Authenticism

My soulmate.  

Met her in our first year of college, about 18 years old.  

Walking in front of me with her brown, corduroy trousers on.  Tight at the bum, loose over her worn out gypsy boots.  
Her orange turtleneck subtly showcasing her beautifully sculpted body and her long, flax blonde hair, carelessly raised with a large flower pin.

Her almond-white face adorned with freckles, like stars at the sky arch in the light polluted sky.

   

Walking up the stairs with her leather vintage satchel catching my eye and her aural frequency tuning into mine.  

And so it happened...

Few weeks later we were one. 

Her and I. 

Us against the world.  

We dressed different.  We thought different.  We acted different. 

A breath of fresh air in a world full of identical snobs.  

Everybody perceived us as antisocial but we couldn't care less.

Philosophing, rebelling, analayzing... those were the things that really preoccupied us. 

Her and I.

Heart and intuition. 

Peaceful Anarchists against the ruling establishment. 

Anonymous Hippies, fighting silently against the dominating dogmas in our own little world.   

Nothing else mattered. 

One of my first recollections of our friendship was her giving me a book.  

I think it was called 'De Zin der Zinnen' (The Sense of Senses) not too sure, but I  do remember it being an ode to our bodies and its superb ways.  

I still have it to this day.  

I was so enthralled by it.  By her.

It was literally the first time I met someone who was colouring in the same colour palette as me and to make things even better: on the same canvas as well. 

After college we seperated.  

Living my seemingly secure Matrix life, wasn't compatible anymore with her living her best life, far away from Doctrinarian Prison.  

Now, so many years later, she finds herself more and more living, sometimes fearing but most of the time enjoying, the simple yet substantial life.

Even though I haven't seen her in years, I keep on reading her blog where she writes about venturing on the path she has always dreamed of.

Her writing depicting the real deal of leaving the Path Untread.

It's not for all of us, but she is doing it and she is doing (it) good.   

x 

https://angeliquemaas.waarbenjij.nu/

https://www.angeliquemaas.com/winter-2019.html

Mother Earth

Let me brainstorm here for a minute...

So, in order to have our climate saved, we should all, individually, try to reduce our carbon footprint, right?  Yes? 

And than the ACTUAL culprits, the multinationals, should... Oh no, my bad, multinationals are apparently exempted here.
They are all exempted because they deliver the dough.

Now now, in a world where it's actuallly possible for a chemical giant to be patent owner of plenty of  'natural' seeds, this really should come as no surprise to us.

You do understand that money is very important, though?  

You see, it will be a vital tool in the future for buying tickets to go to new established colonies in space.  Ah yes, you do get, that murdering only one planet is not ambitious enough, do you?

Nope.

After exploiting our absolutely breathtaking heimat, which possesses so many ingeneous (eco)systems and a splendor so magnificent that its inhabitants even contrived a 'Creator' to try to find an explanation for such mysticism*, they want to branch out into space.  Ofcourse.

(*This, or She was conveniently created by the elite to deprive and dominate the riffraff.  Maybe both?)

Still.  Try to keep in mind.  The Homo Sapiens is, and remains, a mammal.

So, maybe, the elite keeping their money instead of protecting our climate or exterminating famine (there literally is enough money to go around for everyone, to solve all problems as well, folks!), is not going against nature but instead is being part of it.

Maybe planet Earth has a severe case of Freud's Eros and Thanatos going on...

Maybe we are all made in Her image after all.

x

Racism

What do y'all think?  Is racism a matter of intellect or not?

I used to think so, allright.  d'Offis.  

Intellectuals can be highly unlikely racist, as even a blind mole can see how xenophobia is only a tool used on us, the masses, by the elite to divide and conquer.  Right?

Are there any intellectual racists? 

Probably.  And if so, should we need to redefine the term 'intellect' or is it required to take into account the vital importance of ancestral doctrines and/or the detrimental influence of social portraying?

Could racism be genetic?  

Did my love for some cultures and my discomfort with others slip into my nucleotides some centuries ago?  Is it because my great great grandmother was from Spain, a land once invaded by the Mores, that it's just in my DNA to have specific tastes and preferences or not?  Than again, don't we ALL have mixed blood as so many populations on earth have been at war with each other at one time or another...

So I was talking to this guy the other day, who told me he was opposed immigrants and open border politics.  I did not really bother to go into a discussion with him.  For me personally, the older I get, the wiser (yep, just said this about myself) and the more I realise that people are walking their own paths.  I think that you can try to interfere but what a waste of energy that would be.  Precious energy one can use very much so on its own Highway to Growth.  

He asked me if his opinions would be the end of my interest in him.  'That's an affirmative, boy' I said and he replied: 'Can't we just beg to differ?  We do not all have to have the same opinions, right?'

His comment made me think.  Is he right?  I don't think so.  Or is he?

For me, racism, is not just a different opinion.  For me it is the lack of some essential insights and thus... a matter of intellect.  Or isn't it?  Am I wrong? 

And, on my path of love, is it right for me to let him be?

Isn't leading by example the best way to convey our precious ideals to one another?  

Shouldn't I have pulled him close instead of pushing him away and just let him see how I perceive life?

Shouldn't I let my love be contagious?
Shouldn't I hang out with him just so I could infect him with my tenderness for all?

Does leaving him be, make me, myself, a racist and thus are black people right when saying that to not be racist is not enough, that we all should be anti-racist?

Who actually is the real intellectual here...

X

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?

x

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.  

x

Melancholia

La Melancholia...

Resembles a bit the word 'cholera'.  

Maybe it actually is.  

Maybe, melancholy does to the mind what cholera does to the body but instead of losing bodily fluids, you lose, within the count of merely one heartbeat, all wit, joy and image of a bigger picture. 

A part of a Freud book title.

According to Wikipedia: 'from Greek: µέλαινα χολή melaina chole "gall bladders" also Latin lugere lugubriousness to mourn, Latin morosus moroseness of self-will or fastidious habit...'

A Lars Van Trier movie.

Or, if you ask me: 
the swift coverage of shoulders with an intangible, metallic and ponderous blanket.  

The mind soaked in a deep grey ink.   

The limbs crippled.

Impalpable prinsonbars around one's surroundings.    

I have been suffering from melancholic episodes since even before the age of ten, overcoming me especially on Sundays.  The day before school.  A sour aching stitch from my intestins reaching to my heart.  Lasting the whole day only to be cured by the reassurance that comes with the zombie like actions of a Monday morning.  

Oh, the mental calm of the mealstrom of life.  

Oh, the soothing effect of habitual actions, of living our life like souls deceased.

The student days went but the mourning episodes stayed.  

La Melancholia...

The overtaking of the aura by a dark, sombre, and gloomy energy.  
The being accompanied but feeling utterly alone and not present at all.  
The soft, yet almost unbearable, aching of a heart screaming, unable to be justly unravelled by the conscious.

x

Sex Addict vs Pseudo Postfeminist

Ok, so, this sex addicted acquaintance of mine has been trying to get me to sleep with him for quite a while now.  I blow him off (pun intended) because me being quite vulnerable makes me quite susceptible to other people's problems, tending to make them my own.  

Also, because I cannot enjoy bodily intertwining without a deep emotional connection.

Now being the pseudo postfeminist that I am, the intercourse junkie takes his defeat by throwing all the superannuated feminist clichés at me.  He sees me as this man hating, a-sexual, bitter cat lady but I honestly see nothing wrong with being mistaken for a passionate Phoebe Buffay, do you?  An undeserved honour I call it!  (Also, I don't have any cats.)

Still I would like to clear this out for all the other oblivious peeps out there: trying to find my way into promoting the empowerment of the during centuries oppressed woman does not mean that I do not totally adore (some) men, that I don't own a favourite pair of porte-jartelles and that I don't AB-SO-LU-TELY glorify the idea of gettig frisky. 

It's just that this time around I want to choose the right soul connection to do so with.  

Now I'll tell you why I gladly take the risk of being perceived as the stereotype the coitus dependant describes me to be.

Being in my teens I wanted to change the world.   I wanted to change the world BIG TIME.
Being in my twenties, it struck me as a thunderbolt that I was failing miserably at the attempt, being an average (although be it with some (imagined) Kate Moss features), trivial and chicken shit millenial, stuck in dogma thinking with obsolete indoctrinations.

Faced with this harsh reality, I hear you thinking: what else could she do, what other thing was left for her to do than... to quit her job and go backpacking. Right? I hear ya.
So off I went, meeting this German guy for literally five minutes on top of (waiting for the name of the mountain from my, for almost 10 years now, toxic ex, whom I just e-mailed...  Oh, apparently it was at the Avalanche Peak summit,  Arthur's Pass National Park, New Zealand, he just e-mailed me back (isn't toxic so rewarding sometimes)) who changed my life forever.

I can not recall how on earth he came to say this to me in the literally five minutes of our lives we shared together but he told me that when he was young he really wanted to make a difference.  Like me, he wanted to change the globe.  As he realised he was not succeeding, he came to the conclusion that in order to change the world you would have to start changing yourself first.  Change yourself and be the best person you can be for your immediate family and friends and let that love you bring pay itself forward.  To change the planet is to start with one.

New default philosophy for practicing life?  Check!

So, when I speak up, when I am trying to be fearless, when I am trying to be free, when I am trying to be lovable, when I'm being optimistically naive, when I AM and by being so getting a call from my friend to tell me that my advocacy is making such a positive impact on her life and thus on the lives of her child and husband as well, I take being falsely seen as a sour he-hater any time.

x

P.S.: Sex Addict and I are still very friendly despite our differences.  He read the text and really loved it.   Let's all be like Sex Addict and Pseudo Postfeminist.  Let's all be lovers not fighters.

Vintage

Being so vintage that when my foot reflexologist asked me if I do my payments with my phone I asked her (very much bewildered): 'Euh... No... How does that actually work? Which number would you have to dial than?' 

x

Hustling

I'm a hustler baby, 
I just want you to know, wanna let you know
It ain't where I been, 
But where I'm bout to go, top of the world!
Now I just wanna love you, just wanna love you
But be who I am, you know you love me

Writer(s): SHAWN CARTER, PHARRELL WILLIAMS, SEAN J. COMBS, CHRISTOPHER WALLACE, DERIC ANGELETTIE, TODD SHAW, CHAD HUGO, MASON BETHA, JAMES JOHNSON, ASHA GOLDSCHMIDT

Just sharing this with you today.
You know, just me, today, working my ass off to instill that there's no past and no future.
That there's only here and now.  That there's only love.  Love for self and thus love for all.

Just another day of hustling, of growing, of progressing, of irritating my peers.

You're welcome.

I love you.

x

Infidelity

Hello there!  It's ya girl, Pseudo Postfeminist Witch.  Hollaaaaa!

Bringing to you today: the topic of cheating.  Yessa!

There's three things that I hold sacred while treading this earth, interacting with my brothers and sisters globally: loyalty, truth and respect.  (Which are actually one and the same if you think about it, really.)
No surprise than, that the lack of the above in my previous relationship because of the relentless infidelity (in every possible interpretation of the word) from his part, led me to one of the darkest hours of my life.
(You know, the on your knees howling on the floor kinda thing whilst thinking: please please please do not let a free downloaded app on my phone secretely activate my cam and speaker right now or I'll spend the rest of my life trying to proof my sanity to my boss at work or to ANYONE for that matter.)

Just the other day, my sweetest friend Evy, sent me a short video of Esther Perel addressing the topic  (link as per below, as sharing is forever caring) and although I find the title poorly chosen, I do think that it has some interesting conceptions:

- 'The people who have fun don't go to psychologists.'  *Some harsh truth, no?

- 'Cheating is hurtful not just wrong.' (Can I get an 'Amen!!'??)

- 'A suspected 80% of the people have been affected by it, not only the couple itself but friends and family, especially THE CHILDREN, get affected as well...' *preach, sistah!

- 'Affairs are about desire, about feeling important, feeling seen, feeling that you matter, ... all the stuff that often gets depleted inside the committed relationship.'

- 'Often it is not about leaving the person you are with but leaving the person that you yourself have become, you don't want to meet the other but a different person of yourself.'

- 'Both men and women lie, men lie by boasting but women lie to minimise because that is what is expected from them culturally worldwide.' *A LITTLE LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK, PLEASE!

- 'How do you manifest your love, your appreciation, your admiration on a daily basis for your partner? How do you show up?  Are you the blinding ray of sunshine at home that you are at work or do you bring the leftovers home?'

- 'Some affairs invite the relationship to rise and create something even better than was before.'

- 'The principal condition (which decides if the relationship will make it or not) is for the betraying partner to acknowledge how badly they hurt you.  The condicio sine qua non for a relationship to make it, is for the partner to be genuinly sorry for the hurt they have caused you. However, if they just go and make excuses for themselves, if they minimise or try to justify it, or if they tell you that you made them do it, you are done.'  *Hasta la vista, baby!

Now, I figured out the above by myself since quite a while now as an emotional mutilating relationship tends to teach you a thing or two (if one's willing), but isn't it a shame that we 'need to be taught' though?  The things stated above should be obvious to us but they aren't and I'll tell you WHY:

I cannot speak in the name of the guys who have been cheated on (I do see you, though) but as a girl I can only see how we females are being stripped of our inner lionness, our inner Goddess and our inner scholar as early as from the baby cot.

We grow up hearing, experiencing, that cheating is solely about beauty or more correctly: lack there of.  That we as women need to live up by a certain concept of beauty, exclusively invented and enforced by men.  That if we do not dress a kind of way, if we do not paint our faces with the 'mandatory' kind of colours or if our hair is not 'beauty standard' long, men will probably pass us by and have all the right in the world doing so.  Strong opinionated females are perceived unattractive, sois belle, tais toi.

Even my own woke ass, was lured into the trap of thinking that I was aesthetically insufficiant for my personality disordered ex boyfriend (needless to say he did not comply with the previously mentioned sine qua non).

We are not brought up to reflect upon how we maybe are part of the issue, or to think of how maybe the other is just an effing douche and we deserve way better than that.
We or drown in sorrow and/or pity ourselves as this is what we have seen around us and this is what we most of the times have been (sub)consciously learned.

Ladies, we do NOT have to undergo the disrespect of ANYONE, nor do we on the contrary need to point the finger at the other.

We need to take our power back.

We need to see how beautiful our smile is.
How stunning we are when we are showcasing kindness.
How radiant we are if we are doing what we love.
How attractive we are when we are standing our ground.
How knowledge is power.
How listening, travelling and reading are KEY.
How the first amendment should be: 'love thyself.'
How love comes back to you.  (Always.)
How love is the bridge between you and everything. (Also always.)
How one is like pineapple: some people can have it for breakfast, lunch and dinner and some can not even stand the smell of it but ain't nothing wrong with the yellow interior fruit.
How to leave the table when love is not (longer) being served (praise to Nina!) and just look for a more appreciative audience to sit by.

And most importantly: we need to teach our kids.

When my son asked me to pick the most beautiful kid from his class picture, I said to him: 'I'm sorry hon' but I cannot tell you who is the prettiest child as it is impossible to see on a photograph the beauty of one's heart'.

Look at that, turns out that one of my darkest hours made me see the brightest of stars.

Turns out that the whole time it was me being unfaithful to myself.

(A nice way for saying that I actually hate the cheating motherfucker but thank Mother God for the cheating motherfucker as the cheating motherfucker made me realise so much and made me change myself and I have never been happier so I absolutely LOVE the cheating motherfucker, I owe my life to the cheating motherfucker and so I can not keep on calling him a cheating motherfucker because I need to stay focused on the blessings the experience brought me.  (Addition inspired by my today-i-am-not-taking-any-crap friend: Sophie (love you).))

x

Esther Perel video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmiKAoAmYSg

Free at Last

Did anyone of you, my sweet kind readers, ever experienced being deeply and utterly in love with the potential of someone?

You meet this pure and golden soul and you really see through the ugly masquerade they have embellished themselves with?  Noticing that you spend all your time together trying to open their eyes and to try to let them tap into their inner beauty and strength?  No effort is spared to help them. You spend all your energy, your sacred and abundant energy, on them instead of yourselves, with the result that you leave behind your own healing, your own interests and even sometimes your own happiness.

But you go strong as thou shallt not fail.

Thou shallt convert this person and thou shallt open their eyes so help you Mother God, as if it is the last thing thou shallt do on this earth.

All this and than suddenly! It clicks!  The penny drops.  10kg loss of weight, 50 000 grey hairs extra and 2 years loss of youth later, the gong of truth is pulsating through your core and it's deafening.  No denying here!

They will never change.

They will never see.

They will never try to learn.

They will never ever try to understand.

As they do not seek to become better.

They seek this and only this: attention.

They thrive of your attention, devouring all vibrations from you untill there is nothing more left.
You get it.
You get it and it is the saddest feeling in the world but with this heartbreak also comes: (drum roll......................) freedom.
(Freeeeeeeedoooooooooooooooommmm, freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeedom, have some faith in the sound! (Thank you, George Michael!)).
As if the hugest boulder drops from your shoulders.  As if the shackles around your heart and mind are finally released.  

All this time and energy for yourself and you see wonders happening.
All this time and energy for yourself and it makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, the person never had any potential to begin with.

Maybe.  Just maybe.  It was yóu that needed help all along. 

x

Trials and Tribulations

Soooo.... every time that I would pass a milestone in my life I would feel like I failed at it again. 

Growing up I felt like my life, my purpose, was so much bigger than the life I saw people living around me.  So I adapted.  I dimmed my light.  I settled into the Matrix life, holding society's indoctrinations as my compass like below:

I thought I would reach succes when meeting my first boyfriend, I didn't.  

When my girl Britney became instafamous over wanting to be hit by her baby one more time, she was around my age rubbing it in (in my than mindset) that I was extremely incapable and clueless as I didn't have her succes by that same age.  Nope, you're eyes are not fooling you.  You are indeed correct. I REALLY just said that my 18 year old self held a celebs' instasucces as a criterion for my own self worth.    

I thought my life would begin after graduation.  It didn't.  That it would begin after I found a job and guess what?  It didn't.  That it would settle when my kids were born and it a.b.s.o.l.u.t.e.l.y. didn't.  

But what I never ever thought is that through standing still by each experience, by trying to learn from all the encountered hardships of life thusfar, that finally, I'm reaching inwards and I'm finding my core.  I'm rising from the ashes and guess what?  You better put on your safety goggles as my light will be BLINDING you now.

x

Liquid Love

Alles wat je aanraakt met liefde verandert in goud.

"You Are Liquid Love" las ik.  Het is zo.  We are liquid love.

x

Liefde

I knew I would get it some day.  I just knew it.  Some day though.  Not at that exact time but one sweet day.

I saw a documentary, I think it was about a year or two ago, about extremely talented background singers that just haven't made it into the spotlight.  Maybe it is just not their destiny.  Maybe they have far more interesting stuff to dedicate their lives and passions too.  Maybe, they have no greater destiny than that but are they here on earth to develop little knowledges about the sweetest littlest ordinary things.  I don't know.  But in this documentary they were interviewing a middle aged? woman, no make-up, short hair and were showing clips of her past history as a stunning, gorgeous background singer of The Stones.  I could not help thinking, why on earth did this woman let her looks go as much as she did.  Such an absolutely, blindingly beautiful woman was transformed over the years to an average looking, make-upless, short-hair-don't-care, not-so-size-six-anymore, looking human.  But somehow, I felt, that I could not judge her.  That one day I would see.  I would feel.  I would understand.  And I do now.  Today.

Having been transforming and rebuilding myself at 35, feeling the depths, the crevasses, the lows, the (rock) bottoms of the awakening of the illusions, the lies, the misenterpretations and all of it, I'm naked now.  Absolutely stripped of all the ornaments of the ideas I thought I was, I was told I was, I was lured into...  It's so freaking scary but at the same time it is so absoluty truthful.  All the fogs are disappearing and the views are so cristal clear as New Zealand gletcher waters (and as freezing as well).

I see this woman now, the background vocalist.  I see her knowing things, mermaiding in deep lakes in which I'm just only putting my pinky toe in.  I see her strength.  I see her scars.  I see her Phoenix-like features.  I see the woman who I am becoming.  A woman who's beauty lies in her wisdom and in her kindness.  In her ability to balance speaking up and letting things go on a daily basis.

I see our true beauty and ambition now.

(sorry voor het Engels maar ik ben gewoon gegaan met mijn gevoel vandaag, zoals je wel kan voelen aan de inhoud van de tekst en ik kan het jullie alleen maar aanraden! (niet het Engels, wel gaan met gevoel.) Namasté, liefjes allemaal!

x

Annus. Horribilis.

De Paradox

Schrijven is schrappen.

Ik wil niet schrappen vandaag en ik wil me ook niet druk maken over stijlfouten of over 'dt' fouten of wat voor schrijffouten dan ook. Ik wil niet duizend keer opzoeken en nalezen of wat ik geschreven heb wel correct is. 

Ik wil niet denken over iets.  Ik wil spreken vanuit mijn hart. Ik wil duizend zinnen na elkaar kunnen beginnen met 'Ik'.  Ik wil zinnen beginnen met 'Maar' of 'En' na een punt.

Ik wil zeggen dat ik een dégoût heb van het patriarchaat waarin we leven.  Waarin vrouwen worden aangevallen omdat ze een hoofddoek dragen of omdat ze een minirok aanhebben omdat men op heel de wereld, welke huidskleur, geloofsovertuiging of wat dan ook niet kan spreken over échte vrije keuze als elke vrouw ongeacht achtergrond of nationaliteit of geloof vanaf de wieg onbewust geïndoctrineerd wordt door archaïsche denkbeelden.  Ik haat de dominante en huichelende man maar tegelijkertijd houd ik van al zijn fysieke en psychische eigenschappen die hem man maken.  Ik haat de seksualisering van de vrouw maar tegelijkertijd houd ik van de macht dat dat ons geeft.  Ik haat religie want als er echt 1 universele kracht was dan zou die juist tegen alles zijn waar religie voor zorgt: verdeeldheid.  Alles is liefde.  Ik ben carrément tegen religie en vind langs de andere kant dat er ook wijsheden staan in zogenoemde 'Heilige Geschriften'.  Ik wil een punt maken maar vind mezelf dan ook weer zo'n wandelende paradox.

Ik haat het zo dat we elkaar allemaal veroordelen.  Heerlijk roddelend over anderen zodat we 5 seconden vergeten in welke shit we zelf amper nog kunnen rechtstaan. 

Ik wil er elke dag voor iedereen zijn en denk dan dat het misschien toch beter is dat ik eerst even voor mezelf zorg.  Ik wil schreeuwen tegen iedereen dat we moeten stoppen met gebalde vuisten tegenover elkaar te staan.  Ik wil schreeuwen dat we de handen in elkaar moeten slaan.  Ik wil op straat komen.  Maar ik zit thuis. 

De Mel zei dat een beschaving pas van buitenaf kan worden vernietigd als hij van binnenuit is ondermijnd en ik zie dit elke.fuckin'.dag.  Het maakt me gek.
En wat mij óók gek maakt is dat ik alsnog de tekst hierboven nagelezen heb, 1 woord gecorrigeerd en 2 anderen opgezocht heb ter spellingscontrole. 

x

De Verloedering

Wat een zálige afgelopen maanden.  

Wát een weer.  

Mijn hart bloedt voor onze planeet's global warming maar vanuit egoïstisch standpunt vind ik het héérlukkk!

Ideaal voor single mommies (dare I say... for ALL mommies?) want met deze tropische temperaturen beperkt onze dagelijkse ploetermama-versus-peuterpubers-oorlog zich maar tot het proberen aan te krijgen van 2 kledingstukken ipv 100 in de winter.  

In ons gezinnetje van drie hebben wij des winters eindeloze discussies over sokken, marcellekens, t-shirts, broeken, truien, jassen, handschoenen, sjaals en alsof dat dan nog niet genoeg is: over die G**VER***SE mutsen!!!!!!!
(Dan zwijg ik hier expres nog over de schoenen omdat ik geen lezers wens te traumatiseren.)
Vaak word ik in mijn veldslag dan nog onderbroken ook omdat ze het plots in hun ster krijgen en ze het zelf willen doen.  Met 1 voet al uit de deur (want we moesten wééral 10 minuten geleden vertrokken zijn) moet ik binnen een paar nanoseconden beslissen: laat ik ze naar school gaan als Bassie en Adriaan of riskeer ik acute haaruitval en probeer ik alsnog die achterstevoren trui en die binnenstebuiten broek te corrigeren.

Winter for kids... sooooo extra. (Zucht.)

Even terug naar onze 'héérlukkke' zomer.
Hippiecultuursgewijs durven wij in deze smeltende hitte nogal eens naakt rond te lopen thuis.
Twee paar zachtroze billekens en 1 paar verflenste borstjes.
(Niet alleen lichamelijk maar eens je mama bent gaan er nog andere dingen ook op achteruit vind ik.  Ogen en vriendschappen verwateren en op romantisch vlak... mja, laten we zeggen dat de tijden dat ik de nagels uit een plank zoog ook lang verleden zijn.)
Pagadder Nummer 1 was de effecten van Moedertje Tijd (#SmashThePatriarchy) op mijn corpus ook niet ontgaan en vroeg ontsteld:  'Mama, waarom hangen uw borstjes zo een beetje? Waarom staan die niet mooi recht?'
Lap. Pets! Recht in mijne face.
Olympisch kampioen ondertussen in Uzelf Sito Presto Bijeenrapen zei ik rustig tegen mijn hartendiefken:
'Awel hé, mijn lieveling, dat komt door de tijd.  Hoe ouder een vrouw wordt, hoe meer de borstjes richting navel groeien.  Maar weet je wat?  Hoe oud ik ook word en hoe erg mijn tepeltjes ook richting vloer beginnen te kijken, ik zal wel altijd 30 jaar wijzer zijn dan jou.'  Love you!

x

It's Britney. Again!

"Elke dag is een dag vol nieuwe ontmoetingen." 

Dat zegt Louise.  Louise is dood maar haar affirmaties springlevend.  ("21 days to a new you!')  Ze is mijn goeroe, mijn rots, mijn baken.  Louise's wil is mijn wet dus ontmoetingen it is en wat een ontmoeting it was vandaag.    

Volledig uitgedost in mijn Ma Flodder outfit (comme d'habitude wanneer je je al anderhalve maand in de loopgraven van de vakantie bevindt met 2 schoolvrije kwiestenbiebelkes.  Allee ja, ik lieg, het is eigenlijk: comme d'habitude tout court als dishevelled (gehavend met een ragebol) mom of two (zie foto hier beneden van soortgelijke outfit en uitstraling) liep ik samen met twee overenthousiaste kleuters in de winkel een oude kennis tegen het lijf.  

"Oe ist?" Vroeg ik.  "Goe ze, oe ist mi u?" vroeg hij.  "Oek goe, mor kzin wa moe." antwoordde ik. Waarop het kwam.  

Hét.  

De horror.  

Het vreselijkste. 

De geluidsgolven geworden terreur. 

Pietje dood voor het zelfvertrouwen van de ploetermoeder. 

De gaskamer voor de Venus in de vrouw.  

Toen kwam de zin........................."Ik zie het."

Toen kwamen de woorden: Ik/Zie/Het.

OK, ik weet het, honesty is the best policy but like... REALLY, DUDE??? Nochtans heeft hij toch ook twee kleintjes dus ik probeerde hem uit te leggen dat ik alleenstaande mama ben, dat ik al anderhalve maand diep in de vakantie oorlog zat, dat men in Brussel reeds begonnen was aan 'Het Graf Van De Onbekende Moeder' maar het mocht niet baten.  De Blik van Onbegrip was oorverdovend. 

(Het is ook wel mogelijk dat hij me niet goed verstond omdat ik tijdens het gesprek krampachtig mijn bovenste tanden wou verbergen door middel van spastische bewegingen met mijn bovenlip omdat er tussen mijn tanden waarschijnlijk nog resten Elsa en Olaf kippenworst zaten.)

Soit, ik voelde me dus weer de vreemde eend in de bijt.  De moeder die het weer allemaal niet aankan.  De fragiele deerne die ook eens iets moet doen.  De pijn van het onzichtbare brandijzer ' unfit mom' dat mijn vlees verbrandt. 

Allee ja, ik heb mezelf dan maar weer samengeraapt gelijk ne mens zich zoveel moet samenrapen, n'est-ce pas?  En ik heb mezelf maar weer bijeen gepuzzeld voor de kindjes (alles en altijd voor de kindjes), afscheid genomen van de kennis en na de boodschappen voortsgetrokken naar de binnenspeeltuin (again, alles en altijd voor de kindjes) waar we 10 minuten en 20 Euro later al konden vertrekken omdat Hartendief Nummer 1 met de onophoudelijke racekak zat. 

Just another ordinary day in another ordinary life of another ordinary mater (not so) sapiens (sometimes).

x

Arrivederci

Mijn vriendin citeerde Sophia Loren: 'A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.'

Sómmige mannen vinden dat nogal moeilijk te begrijpen.  'Dat kan écht geen kwaad hoor als ik maar af en toe eens langskom voor de kindjes.' 

Hon', let's get one thing straight, seks met jou might be OK maar enkel en alleen de idee van stabiliteit voor mijn kindjes doet me pas écht van mijn stoel glijden. 

Arrivederci.

It's Britney, Bitch!

Het contrast tussen de stukken die ik op mijn blog post is groot.  Heel groot.  Je sais.  Maar ik ben hier niet om te conformeren.  (Voelt u zich vooral vrij om ‘hier’ een zeer brede betekenis toe te schrijven, dank.)

Soms lijk ik wel een Ace Ventura (pet detective, pleased to meet you) onder invloed van LSD (figure of speech) en lijkt alles kauwgomroze en voel ik me high als a motherfucking kite. 

Sta ik te dansen voor de spiegel (it’s Britney, Bitch!) in mijn net bestelde Zalando Lounge niemandalletjes (hoewel de gelegenheden die vragen naar doorschijnende crop tops met 2 fuchsia flamingo’s die net de tepels bedekken en kniehoge stiletto’s toch uitblijven precies…) en sta ik in diezelfde outfit receptjes te verzinnen en uit te voeren voor gezonde kinderijsjes die de hartendieven dan later niet willen opeten omdat ze vinden dat het net stront op een stokje is.  Al dit terwijl ik mezelf ondertussen Kate Moss waan (waarom nog niemand mij ontdekt heeft zeg je? I know!) en denk groter literair potentieel te hebben dan Hugo Claus. 

Om dan, nog geen vierentwintig uur later, me dezelfde Britney te voelen maar dan de kaalgeschoren versie.

Jeff Buckley bij wie het water al tot aan de lippen staat.

De Hunchback of Nôtre Dame (wat niet eens vergezocht is met het vetkussentje rond mijn uitstekende rugwervel). 

Joan Didion toen ze schrijven een volledig irrelevante handeling vond.

Het leven is niet zwart of wit (of links of rechts, Johnny ;) het leven en hoe we soms denken en hoe we ons soms voelen is gewoon zoals het is. 

Zoals het is, zoals het komt en zoals het gaat.

Don’t conform, do accept.

x

I Reverse The Curse

Er zijn mensen die van je houden en er zijn mensen die niet van je houden.  Niets van dit alles heeft te maken met jou.  

Mensen kunnen enkel geven wat er in hen zit.  Als er niets in hen zit is er niets om te geven. 

Onze materiële zaken zijn ons zo kostbaar en toch gaan we zo nonchalant om met datgene wat ons belangrijkste bezit zou horen te zijn: onze geest.  Eigenlijk is de waarheid niet van belang.  Wat telt is de waarheid die we onszelf inprenten.  Wees en je zal worden. 

Ik ben niet veroordeeld door een rechtbank en toch zit ik gevangen.  Ik sta in een open veld en toch staan er tralies rondom mij. 

Ik sliep maar word wakker nu.
Ik zag blauw maar vind mijn adem nu.
Ik was verdoofd maar ik heb een dochter nu.

Black Hole

Ooit las ik in de krant.  Een verhaal.  Uiteraard een verhaal.  De media staat vol verhalen.  Het verhaal ging over een man die samen met zijn vrouw buiten aan het eten was.  Plots viel daar op de tafel, net tussen hen in, een enorm ijsblok.  Yeps.  Legit.  Afkomstig van een overvliegend vliegtuig.  

Dit gebeurt namelijk ziet u.  Ik zal u ook verklaren waarom.  Tenminste, ‘wetenschap.infonu.nl’ verklaart u waarom: ‘Een vliegtuig dat fungeert als één groot vrieskern kan tijdens de vlucht in een wolk miljoenen onderkoelde waterdruppeltjes invangen zodat op bijv. de voorzijde van vleugels een dikke laag ijs kan ontstaan. In de luchtvaart wordt vaker de term icing gebruikt.’  Stukken van deze laag kunnen in vlucht verloren worden (dit ben ik weer) al is dit eerder uitzonderlijk (zei men op het nieuws).

Je suis het verhaal hierboven.  Je suis de man.  Je suis de vrouw.  Je suis de tafel.  En alles wat me meesleurt, alle donkerte, alle littekens, alle messen die mijn vlees verscheuren, vormen het ijsblok.  Net zoals in het verhaal aanwezig om me soms te verpletteren zoals het de tafel deed of om op een haar na mijn cellenkluster te missen zoals het de man en de vrouw deed, om me al smeltende met zijn walgelijke en genoegzame blik te verzekeren dat het er is.  
Dat het er is en dat het nergens naartoe gaat.  Dat het er is en dat het me zal sparen.  Dat het er is en dat het me zal breken als een twijgje onder de reus zijn voet. 

Some Genuine Mother Hustling

Allerheiligen. Volgens (het oh zo betrouwbare) Wikipedia: ”een christelijk feest dat op 1 november valt en gevierd wordt onder Rooms-Katholieken en Anglicanen”.  In een notendop: AlleWinkelsGesloten. 

Ik stond nochtans die zondag daarvoor, 31 oktober ook in de Albert Heijn omdat ik niets meer in huis had voor Hartendief Nummer 1 en Hartendief Nummer 2 voor de komende schoolweek.  s’ Avonds SMSte een vriendin of ik het ook zo moeilijk had gehad opvang te vinden voor de herfstvakantie. Owkaaayyy....

Gelukkig heb ik een onthaalmoeder uit de duizend en konden mijn kindjes zonder probleem bij haar terecht.  Maandagavond, toen ik de de hartendiefjes ging ophalen en ik haar bedankte zei ze wel dat de kindjes moe waren, ‘ah ja’ zei ze, ‘met dat winteruur’.  Ge gaat het dus echt niet geloven maar ook dát was mij ontgaan.  Ik dacht ‘allee, waarom heeft niemand dat gezegd op het werk dat ik een uur te laat was???’ maar ik was blijkbaar op tijd omdat alle electronica thuis zich automatisch aangepast hadden.  Chanceken.  *gebaardzweetvanvoorhoofdwrijvend

OK, terug naar woensdag.  1 november.  Ik werk niet op woensdag dus Gatenkaas Brein over here had uiteraard niet door dat het een feestdag was.  De AlleWinkelsGesloten dag.  Mijn vriendin geeft een housewarming en alle winkels zijn gesloten… Ui-te-raard.  Uiteraard.  Uiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiteeeeeeeeeeraaaaaard!

Maar kom, wie zoals Guy Pearce in Memento is, moet creatief zijn.  Gelukkig was ik de avond ervoor, bij het naar huis gaan, in de lift tegen een collega met een doos verse eieren gebotst, om 17u36.  Making conversation met als easy picked topic: De Verse Eieren, stapte ik om 17u37 met 4 eieren in de hand de lift uit: koekjes bakken it was! 

Ik had nog een receptje in mijn hoofd van regenbooghartkoekjes die ik ooit eens voor de kindjes had proberen bakken, mijn graslelies (naam net opgezocht op google *bloos) hadden verschillende baby’tjes hangen én ik had nog 2 bloempotjes in de berging staan met potgrond.   (Mislukte) koekjes en verpotte babyplantjes, ideaal housewarming geschenk, niet?

In bijlage de foto en voor iedereen die denkt dat ik de next, most annoying, ‘look at me I’m so crafty’ soccer mom ben, ook een foto van hoe regenbooghartkoekjes en verpotte plantjes er normaal zouden moeten uitzien.  De enigste voor wie de koekjes wel perfect voldeden was mijn zoontje: ‘waauw mama, die koekjes zijn echt zoals hun naam: ze hebben alle kleuren van de regenboog en zijn super harD. RegenboogharDkoekjes!’