Claiming land.

As my romanticist soul needed fodder I decided to avoid the capital this weekend and spend my time in the countryside; walk in a fairytale forest, fall asleep to the sound of birds and bumblebees and wake up with a bad conscience for getting up way too late to really make use of the spring morning. To repent my horrible sin of sleeping in I took the decision sometime after lunch to crawl up into a flowerbed and dig my fingers deep into the dark dirt. Half nude in the sunshine I encountered plants, worms, centipedes and a thousand yellow ants. As time in the flowerbed went by, I felt the boost of making difference. The difference consisted of me tearing apart homes, exposing roots and insects to the scorching sun and meting out punishment for the plants I found to be weeds and making room for the ones I considered flowers. I felt the omnipotence of my sheer fingerwork and I smiled to myself, excited by my recklessness, feeling the gentle pressure of dirt under my nails, carressing the lovemarks I had inflicted on the ground and despising the weakness of the weed plants spread out around me at an arm's length.

Naturally, the humanist in me is ashamed and frightened. Which only makes the satisfaction more intense.

Lord Henry OK'd it, once again.

Perhaps DIKT:APRIL was doomed to fail from the very start. Instead of sitting alone typing nonsensical words in sheer desperation, we decided to come together last week and create life poetry in the form of sunshine, people's beer and boffer sword production. This collective dream state went on for some days and in the meantime, DIKT:APRIL vanished like volcanic ash in the wind. And we would all rejoice, put on our most picturesque outfits and start thinking about future beautiful failed projects to come.

The only artists I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.

Lord Henry, in “The Picture of Dorian Gray” by Oscar Wilde

I was six months old, speaking in tongues in the local missionary church to an audience in awe, when suddenly…

Someone pointed out that listening to a baby gurgling couldn’t possibly be considered divine. And that was the end of that career.

Howdy! I’m experiencing something of a spring break from the supposedly wondrous world of developmental psychology (babies!) and have thus taken refuge in the countryside. The soothing spring air will cleanse my mind and the crystal clear sunshine will burn away what stains I have gathered in sin. The euphoria of this last weekend is taking its backlashing toll in the form of melancholy. Oh, woe! There is nothing to do but wait and possibly gluttonize. Everything has a shade of black to it and everyone is looking at me with pity. And I’m looking back in fear.

All the goldfish in the garden pond are dead. It appears they drowned and ended up deep-frozen within a solid layer of ice. And now they’re millimeters away from reaching air and the possibility to rot. That’s the thing about spring. It’s such a dramatic process, this restarting thing we’re doing. Old presumptions and dirty secrets suddenly have nowhere to hide and are forced to stand, bent down, in an unforgiving, dazzling sunshine. It’s not like we have a damn choice. If we want to restart and get renewed life, we have to encounter the stale and the old and the stinking. Like making that unpleasant phonecall so that you can move on. Or cleaning your room in order to get your candy. That’s spring for you. Together, of course, with brand new clothes in bright fucking colors. No wonder people get anguished and depressed.

Me, I’m not depressed at all. I just need some well-deserved cocooning. Weeklong. Planning on pondering upon whether I’m more of a sociopath or a socioholic. Might settle for sociorexic. And daddy promised to remove the fish. Only a couple of millimeters now…