Monday, 26 December 2011

Frozen Planet

BBC is the most awesome tv program existent in this time of age. That goes without discussion. It is true, it is factual. This collection of tv series, is by far the most spectacular of all. It makes me realize how magical nature is. The way it moves, the sounds it makes, the animals that live off of it. It makes me - and I have had more moments like this in life, fading away with time - want to do things for this world. Show Mother Nature how much I appreciate her nurturing.

Tuesday, 20 December 2011

Lieveheersbeestjes met jurkjes aan.

Van die meisjes die alleen met jongens praten, omdat meisjes niet interessant genoeg zijn. Van die meisjes die interessant proberen te doen terwijl ze heel goed weten dat de meisjes die niet zo doen, juist degenen zijn die interessant zijn. Die jurkjes die net onder de ronding van hun bips verdwijnt, zodat ze net niet 'all too revealing' zijn. Die jurkjes die zo leuk omhoog waaien boven de metro's, bij die roosters.. waar vieze maar wel warme lucht uit komt dwarrelen. Die wimpers, zo lang zo nep en zo geplamuurd. Die wimpers, zo kort en zo natuurlijk, zo heerlijk knipperend als ze haar ogen sluit bij het slaken van een gaap. Die lieveheersbeestjes, die op de meest onverwachte plekken verschijnen, omdat ze mysterieus en stiekem zijn. Ze hebben iets weg van het magische. Daar heb ik vandaag een tentamen over geschreven. Ik sloeg heel vraag 6 over, zonde. De tijd was op. De wijzers op de 11 en de 12.

Mijn nagels zijn nog zilver, morgen maar even eraf halen.

Wazzup, whitey?

Okey, so I want to start a new subject. A subject that keeps on popping up everyday and it makes me wonder, why is it that hundreds of years after the Colonization and Slavery, people still feel the need to bring it up every time the word 'nigga' shows up? Of course, and I agree, a dark past hides behind that word. A past that should have never taken place for starters. But it's rather contradictory when rappers, specifically Negro's but also white ones, constantly address people with the term 'nigga' whilst they feel offended when someone else refers to them as 'nigga'. A friend of mine, partially Caribbean, keeps calling his friends 'nigga' and they do this back as well. He listens to rap music everyday, in which this word is repeatedly mentioned. Yet when I jokingly call him 'nigga' in a conversation, not even meant in a  serious manner, he is completely on his guard and tries to explain to me why this is so offensive. I KNOW why this word has an offensive connotation and I KNOW why white people aren't supposed to refer to black people as 'nigga's' because it is those white people that once mistreated slaves. I would however like to emphasize on one word: ONCE. This term means that somewhere in the past, something happened. Which does not lie in the present. 'Nigga' is now used in a casual urban speaking manner, and not at all meant offensive - ignoring those people who do mean it this way (e.g. redheads, KKK). Then how come, when I use this word in reference to someone else, do I get attacked with gruesome factual information? It is not like white people feel offended when they are being referred to as being 'white'. I have never heard someone call me 'light-skinned', just like I rarely call other people 'dark-skinned'. I would like to stop this war of segregation, this misunderstanding, between people from the 21st generation - adolescents who are not at all connected with the history of Slavery. And if this is too hard, let's start inserting the term 'whitey' as if it were a harsh and offensive word. Let's see how stupefied the 'nigga's' react to our being offended by this word.

Oh and by the way... 'Nigga' simply refers to 'Niger', the Latin word for 'black'. Just like 'whitey' refers to 'white'. So let's just not be offended by this word any longer, or just stop calling me a white person then!

Monday, 19 December 2011

Gespleten haarpunten.

Gespleten haarpunten uit elkaar halen; mijn meest bizarre hobby ooit. Wie had kunnen bedenken dat iets dat zo tergend slecht voor je haar is, zo verslavend kan zijn? Zelfs dit kan zich boeiender voordoen dan mijn literatuurgeschiedenis boek, die zich voor mij zetelt op mijn bureau. Het kijkt me intrigerend doch ongeïnteresseerd aan. Ongelooflijk dat dit werk iemands' levenswerk kan zijn. Nu al volgekrast met potloodstrepen, penstrepen en highlight markeringen tot in den verdoemenis. Er zijn zo veel dingen die interessant lijken als er geleerd moet worden voor een tentamen. Ik kan wel uren blijven staren naar mijn marker zonder dop die net niet synchroon ligt met het blaadje eronder. Het dopje dat niet parallel ligt aan de stift. Mijn mandarijnen, appel en banaan die gebundeld bij elkaar liggen in een minuscuul schaaltje. Wanhopige poging tot het leiden van een gezond leven, ondanks het feit dat ik een student ben. Studenten hebben geen gezondheid, geen grenzen, geen waarde. Leren en feesten. Toch probeer ik het tegendeel te bewijzen. Tegenstrijdig met de blaadjes die met de dag weer van mijn levenloze boompje af dwarrelen. De gezondheid van mijn boom gaat mijn belangen te boven.

Wednesday, 14 December 2011

We make such a good book together, then why won't you let the chapters continue?

Eyes wide open

So this is the end of the story
Everything we had, everything we did
Is buried in dust
And this dust is all that's left of us
And only a few ever worried

While the signs will clear

They have no idea
You just get used to living in fear
Or give up
When you can't even picture your future

We walk the plank with our eyes wide open

- Gotye

Sometimes moments, things, feelings can suck so badly, suck you in so deeply.. to such an extent that in the end you have a smile on your face and realize you can be more than happy without all of the above. And I am. Happy. Just not always, and only at moments being happy is useless. I want it to stay forever, cause it liberates me from everything I don't want to feel.

Monday, 12 December 2011

What is the use of coasters if you first put your glass on your desk, and then on your coaster?

La Ritournelle.

Mr. Tillier can give me goosebumps. Let them pop out of my skin and crawl down my back, down my spine, across my waist and back up to my arms. Let them dance around and spin in flawless circles. Jump in the air of the environment surrounding my arms, the safe particles of my existence. Music is like magic, it's like love. It can make you feel things you have never felt before, forget things you do not want to remember anymore, make you shout with anger till your throat goes sore. I would like to spin around in circles like my goosebumps do. Be a bumpy, miniscular particle living the mere existence of something unnoticed, ignored yet omni-present. I want to know how it feels like not to feel, remember, want things I would rather not. Want. To. I look into the balling of my desklight, I can see the reflection of a face I call mine. Lips I call mine, yet partially from a lipstick who's name I cannot remember, with the single digits 4 7 1. My eyes are black, yet not really, because they are half brown, half greenish. My hair is not my own, it is that of the store I bought the hair paint in. I am not myself, although actually I really am. Because without the part that's beneath my skin, all these fake realities would be non-existent. Just like the imaginary thought that goosebumps can dance.

Saturday, 10 December 2011

And I've been a fool and I've been blind. I can never leave the past behind.

I can see no way, I can see no way. I'm always dragging that horse around.  And our love is pastured such a mournful sound. Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground. So I like to keep my issues strong. But it's always darkest before the dawn.

Friday, 9 December 2011

I'll never let this go. But I can't find the words to tell you. That now I feel like I don't know you.

-wow, speaking of a flawless translation of how I feel right now.


In about half an hour I'll be at SSR for an admission. These things make me so nervous because I have to prove myself to somebody I don't know, somebody who doesn't know me. As I am. Looking at my blackberry phone, seeing the red light flickering. I wonder what it is, but I am to anxious to take a look. The apple lying in the left corner of my - yet not really 'my' - desk. It has an ugly spot. An imperfection. Giving me enough reason to drop it into my dustbin tomorrow. I can't wait for Christmas to finally begin. Warmth, candlelight, family and good food. Maybe, just maybe, also a few presents if I'm lucky :) First I have three essays and three exams to finish. Busy busy busy, yet so inactive at this moment. My head wants to do things my agenda doesn't permit me to. "Here we go again," repeating the words sung by Miss Hayley Williams. I haven't listened to Paramore in too long. Probably because of the emotional connection I have with the lyrics. And probably because of the time I listened to these songs most; that's the time I want to forget. Suppress. Ok, I'm leaving in ten minutes. Let's take a breather before I dive into the unknown, like I always do.

Letting go.

Some things are there to be enjoyed while spent, and forgotten when ended. I hate endings. I hate having to be over things when I will never be ready. Things that used to be so beautiful and magic, still existent in my mind, have to remain this way. Why didn't I realize and appreciate my luck while I had it? I don't want to wait anymore. I want it back. The way it used to be. I let go of you, I did that myself. Then why am I the one to suffer? I let you go so many times I've lost count. Starting over again everytime our eyes meet.

Wednesday, 7 December 2011

Can I have you back?

Can I have just a little piece of you. Maybe your ear? Or your lips? Or your chest? Your leg maybe? And then maybe your hair... god I love your hair. Can I have your eyes, make them look into mine. Make them see what I want them to see. Feel the love radiating away from me. Could I paint you that picture? Swush the brush across the paper and make you see me, again? For the third time. Is that possible? Could I paint your arms intertwined with mine, and make them stay. I want them to stay around me, where they should be. They never should've been intertwined with someone other's. Why can't you see that? Without me, you aren't complete, as neither I am without you. I want you to read my letter. Make you care for me. Like you do. You have to.

Monday, 5 December 2011


That's probably a thought that crosses your mind when I talk to you once again. When I take initiative once again. When I am afraid I am going to lose you to another girl again. Every time I say something to you, it's a complaint in one way or the other. I don't want to keep crawling back to you...