10VI1999/02.24 still ouaga a night with nothing to tell...i am sitting on my bed -as much buddha as i can be- back against the wall. computer on the ground at the other side of the mousquitonet; keyboard next to my pillow. the flat light of one unveiled bulb plays with the shadows of the waving net. the perpetuum mobile of the cracking ven steals hot air from the other side of the window cricketnight. but my head is occupied by the tiresome face of our megaprocessor. dull bits and bytes. square ey- es...blue screen, keyframe, moving path...too many possibili- ties and too little idea. fleeing the continuous buzz. breat- hing real air for a moment to return to the endless aircondi- tioned rendering afterwards. but there's progress, we advance.


er zit een man te denken op de tafel aan mijn raam

vreselijk diep gebogen handen in zijn kale haar

hij staart naar zijn platte zwarte voeten

naar de overpeinzingen [in het zwarte ijzer van zijn romp geslagen]

rodin zwijgt aan de oevers van deze vuilnisbelt -zijn afgeronde marmeren gedachten verstommen-

en een smid hamert met bezwete slagen uit een lompe ouwe as de denker met mijn vragen

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- [from a letter] i wonder once more how the pleasures of reading can be so profound without having tangible impact on the the realm of this earth. it enriches so much and seems to pull up, but something keeps telling me that it's unreal and therefore a lie and a waste. but i am sure it is not. although its value doesn't exist in the capability to change the world [yes, i believe it can change things, but robin williams speaks truly wise words in the conversation in the parc in `good will hunting', it is true that none of the greatest men of letters will be able to really convey the pain of loosing your loved one to the black death of cancer [or the joy of complete moments, oneness with GOD], fragments of deep understanding with the one next to you, the real joy and pain of love...not with words, not with literature]...oh yes i might cry reading tolstoj and be enchanted reading wilde, but it is not like the real, raw life.

still this destilation of reality is the only way to hang on to it for me. to dig with intensity, because of the density and extremely wide perspective of the created life on paper. and these realities don't bite. paper pulls up life, and life deepens words.

so can we really know and get to know through this medium [i.e. e-mail]? NO. it transports fragments of the whole. it is real but not reality. but that's ok because it's like that everywhere, through every medium, for there's no perfect transmission on this earth, everything is distorted by fear, pride and the insuffiency of language. it is in fact a miracle that people do understand eachother at all. with all the hidden intensions and subconscious omissions. it is by the grace of GOD that we are able to fight this greyness and that we CAN know CAN love although within the borders of our finite beings.

so i hang on to the paper and to the words, for there is love and therefore joy. and i pray that our FATHER will continue to pull up our hearts, for the lightness is not unbearable. it's the darkness that can make our foresight lustreless...the fear. freedom is not to be feared. yes it is uncomprehensible. and that is great. the horizon doesn't end. the universe is expanding for ever and ever. and we will know the way. yes i am lost now and then but i am always found. i embrace the endless combinations of possibilty [also within restriction]. very special to be able to catch a flight to every corner of the world within a couple of hours...and to stay where i am, because it is good.

so that's all [and much too much] about the head and it's contents.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- a dear friend sent me a kerouac-fragment from the great `on the road' experience. another mad friend & musician has written me a letter to tell that we will soon be together on the road again to dig west africa [hopefully from the perspective of a citroën 2-CV window]

"They rushed down the streets together, digging everything in the early way they had, which later became so much sadder and perspective and blank. But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I have been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of anything and everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes `Awww!' " [jack kerouac; On the Road]