Some random-ness I did not want to keep from you....much to your utter regret

Cross-drinking trough England

On the 10th day of drinking my liver said to me;
Red wine for Shakespeare
Brown Ale in Oxford
Lager in London
Bath water idyll
Kiiiing's, Lions, Laaambs
Four different towns
Three transfers
To t'Netherlands
So thanks England for the Par-teeee

Bedtime

the sleep is creeping, steady dipping

into pools of drying eyes

I've been keeping lids low drooping 

open, really not too wise

Winter Musings

Mulled wine, mulled wine,
Insisting on teasing me so
Over the tongue, down the gul-let
Setting my tummy aglow.

Mulled wine, mulled wine
Cin'mon and cloves soaked in Bordeaux
And so much more comforting now that
I can only see fog through my win-dow

A Falafel @ Leiden CS
16:08 Boy climbs on bin
16:08 Boy takes out long impressive-looking chains
16:08 Boy wields chains in non-impressive manner while smirking at passers-by
16:10 Boy is rear-ended by Police van
16:10 Boy gets fined and chains are confiscated
16:11 Boy retreats penny and chain-less while being smirked at by passers-by
16:12 Girl finishes Falafel

Red red wine, an homage.
So that's 3 this evenin'
tallied that makes 5
'm I right?
Clock says 12.00 (PM)
meaning 1 more makes
a first, not 6.
Today is Wednesday after all,
my friend.

More Sleepwalking

00.00 - Bedtime

Extinguish the lights.
So I can find and
fight my monsters,
hiding in the
lining of the night.

What Euro does to you

Hey all,

I know I promised you an elaborate recounting of my second Overnighter into Sarajevo, but I will adhere to some unwritten rules on writing and not bore you with talk about trains twice in a row (rule does not apply to online blogs aboard the Transsiberian Express)

I'm skipping a few weeks ahead to Krakow, partly because the city's made much more of an impression on me than Vienna (from where I took another Overnighter into Krakow) but also because I think I know why we lost to Denmark yesterday. I blame the Nazis.

Let me start at the beginning. Like I said, extensive coverage of Sarajevo and Bosnia will follow soon. I am now in Wroclaw, one of Poland's designated tourist traps during Euro 2012 (thousands of white/red faced Polish fans chant loud football slurs to thousands of white/red/blue faced Czechs who, in turn, run from hundreds of blue/white/red faced Russians who've all taken up residence in this small but beautiful town)
I came from Krakow a week or so ago, stopped over in Berlin to set up shop in my new house, and came back to Wroclaw to write some song lyrics for a local band here and watch the footy. I am an orange shirted Dutch fan watching all the chanting and running and drinking and realise once and for all how alike we all are during football. Frustratingly this realisation does not inspire all people here to 'just get along'. Funnily enough, even though I was warned that I would be stabbed by a Russian, or mugged by a Pole during my stay, it was the Dutch that really made we want to vomit.

During the Nederland match I met up with some extravagantly dressed Dutch men on the Wraclow main square; designated Fan Zone and well organised beer drinking/footy watching area. During the 2 hours before the game we were interviewed by at least 3 Polish local TV shows, photographed by at least 10 times as many people and made to participate in an art project about football (only) once. Save to say we were a sight to behold. (You have to imagine that there were a handful of Dutch Holland supporters there amongst a sea of Poles rooting for Holland. Hordes of Poles came up to us and spoke a few broken words of Dutch, or showed us the Dutch flags they had painted on their sons' cheeks. I felt like the whole world was on our side that afternoon and wanted to kick Geert Wilders in the face for being such an arse)

We sang the volkslied arm in arm (more iPhones in our face) and we cheers'd our team. We all know what happend during the match, so there were 8 grown men groaning and one tall girl hiding in her hoodie all throughout the second half of the game. I think 10 minutes before the final whistle Van Marwijk decides to give Huntelaar and v/d Vaart a chance, meaning Affelay (and Snijder?) are bench bound. From my right the oldest Drenthenaar of the bunch (I'm including his origins for a reason) suddenly exclaims; "Werd eens tijd dat die kut Marokkaan d'r uit ging". (which I think all non-native Dutch speakers can get the gist of) The man subsequently added some other derogatory remarks. I replied with a modest "Nou nou" to which I instantly received "Jij woont zeker niet in een grote stad dan he?". The good man himself was from Drenthe, I replied I lived in The Hague. We got into an argument from which I'll save you the details.

I include this little episode just to show that throughout my travels I have not heard one racist remark, not once has someone in Sarajevo said something about the Muslim community, not once did the Poles lash out against the Russians and never did anyone make me feel less, or more, of a person for being Dutch until that moment. I can honestly say that I felt ashamed to be Dutch and were it not for my bright orange top I would've liked to have melted away in the sea of red and white around me. I stayed until the final whistle, when the Dutch man threw his beer on the ground and left without a word.

This in a roundabout way leads me back to Krakow and Nazis. In Krakow I went to visit Auschwitz. An experience that some choose to avoid, but something that I purposely wanted to have done once in my life. As a person morbidly fascinated by war (de Oorlogstourist) I read these books or visit these sites to become and remain aware that a simple man is capable of doing inhumane things. Reminding myself of my (confusing) principles and teaching myself not to hate. By doing so hoping that if the time comes I have to make a decision between 'right' and 'wrong', I will be able to make an informed choice and not just 'follow the leader'.

I will not tell you of the way the tours are run, or the manner in which the guide is out to shock the socks off of you. Nor will I paint you the picture of the tourists posing in front of the Auschwitz main gate or the photographes they snapped of the personal belongings and hair of female prisoners exhibited on site. I will tell you that the visit left me in a two day gloom from which only the company of strangers and 2 pints of lager could relieve me. It was not the story, nor the images they show you in Auschwitz, I've been through the gruesome realisation of all that before. It was the way in which we humans dealt and deal with each other that always gets me. First 65 years ago when disrespect, ignorance, hate and disgust led to the eradication of almost all of Poland's Jews, Roma, homosexuals and other so-called 'subhumans'. Or, two days ago, where we blame the 1-0 loss of a footballmatch on a Maroccan player just because he's part of a group of people we dislike.

No wonder that when Oranje visited Auschwitz last week they might have momentarily lost some of the drive to play football, I didn't even feel the need to be human for a moment. And then, when faced with the ignorance, disrespect and hate of some of my people for another of my people, I don't very much feel the need to be Dutch anymore either.

I know this is volatile subject matter and apologise if this depresses and/or offends anyone. Also using a comparison of the Holocaust and Football is not the most sensitive thing either.
I'm very open to discussion, and would love to know what you think.

I promise next update will be about puppies.
Love,
Myrthe

Melancholic pondering while cleaning

Drinking Port,
drinking Port.
I'm of the sort,
That likes drinking Port.
Anyone trying to thwart
my drinking Port?
In short;
to abort
the Port?
Deport my consort?
No more cavorting
with my Porto imported?
Be damn sure,
I'll hold the fort,
snort,
and resort
to F*ing violence.

It's all that subconcious dread on a Sunday

closing credits inside eyelids
toothbrush makes a cameo
sleepy zombie into duvet
tomorrow is the Monday show

For your reading pleasure, two poems about the weather. It's not like I really have nothing to talk about anymore (as meteorological events are what you should be conversing about during a literary dry spell) but recent skyward pondering as left me with these blabberings.

Wet

The rain, The Rain!
How we hail it! When
we've blamed, the sun
in all it's glory. How we like it
now it's pouring!

Almost There

In half-light I am cycling home
beneath the wings
of bats
who rush through clouds so
dark they've become
dangerous.

Quick, the thunder's coming!

Lullaby

Not immune then,
devil's trick.
Unravel me then,
stitch by stitch.
Façade cracking,
yawn concedes
to drowning in
this downy sea.
Now sleep.

Boreas and all his friends (Not including Buffy)

It's been windy lately. Winter in The Netherlands is just an impersonation of Fall.

Outside

The wind is what remains of God after taxes.
Irrefutable proof of the intangible
yes so solid in my head, under my chin
and inside my ears.

Invisible hands for an instant
Rearranging what's left of the cobwebs of liquor
Smacking me around in its wake

In it I can sense but not feel
I hold and then fall
Am always bested by
the remnants of God.

If James Joyce were an ordinary man.

Every morning he flings his two large feet out of his single bed and into his worn-out slippers. A wiggle of the toes begins a new day. On his way to work he whistles the melody to the Irish National Anthem which slowly changes into tuneless scales. His dark moustache rustles and reverberates on reaching the higher notes. His brisk steps leave imprints in the fresh snow. He loves to smoke his pipe in the early evening, when the hustle and bustle of the day is done and his sister makes him sausages and mash. Not incidentally his favourite dish. The dark scent of tobacco merges with the fibres of the curtains blocking the moonlight, it lingers all night. James Joyce falls asleep in his father’s old chair while listening to the indistinctly sung psalms his neighbour practises every Saturday night.

Religion and other bed time stories

Dear God

I hope you’re not mad I don’t believe in you anymore

I can imagine you’re a little disgruntled

But surely you must have noticed you’re getting a whole lot less emails

You see, there are now pubs in churches and churches on television

Angels on motorbikes and bibles for sex

Also there is Stephen Hawking

Who tries to prove you, or destroy you

Does the world disappoint you?

If I peek outside the window will it look like rain?

Perhaps you can send down a daughter this time

Teach us a lesson

Or was the other one not sent by you but by

The voices in his head?

And Today, for Stupidity

Found this somewhere. Obviously too good to be my own. No one knows who it's by though.

The famous speaker who no one had heard of said:

Ladies and jellyspoons, hobos and tramps,

cross-eyed mosquitos and bow-legged ants,

I stand before you to sit behind you

to tell you something I know nothing about.

Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,

there's a Mother's Day meeting for fathers only,

to decide what color to whitewash the church;

wear your best clothes if you haven't any.

Please come if you can't; if you can, stay at home.

Admission is free, pay at the door;

pull up a chair and sit on the floor.

It makes no difference where you sit,

the man in the gallery's sure to spit.

The show is over, but before you go,

let me tell you a story I don't really know.

One bright day in the middle of the night,

two dead boys got up to fight.

The blind man went to see fair play;

the mute man went to shout "hooray"

Back to back they faced each other,

drew their swords and shot each other.

A deaf policeman heard the noise,

and came and killed the two dead boys.

A paralysed donkey passing by

kicked the blind man in the eye;

knocked him through a nine-inch wall,

into a dry ditch and drowned them all.

If you don't believe this lie is true,

ask the blind man; he saw it too,

through a knothole in a wooden brick wall.