What is love?

In this day and age... of social media slash smartphones slash lost morals, what is love, really? 

In this day and age where we barely keep up with the strain of adulthood how do we manage to love?

We don't.

Overtired and exhausted of living a life ripped from substantial purpose, we shout, we judge, we condemn, and we just LOVE to point out all the faults in one another.  

And no, it's NOT 'just life' and 'just the way it is'.
Yes, having stultifying jobs are just means to an end and no, eternal holidays are not for the ordinary, but I'm sure there's more to life than making endless rounds in our little hamster wheels. 

It's not because this numbing life is perceived as 'normal' that it is normal indeed.
'Normal' means according to the norm and now I ask you: according to which norm?
Who invented the 'norm'?
I guess someone who knew how to manipulate the masses, who knew how our imprint is to fit in and thus conveniently created a frame of reference in which there's no space for diversity or dissidents. Or was it created by the general consensus? By all of us, like a herd of sheep? 

I'm sorry I'm starting a whole new topic here whilst I actually just wanted to have a lil' convo about romantic love in this era right here.

Few years ago (actually: a DECENNIUM) I was always looking for 'love'.  Everything I did, everyone I met, it always revolved around men.  It was f****** exhausting.   

Now, with two toddlers (going on adolescents) I barely have time to eat, let alone to 'go look' for a guy.  Sometimes I think I'd love to have one, sometimes I think I could use one and sometimes I think I hate all of them.  (Depends on what height I'm finding myself on the hormonal rollercoaster.)

So Tinder I tried.  

Lots of sex requests.  Apparently, according to the guys, a lot of female sex predators as well.  Is this really so?  I'm sure it's true for some but I'm also very confident that a lot of women have learned how to use their bodies and sexuality as an appetizer to warm up a man's interest.

They start off with orgasms to try to captivate a man's heart.
It's a way of doing things.  Not wrong nor right.
People, all people, want to be happy and if not hurting anyone, are free to do so by manners which suits them best.
I do hear a lot though of women who with this kind of approach, unfortunately get their beautiful hearts broken because of the 'I didn't take advantage of her, SHE REALLY wanted it' shit.
Yes, she wanted it, allright, but did you ever thought about WHY she 'really wanted it'?
I guess not, as it would disable you to justify your sexual exploitation of young, gorgeous souls looking for a top up of their love depleted hearts.

Apart from the sex requests, I had a few nice and interesting conversations.  I find this odd though.  You haven't met someone yet and already you're testing the waters.  I don't know how I feel about this, really.  Isn't it an artificial way of doing things? Isn't 'love' meeting someone 'by accident' and than having this connection with them that you don't have with others...  Or is this just the 'passionate' kind of love? The love that kills instead of lasts?

Aren't we obsoleting biology here? Where men have procreative drifts to ensure our propagation and  therefore are justified to be selective.  Or, is biology becoming outdated today in a world where you get crucified (suddenly remembering the Army of Lover's song Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiim crucifiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiied, crucifiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiied like my saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaavior, saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaintlike behaaaaaaaaaaaaaviooooooor....) when failing to speak 'politically correct' and where mankind is to be dominated more and more by artificial intelligence?  

Is a dating app, based on absolutely meaningless pictures of people, the all time low of humanity?  Or, is it a clever way to distract ourselves of the hell described in the first paragraphs here above?

And the way we communicate to each other... you're having a really nice talk with someone and than something else meets our eye and we just disappear untill we're bored again...  No attention AT ALL for the person on the other end of his/hers device.  We just leave them hanging and the saddest part of it: we don't really think much of it.  Is it OK because if we would mention it to them we would confess our interest in them or we would seem needy and by doing so we would let them have a glance at our vulnerability and so we just let it pass and as a result create a socially accepted new normal?  

Where marriages used to be contracts and spouses (to be) communicated through letters that travelled for weeks sometimes, I don't know in which era we're better off.

Maybe, we shouldn't look for love in the other (or same) sex.  Maybe we should all look for the only love that trúly matters, the love inside ourself.  Or would that be abnormal?

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Human. Perverted. Nature.

Why we so perverted?  Why?

Watching a documentary about Maria Callas, one of the most renowned opra singers like evah,  I immediately thought about some gossip I had heard of her before.   

The film was playing for about only 2 minutes and I immediately thought of how I remembered a clip of when she made her come back (after leaving the stage for years, (in)directly because of a man (peeps, read this thoroughly, she left her art for SOMEBODY ELSE, let's live and LEARN here)) and sounded like sh**. 

Going through the docu like: 'really need to Youtube that poor performance later', I also got a bit swept away by her personality or the cinamtic portrayal thereof.  She started to grow on me.

01h42' in, we get to 'that' performance.  They leave it out.  I'm ashamed.  

Why is this?  

Why we drained from any form of sympathy/empathy when it comes to strangers?  

What gives us the right?  

What makes us THINK we have the right?

Why we out for sensation, whát kind of sensation does it give us really, to see an Amy Winehouse booed off stage almost literally dying from the disease Alcoholism (thank you for letting me use my poetic license here to freely translate to Broken Heart Syndrome) or to see a genious Maria breaking her voice in London, may it/may it not be by the same syndrome?  Whilst at the same time running over to a loved one, armed with a blankie, 5 tonnes of chocolates, 3 boxes of Kleenex and 1 bottle of Vodka when suffering from the same malaise?  

Why we so easily forget about all the breathtaking aspects of ones' artistry and personality because of a hiccup in their roads?  And is it a hiccup really?  Isn't it merely nothing more than the absurd arrogance to judge or to be entertained by the mondaine experiences of extroardinary people?  

The neglect of acknowledgement and tenderness for human beings, human nature.  

Thank you Tom Volf and colleagues.  Thank you for making me see. 

x

  

Free At Last

Do any of you guys relate to mourning a person way after you ended your relationship with them? 

I mean, my last relationship ended in June and every single second of every single day after that, I was still thinking of him.

In a weird kind of way, it even felt like we were still together as he was still running through my mind and paddling through my veins (with a big, fluorescent yellow, kayak).

Obviously, I wasn't aware of this until the other day, when my friend asked me if I'd met another object of affection yet.

This question made it dawn on me that I grew to be allergic to all new male contact as I felt there was no vacancy for any other guy in my heart nor my soul.  

Time for me to let go.  

I went from my heart to my mind and I imagined him sitting in front of me.  I told him that he was no longer wanted nor needed, that it was time for me to move on, that his leave of absence was long due.   

I cried.

My stomach ached. 

My heart died.

For the first time I actually grieved the loss of a person who simultaneously was my lover, friend and nail in my coffin.  (Not necessarily in that order.)

Going hysterical by the thought of not going to feel rejected again and again and again, anymore. 

It broke my heart but opened it at the same time.  

I'm free now.  Mother God Almighty, I'm free at last.

So what else to do with all this freedom than hitting Tinder? After all, is there any better way to get over the hurt caused by a cheater than by demolishing your selfworth by a 'ghoster' online? 

x

Ploetermoeder is BACK

't zijn weer Ma Flodder modus hoogdagen.  2 weken kerstvakantie en 2 kids. 

Het schrijven valt me dus een beetje zwaar met mijn handen afwisselend van mijn klavier naar mijn bruine papieren hyperventilatiezak.  

Sinds de geboorte van mijn eerste kindje 5 jaar geleden ben ik voortdurend ziek wegens chronische slaapdeprivatie en daarmede ook het overnemen van elke bacterie, virus, amoebe onder de zon. 

Dit jaar viel het nogal mee, buiten dat ik me om 10u 's morgens afvroeg hoe het in Moeder Godsnaam nog licht is om 2u s' nachts en dat als ik ergens naartoe ging met de kinderen mensen dachten dat ze op stap waren met Beetlejuice.  

De klassiekers zoals dat wanneer ze in hun bedje liggen, je tijdens het opruimen merkt dat je al die tijd al aan het meezingen bent met Bumba liedjes die je vergeten afzetten bent en dat je enigste contact met een volwassene (onbeantwoorde) berichtjes zijn op Instagram van een (nog) onbekende zanger uit Texas, die blijven. 

We hebben wel weer heel veel leuke dingen gedaan zoals gewoonlijk.  

Ik had hier nog steeds een geboortegeschenk liggen om de kindjes hun voet- en handafdruk in gips te gieten.  

Dolle pret zegt u?  U mag zeker zijn.

Te lui om de maatbeker te nemen wou de brij voor de mal te maken maar niet harden.

Het aanrecht, de keuken en de vloer zagen er uit alsof een betonmolen de racekak had gekregen in onze keuken met kinderen die ter hoogte van mijn zeer sensitieve seniorenoren aan het kelen en ruzie aan het maken waren omwille van een ijsje.    

(Mijn zoon stond op het punt het vreemdelingenlegioen te contacteren omdat zijn zus het laatste ijsje genomen had maar toen ik zelf ging kijken omdat ik ondertussen klaar was voor Sint Lucia, met gips tot in mijn wenkbrauwen en mallenbrij tot in de voegen van de vloer, vond ik gelukkig toch nog een verdwaald crimmeke voor hem.)
De 24 uren durende uiteenzetting van de Processie Van Echternach die plaatsvond om hun vingerafdrukken uiteindelijk te kunnen bekomen zal ik u besparen.  

Maar kijk, met toch wel een zekere fierheid en een beetje stiekem hopend op een medaille van Sint-Rita, de patroonheilige voor de hopeloze gevallen, laat ik u met een foto van het resultaat.  Ik heb ook een foto bijgevoegd van hoe het er zou moeten uitzien volgens de verpakking.  U kan zelf wel raden hetgene van onze hand is.  

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