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.

Alive 31/1

I am. But it’s not a particularly glamorous life. Today I deep-fried an enormous amount of food and fed until I felt sick. Then I accidentally fell on my dog, who squealed, but she survived. Then I took a hit at an innocent-looking spruce, pricked my fingers on the deep-frozen needles and left blood marks in the snow. Also, it appears I haven't taken a shower since last Thursday.

Anyone else feeling alive?

In walked a jelly fish

It’s been concluded that The B-52’s Rock Lobster is one of the best dance songs ever. It’s obvious that croquet must be a game best played in a manner of war, if ever. It’s clear that Billy Zane as The Phantom is the gayest superhero ever.


And finally, children, trained to move like insects. Are they terrorists?

Oddball update (tediously refreshing or refreshingly tedious?)

Today I thought I wanted to go out, drink large amounts of alcohol and dance my brains out. But as the Ape was out of money and tiny doesn’t do too well in public (for all the best reasons) the Oddballs spent their Saturday night indoors, almost sober.

One would fear that the night was only that – cocooned and dry. But nay! The Ape had brought her “bag of tricks” containing this:

a large bottle of flat Coca Cola,
a deck of cards,
a book on fortune-telling,
a Vampire erotica-film,
a bag of popped corn
and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon with a label featuring Elvis.

All this, together with tiny’s wearing make-up, a dress and high heels, made it a great night. We never tasted the wine, but the presence of the King was obviously enough for us to start tell me fortunes (I'm getting married soon), eat thousands of popcorns, dance like freaks and then finally plunge into the gory but subtle erotica of The Living Dead Girl. A subtlety that naturally anticipated dissection and explicitness in this outspoken guild of Odds.

Harold Pinter OK'd it.

And all our dead and all their dead friends know
We have no gifts for lying low,
No gift at all for doing so.
The test they set you will not go.
It is the legacy that they bestow,
The failing of the doing so.