took turned out to be a Metaphor for something quite un-naturelike. (mother nature says I have no soul...) :<













if i was a goth i would marry right here...





Don't worry Gerhard, I did take some full-blooded greenpics.

This is the closest I could find to a tree with attitude:







Riddle yer this! How did I take this picture, huh?


Post a Comment

Some readers claim to be jealous of my European romp. Those people, however are acting with what us economists like to call incomplete information. What they do not know is the kind of breakfast I have been having.

Presenting the true Continental breakfast:


(This is my friend Thean sampling some brew.)


Post a Comment

This is the only way I can explain where I've been the last while. Please excuse my non-blogging. It will be hard, but I will try to post a few times while I am in Europe.














Post a Comment

Hello.

It is just past 1 AM and I know my fate. I will write greeting cards for twenty years at least, to keep the tax collectors, loan officers and Jehova zombies at bay.

Yes, greeting cards. A world where fame and charity are entirely different concepts. The thoughtless consumption of countless bored airheads. It smells good from here, I can say that much.

Anyway, my first card:

Get really well mommy, because we only miss you with arms

Yes, I know. *blush* I just happen to be good at this kind of thing. I got +20 greeting card points when Big G decided that "woah there, Niel, I can't make you good at writing essays in a logical, structured fashion, so how about being good at foosball? And oh, greeting cards. You'll send me some, won't you?".

I sure will, big G. The one that reads:

"Violets are blue, roses are red, I'm considering alternatives, like Krishna, instead"

Clapping somewhere? No, that's the sound of me rolling down the stairs.

I had a bad day.
Post a Comment

Hey guys. I'm going to show you my room. I'd rather you'd not freak out about it, but that may be unavoidable. It's pretty damn unsightly.

The thing is, I hate a dirty room as much as the next penguin. I don't go rolling in grime everyday because I like it. Cleaning up is just... a schlep, and the dirtier it gets, the more of a schlep it becomes.

However, so that you never again will have to witness such horrors as these, I'm setting Tuesday as Clean Up/Incenerate Everything Day. Let us proceed.

Open the door to my room,
who knows what we shall find?



it has its own buffalo skull and everything...



My closet, complete with dishes and unseen skeletons:



My laundry pile in the early afternoon sun:



Everyone's got to eat:



I don't know what that is.



Unensils, microwaves, forks. Russia?



I had fun taking this:



MR GUNTHER, YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN MY ROOM!


Post a Comment

Army of Novelists

First up, who of you are in the sorry position of "working on something" that you hope will one day, with much cajoling and encouragement, become THAT NOVEL.? Huh? Come on, I sense some guilty nods.

How ‘bout some solidarity? A union for unproductive inkwasters? Put us introvert, socially awkward scribblers in the driving seat of our own uncertain destinies?

The first step of anything is always acknowledgement. Hands up if you too, “write”, in whatever humble form.

Have you ever heard of (inter)National Write a Book in a Month Month? Yep, in the sweet month of November (b-day month for me), everyone gots to write a book. Cuz Stone Cold sez so. But if you disregard him, it still seems like a great idea. Sigh. I have exams then, but I’d like to shift that whole month to January or something. I also hope that all writers out there have their own personal Write a Book in One Month Month.

The Sound of Silence

Favour to self: play simon & garfunkel’s “sound of silence”, and turn the lights off. Really listen to the words. Was it good for you?

And in the naked light I saw,
Ten thousand people, maybe more.

American Psycho




Now I’ve been thinking about this all day.

I recently bought Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho for a friend of mine. The thing is, I know it will probably make him insane. Really insane, for the full two weeks or so he reads it.

I know, because the same thing happened to me.

American Psycho is a brilliant book written by a troubled mind. Easton Ellis said as much during an interview, saying that while writing the book he became a monster.

And the book is monstrous. Pages and pages of descriptions of what the other characters are wearing and how much it cost.Patrick Bateman, our protagonist, knows these kinds of things. He also likes hacking up women after hours of torturing them.

I swear, just reading that book turns you a little bit… bad. Until you're done, that is. The images you see in your mind in waking life, even after you put the book down, are pretty gruesome. From time to time, normal women become meat puppets. Your mind is a blood fountain. Unhealthy urges of the other kind.

And then the book ends. Although it doesn’t. He is talking to friends, in a panic after (ludicrously) not being caught, because identity is so insubstantial in the money-mad New York of the late 80’s that justice can not find him, and sees in the restaurant: THIS IS NOT AN EXIT. He tries to describe to us his condition, which, although accurate, does not bring us closer to Patrick Bateman. That is the book’s job, as a terribly complete account of madness. And then he says: “This confession has meant nothing.”

I’m all better now. Thank God for hobbits.

(I'm curious to hear female perspectives on the book... ?)
Post a Comment

Post a Comment

1.Three Best films you’ve recently watched
Harry Potter 4, Spun, Good Night & Good Luck

2. Three favourite songs at the moment

"Day Old Blue" by Kings of Leon (rock 'n roll), "Demon Cleaner" by Kyuss (metal, kind of) and "Silver screen shower scene" by Miss Kitten (electro)

3. Favourite dessert

MALVA PUDDING, BABY. (oh, no. not like "baby", i meant like "malva pudding", baby. baby being the proverbial giant babe in the sky we are addressing all the time. like that, yeah.)

4. Your favourite two physical attributes

a) of yourself
- lack of scars on my cheek, the fact that i don't have an eye patch. basically, everything that defines me as not-a-pirate. OH, WHO AM I KIDDING? I LOVE PIRATES. And I do have a shaggy mane! Like that, I guess.

b) of a partner
- mouth... a lot of beauty there. it also tells you things. (oh. i mean like, it "tells" you things. like, as in, telling you by not actually telling you. like, not by talking, i mean. like.)

5. The ultimate unforgiveable act in your book is
Swallowing the crap that people just expect you to believe, because you didn't think enough. Like the Good Book. It's pretty damn good though, innit? But I'm pretty gullible myself. What I mean is, question stuff. Always end with a question? he he. I mean, he he?

6. If someone had to dress up as you , what would you give them to wear?
Something they had already worn yesterday. And possibly the day before. And black shoes.

7. Three favourite magazines

Hustler, Pl... oh. Ok. Uhm, SL, Newsweek, Kerrang.

8. A newly acquired bad habit

It is so bad.

9. Dream house, described in a few sentences

I really like the house I live in now. Although, a herenhuis in Amsterdam, near all the good bookstores and a nr. 5 tramstop would be the shiznit.

10. You take five people to a deserted island.....who are they? (and does each one have a purpose or not?)
(also going for a cop-out answer here. too difficult, except for one certainty)

Dennis Bergkamp, to play soccer with me and let me win.

George Orwell's ghost, to edit my writing and read his to us all.

Jesus: want to talk to that guy. Like, as in, "so." and he'd be all like: "so." And I'd ask him lots of questions. That would be awesome. And then we'd have our "own personal Jesus". Get it? Do you? (see what I did there? I said "own personal jesus". You know, there's a song. well, i mean, not just a general song, like a specific one. and it's got "my own personal jesus" in it. not the guy, the words. did you see that? did you notice?)

Mussolini: Every island needs a cook. Especially an Italian one.

Tom Hanks, because he can get us off. (no, not like that).

I also have some questions!

~d:
1. Do you ever get tired of hearing the word "Katrina"?
2. What exactly are "the sticks" that you are "in" with "the boys"?
3. Why do you blog?
4. Do you consider yourself "FREAKY" like Karate Man, as Tj1 said?
5. Give us your complete tatoo profile (where, what, why you got it).

Neko
1. What anime is your fave and why?
2. Is eternal darkness delicious or is it fugly and bad?
3. You obviously write. What are you/should you be working on?
4. Ghosts. Yes or no?
5. How old are you? In centuries, please. (if you are immortal)

Candace
1. Tell us what you would have said/purred to Douglas Adams if you had to have that awesome moment again.
2. Your Tae Kwon Do battlecry, if you please.
3. Why, oh why, do you not like poor Mr. Holden Caulfield?
4. Your blog is pretty funny. I'm wondering, where do your humorist roots lie? And please pick between Woody Allen and Jerry Seinfeld!
5. Do you party up?

(Karen said she's out of the chain)

Thean:
1. What's wrong with London?
2. You've caught people making luuurve in your room. Ever been caught?
3. What do you like about Afrikaans?
4. You're no jock, but tell us about your best tackle.
5. Best bar in Cape Town/London/Dubai? Why?
Post a Comment

Together with some other journos, I spent the weekend in a little town by the sea: Kleinmond. We talked about marriage and betrayal. There didn't need to be a whole lot said, however. We took the trip at the lowest ebb of our will to keep going, just after our mother-deadline. Well, I had it down that way. It wasn't just some picnic. We had come to the sea to bleed.

When it was dark, after we had supped and learned to love each other, we took our cameras and stumbled to the sea. We were going to find something, each one of us.

Gerhard had his tripod. Jan had his long ultra-zoom lens. I had my flash. And we scavenged.

It could have been better. It could also have never happened.

Power of words? Powerless, sometimes. I will add some, though.

Jan:



Gerhard:



This is me. I want to once and for all acknowledge, that, yes, I do take a lot of self-portraits, yes, I am self-obsessed. But remember my clan? The Introspectives. Another thing: I can actually be quite shy. Especially behind the camera. So I introduce myself to you here, as my most willing and attentive subject:



This is the colour of night:



Kleinmond, the garden of good & evil:



Do you luge?



On the merry-go-round:



Gerhard defends himself against the electric alien jellyfish:



Inside John Malkovich's mind:



Trees have hearts of stone:



Too late. Found at altar:



WE ARE WATCHING - MR GUNTHER AND HIS FAMILIAR, CYRUS:



Post a Comment

I'm sorry. I'm back. I... was there?

Yeah, in that place where you find yourself again. Three days, gents, I just needed three days to recover. Kleinmond, and today, Jonkershoek.

But, ponder this: If these pictures paint a thousand words, why do we need words?

In my Karen Little interview (yes, my Q's will be up soon) I picked a world without words over a world without pictures.

Today, I was lying under a tree with Jolani. At first thinking, "this is the picture. it is beautiful and it needs to be on my hard drive."

No! I needed to be under that fucking tree with a special person, NOT thinking about which f-stop to use. photography, guys, not only captures the moment, it is the moment. Which is is great, often.

But consider words. Words do not consume the moment, they brew inside you until you get to a typewriter. The world is intact.

It is nearing winter in Stellenbosch. That is why: Old Brown Sherry. That is why: trees with not quite naked branches. This one was big, domish from the inside. It filtered the sky with tiny leaves, wispy branches, and little balled clusters of seeds (deep brown speckles against the sky).

A canvas of Jackson Pollock stars-and-thorns. It looked as if the outer crust of the world had just begun to soar into space and we were left behind, looking through. It was a swarm, a map of nerves.

Maybe that didn't take you there. But I was there, and now all I have is the words, and the memory. A photographer has only the pictures.

Agree or no? Next post: photos! (and interview q's before wednesday!)
Post a Comment

haha World!

it's 5:03, and i'm still going. and i will be till dawn... of the one-million-words-to-hand-in-day.

and i have wet socks.

unstoppable? probably.

grrrr....
Post a Comment