A sits at a long library table in cafe The Years on the Amstel river at the Kloveniersburgwal, light brightens the cafe’s back through the large windows, while A makes notes. He is trying to remember impressions from his youth, but has trouble determining the truthfulnesss of his memories. The sun’s strong beams blinds A as he squeezes his eye lids together to read his notes over, but barely able to distinguish the words on the white paper. The refraction of the light to green and red, brings back visions of his childhood on the countryside.

As his pupils slowly adjust, A notices a girl B’s silhouette stepping into the blinding nimbus of light. When he opens his eyes again, she too being half imagination half real, walking out of his past into his present, he stares at her sitting down next to him at the table.

B: Sorry, you mind? she points at the newspaper that lays folded on the table.
A: Oh of course not, go ahead.

A leans over to his notebook again and writes a memory of his mother down. He hears B’s voice whisper tender thoughts to his mother. The waitress brings a coffee for B.

B: thanks.

A, somewhat disquiet, leaves the cafe and saunters past the canals, the passers-by. He ponders about the people with whom he has nothing in common, on the surface water he sees the broken reflection of his shadow.

My memories were vague and even the rare moments that I could bring to mind seemed uncertain. They were dreamlike certainties, not more real than any memory perhaps, but I could not even be certain of my own. There was nothing to establish beyond doubt that the bike, which I had found laying in the front yard of the villa was mine. There was no indication how it had gotten there, if it was mine. I had been cycling through Limbricht on my way home around 3 in the morning one moment. The other moment I was walking through the grain fields toward Guttecoven.
There was no reason to know that the bike, which I saw standing upside down on the little field of grass, which I used to sharpen the dried clumps of clay into diamond shaped forms by pressing them against the spinning rubber of the rear wheel, was mine.
What was real, what was a distortion, what was false? What was ‘Dichtung’ and what was ‘Wahrheit’ in my life?

Not that it mattered of course, rationally, when I thought about it. The force of the impression remained as strong, regardless of the source. But still, there remained this original desire for authenticity. I believed it to matter in some way. Was the bicycle red? Green perhaps? I tried to bring back to life the colors. Against the black background of my inner eye lids, brightened by orange white flashes of light penetrating my eye’s cones and rods. It did not help, but red seemed more probable for a child’s bike. But maybe already as a child that would make it more likely for me having chosen the green bike.

As a child I had always felt different from other children already. I was a special child, unlike everyone else, there was something special about me. In third grade my teacher said my name meant ‘being famous’, although I later found out that it meant ‘black raven’ instead, but at the time i wholeheartedly believed in this proclamation of fate, a destiny that seemed obvious to. In another memory from fourth grade, my teacher Truus had mica black, long curly hair, or perhaps it had been short and wavy. I couldn’t determine if she was wearing glasses or not. She called me before class, took my hand and guided me to the open door separating our classroom from the sixth grade classroom, which she was overseeing in the ebsence of their teacher. The children, two years my seniors, were doing calculations. I was asked to finish the sum on the black board, which I did, before under the noise of a giggling class, was sent back to my desk. My brother who went to sixth grade later told me I was called in to show one of their pupils who didnt get the sum’s solution that even a fourth grader understood it. Although I now think the incident was a cruel example of an incompetent Catholic pedagogic system, at the time given the limitation of a child’s mind, I felt proud.

As an adolescent, I understood that being special was simply the effect of being loved by one’s parents as a child, but the feeling was imprinted and remained as evident as before, and proof of being special as before.

Ashes to Ashes

the Atlantic is not that romantic
instead, scatter me in the Pacific
a lake?
what is nice about a lake?
well, the fresh cold springs of course
but you will be dead no?
i will be there for the people left behind
it is for them that I die

—

Thomas Wolfe

He left pages on his desk
while he wandered, paced around his room
until the scene got to him like a mad dog
he would jump to it
and pencil the vision down
maniacally

after his death
a pile of papers was found on his desk
they published them
it made him instantly famous

—

He felt a rare fire in his bowls. The paintings by D.H. Lawrence are not very erotic, are they? I mean, not very racy.

—

cheesy little picky songs

—

I cut myself a piece of mooncheese.

—

pushing up the mountain
rolling down the hill

—

Harlem Renaissance
Langston Hughes should have been the Laureate, cause he has more rhythm, since he is black.

—

chicken on pizza

—

don’t give me those toy eyes

—

I left the vagina in my other pants.

—

Without being pretentiously stupid, you gotta backup!

—

Chicken Leg Lady

chicken leg lady on the B46
sucking on my chicken leg, lady
on the B46
your fat black hand,
groping down my pants
deep in the brown paper bag beside you
your thick red sucky lips

chicken leg
chicken leg lady

commentary:
you’re making a racist song
you’re not supposed to mention
chicken legs or water melon

—

hey hey we’re not a pretty nation
you’re down and out
down and out
down and out
hey hey we’re a lustful nation
you’re in and out
in and out
in and out

oh for fuck’s sake

Looking for fun [mp3 rough recording]

hey little darling – what you need
is a man like me – to set you free
love is blind – don’t you see
don’t stay alone – come home with me

[chorus]
my heart is burning like a smoking gun
smoke to fire and looking for fun

i’m all down – for your black eyes
black as the night – in which you cry
don’t be afraid – it’s all right
before you die – give me a try

you smile so sweet – you talk so bald
walking so hot – look so cold
why keep back – let your self go
i will take – what you with hold

we just started – and we got all day
lay down here – i will show the way
i love you true – now don’t delay
love don’t last – more than a day

Leonard -2.5 laps around baseball park – 4+0.5+3.5 – Leonard
T0:30:19

- Economy Spells Trouble for Leading Party in Japan (nytimes.com)
- Justifying a Costly War in Sri Lanka (nytimes.com)

- Watermelon (whfoods.com)
- Watermelon, In-depth nutrient analysis (whfoods.com)

weight: 197.5 lbs, 89.5 kg
bmi: 24.7

Leonard -1.5 laps around baseball park – 3.5+0.5+2.5+0.5+2 – Leonard
T0:32:10

- Interdiction du tabac en Turquie : la victoire posthume du sultan Murad IV (lemonde.fr)

mini manga, 2009#1, never a loner with a boner, story about the imagination in the realm of reality.