A certain superstitious understatement

Holland, Amsterdam,
31 Aug. 2010.

Feels like autumn though we are only in late aug. here in Amsterdam, cycling my usual route to my Plekkie in front of the world famous Anne Frank House....a determined street seller having the most profitable place in all of Amsterdam, a licence and a special police paper is all it takes to make me feel at ease and ready to sell my games, my one-man Mandala business even after all these years extremely profitable indeed, having brought me a debtless excistence and enough dough to realise my dreams, travelling the globe on the money paid to me by customers the world over....a certain superstitious understatement here I guess, a strange twist of luck in the twisted life of a street tomcat who would have otherwise ended up as all these other boozers in the park...

Like my old mate Rob who is fascinated by my Hot Momma stories from Thailand and The Phillipines, my bicycle trips to The States and Mexico, my African adventures and motorbiking across India but whose frequent toilet trips leave him little peace, the result of his daily intake of 8 or 9 litre of cheap Appie Heyn beer, huge clammy drops of sweat dropping down his unwashed, unshaven lived-out face at the slightest excertion...

Like Crazy Richard, aka The Little Shit, whose fascination with these little balls of crack makes his dental work rot though he is only in his mid forties...whose homeless excistence has never been upgraded beyong the rusty old boat he occasionally sleeps on, good for boozing too when the rain comes down in droves and his childhood mate Rob has fallen out with him again...

Like Raymon, aka the Demon because of his rowdy behaviour, whose boat is even smaller and his dental work in an even worse state as Richard's though being nearly ten years younger and who always boasts of the escort service he wants to set up, the big dope lab that is near completion but whose spare beer change and crack money comes from selling outdated homeless magazines in front of the Haarlemmerdijk Appie Heyn supermarket...

Like Harry The Attention Seeker who managed to flush 80.000 Euro inheritance dough from his deceased Dad down the proverbial toilet paying all the aforementioned dope and booze for the Brotherhood of Westerpark Alcoholic, taking them home where huge arguements and outright fights took place, Amsterdam's finest and a not so friendly judge threatening him with a homeless excistence all in his own...

I could continue this for quite a while but let it suvice to say I feel quite at ease cycling to my Plekkie, my little Mandala suitcase with wire, beads, pairs of pincers etc, tied to the back...been there, done that, survived it...these funny little games carried me beyond...a certain superstitious understatement indeed...

...Nearly 1300 games sold this summer already, lucky me

No refunds from the devil

Holland, Amsterdam,

A simple pill is all it takes, mental sanity and physical well-being, eternal medicine ensuring you the continuation of your unhealthy ways, days of fire that turn into heavy rain in the dreaded morning after...plain and simple sleep will do that sort of thing to you, brought about by a little colored pill going down a Farang throat that is well lubricated by the Holy Presence of Red Wine...

But Then in the end these dreams of verbal thunder have become a certain reality, a strange sort of comfort hard to do without, the voices of Hot Momma contacts the world over who do a serious job on my sence of empathy, making me remember the luck of being carried by a Rich West woman though she too was only a peasant's daughter with hardly any education, whose main entertainment was her daily cup of Java, whose only foreign trip a ten day school excursion to Paris in her teens, marrying my father a certain way of ensuring her pension which she never reached.....someone who would hardly be capable of grasping the enlightenment of life in far away regions of this crazy world...a black and white TV screen showing scenes that might well come from a unknown alien planet for all she knew...blissfully unaware how one of her offspring whould end up in these alienated places, getting involved, getting emotionally surrounded by stories and real life experiences....

Reflected transgressions so much different from her Nasi invader stories she told me when I was a child, German soldiers being drafted and drinking home brewed coffee in her parental farm, shitting themselves when thinking of the planned Allied Invasion...she could still remember the smell of their leather boots, she told me...

But then their are no refunds from the devil, all of us responsible for our own actions and deeds...not unlike the Polish fortune seekers frequenting the Tweede Mijl, dressed in shabby clothes and always on the hunt for bottle deposit money, change left behind in the parking Automaten...a few quarters for more booze... I guess they too will come back in my dreams in time to come provided I will drink my coffee here long enough...

No refunds from the devil, colored pills a way out but maybe better flushed down the toilet bowl and bow deeply to my own responsibilities...or else to the voices of Hot Mommas hassling my dream world...

Denial of the truth

Holland, Amsterdam,
23 Aug. 2010.

Not really sure I am all that happy with Nong's voice back inside La Mia Testa, besieging me with all this Karma induced cr*p, mental attacks at all times of the day, reminding me of all the things having gone wrong in my life...after all according to Gandhi Violence Is Temporary But The Evil It Does Is Eternal...and how a simple undereducated Isan lady of the night knows about the teachings of Gandhi, a certain proof that my sub-conscious is playing tricks on me or else she is using Per's - her Norwegian sugar daddy - Kroner frân Norje to finally get herself the education she lacked when she was a mere kid playing in the dusty village streets of Loi-Et up in northern Thailand....

Not really sure if I am all that happy with Rob - one of these booze addicted park drunks - running down my door in a wild chase for five Euro, coffee shop money never to be seen again...his unwashed clothes, his chiselled face the result of years of unhealthy living, the stale smell of beer and heavy tabacco hanging around him, leaving my www.couchsurfing.org visitors in a sort of bewilderment, seriously wondering if they have ended up on the couch of a professional alcoholic...

Not really sure if I am all that happy with Magriet - aka as Miss Domenica and my boss at the Kinderboerderij where I do my volunteer job - constantly and blatantly trying to turn me into her personal manservant...a hyper lesbian master who needs her unpaid employees to go on their knees for her and pay homage to the Holy Grand Dame, meanwhile shovelling horse manure all day, hard work and no pay, Pas De Merci, Ondank Is Wereld's Loon as the Dutch say and sorry I said sorry Magriet...

Not really sure if I am happy with the way I deal with all this cr*p in my life, maybe lacking the spiritual discipline, a strange pursuit of suffering or else forgetting that denial of the truth is the dealiest form of denial at all...

Dirk from the street

Holland, Amsterdam,
18 Aug. 2010.

So here he is, an artistic impression of Dirk The Bookmaker...Dirk who came to Amsterdam quite some years ago, leaving his native Groningen province little farmer`s village behind, carrying a big fat wallet in the back of his dirty farmer`s jeans that was stained with years of shovelling cow shit in his father`s farm. The fat wallet came from his grandmother`s inheritance....

Dirk was obsessed with the idea of making his fat wallet work to his advantage and turn it into an even fatter bank acount, wild ideas roaming around his farmer`s son`s head, the result of watching American Hillstreet Blues police series on an antiquated farmer`s TV set when he wasn`t shovelling the aforementioned cow dung....

Hanging out with the Westerpark Brotherhood of professional boozers who due to an serious lack of cash and with an even worse cashflow problem paid him all the friendship attention he never got in his provincial farmer`s village, our Dirk came to the bright and illuminated idea of becoming a loanshark to the neighborhood`s losers and druggies, keeping all their debts in his little notebook which soon became known to the incrowd as his "bookmaker`s notebook" with Dirk himself becoming known to his newly found "buddies" as Dirk The bookmaker....

Needless to say that Dirk`s inheritance went down an endless hole that never spat out any profit, with his grandmother in God`s Kingdom - I hope anyway for the poor woman - watching down in horror how her carefully acumulated savings of a lifetime went down thirsty alcoholic throats, a couple of balls of crack to celebrate the stupid farmer`s intelligence and naivitè....

Needless to say that our poor Dirk himself is homeless now, devoid of cash but with a serious cashflow due to indulcing in his newly found buddies illegal substances, King Alcohol having a good laugh here....

A phsycho gambit in its entirety

Holland, Amsterdam,
16 Aug. 2010.

I have my daily coffee, my steaming cup of Java, in front of the Anne Frank House preparing myself for yet another day of selling this highly profitable and handmade Mandala game, having left my house earlier as usually, as always when I have my first cup of wake-up-mate of the day wondering about my hopelessly f*cked-up dream world, the realm of Lord Morpheus where last night it was Lord Buddha and his mistyrious smile that made me wake up time and again, confused and bodily exhausted...like there was a message involved there though it was the usual army of Hot Mommas besieging my fat wallet...

"I need talk you now, Hans"..."I need money quick, Hans, pay rent room"..."You like sex for free, Hans, Mai Pen Rai, Pom Tilak"..."Me like you too much, Hans, only little bit Baht for pay rent my darling Hans"...

But no, it were not my physical pursuits in far-away Thailand, the Phillipines or some other God-forgotten garbage belt where the local Hembras where willing like cats in heat but without a tomcat in plain sight, under-educated ladies of the night looking for a way to make ends meet, a phsycho gambit that in the end will end in disease and a certain death in Third World lands where medical attention is not as natural as in the Rich West...Yings for the grapping for those who can affort it but at the same time burdering your Karma...

Somehow it was Nada like that, not these ever recurring nightmares of the past where I was the architect of my own Karma, my own destruction of many lives yet to come...

My mental ponderings while slowly drinking my daily cafeine addiction are rudely interrupted by a mental voice inside my head...Nong after all these months of silence...."You listen me, Hans, better for you"..."You have chance now for make good Karma you"...

By the time I realise the importance she is already beyond me, at the end of the road, this other Pom Tilak, big love in my life, Amanda with little Charlotte on the back of her bike, cycling down the road and out of my life on this meagre sun-lit monday morning, not having seen them for nearly three years, walking out of their lives nearly five years ago soon after little Charlotte was born, realising I could never be a good father again, not after the father I was to the two Leuk Kreung babies I produced with Nong in that crazy mystic kingdom in far-away Asia all these years ago...

Mystic and weird to its very core with Nong's voice back inside my Farang skull the moment I see that other lady in my life cycling down the road with Little Charlotte on the back....that voice reminding me of how much my Karma is colliding with my ways, a phsycho gambit in its entirety

Three houses on Brouwersgracht

Holland, Amsterdam,
12Aug. 2010.

I have't done drawings of Amsterdam architecture for years though I used to sell them in the street like they were sweet pancakes...but with my Mandala games selling quicker as I possibly can produce them, much faster as I can paint, it seems obvious why my games got first rights...

However being surrounded by these ancient city houses while cycling to my Plekkie at the Anne Frank House, being dwarved by old Amsterdam Herenhuizen and erstwhile warehouses, built in the times of Dutch hegemony on the world's oceans, it seems obvious the desire to draw them in my sketchbook remained...

These three old warehouses based on the Brouwersgracht have in today's world been renovated and are now inhabited and owned by the Dutch elite like favorite TV personalities, rich business shits, lying politicians and the like...

In this drawing they look like they way I imagine them to have been like when the Dutch still controlled the spice trade from the Far East...and off course a bit of a touch from my Crazy Farang Mind...

A Ring Of Permanency

Holland, Amsterdam,
09 Aug. 2010.

According to an old Apache saying; Many Paths Reach The Same Destination, something flashing through my head while cycling to the Anne Frank House for my one-man Mandala business, always cycling the same streets, through the heart of the ancient Jordaan, the oldest part of Mokum...a certain superstition is running wild with me, originating back to the years before my licence, back to the years when I always had to be on my Qui-Vive for police activity, hiding behind the endless queue and selling my handmade product quick and fast....

Well, these days of the old Apache saying can pretty much go the way of that famous Apache chief called Geronimo, gone with the wind, a few shattered bones left in a dusty museum but definitely not forgotten...his zealous ways to stay alive despite facing overwhelming odds have made him a hero in the heads of todays population...

My street selling activities can easily be compared to this great warrior, starting back to the middle eighties, last century when there was nobody and Nadie in the street apart from some illigal Africans having come over from Paris, selling fake silver and gold jewelry, hoping to marry a Dutch blond sexbomb, often asking me if a knew of anylady blond Dutch gal available, doing their business under the tunnel of the Rijksmuseum...

I survived Israeli and Eastern European invasion armies who often told me in a threatening way to do my business elsewhere, wanting the place to themselves, I survived the police who threw them all out of the city and eventually I reached the Era Of The Licence...

Yeah, there is a certain ring of permanency involved here, I guess, and that with the same path is plain old superstition going back to the Years Of Fear, back to the years when Amsterdam's finest where not those of today I inform of pickpocket activity and the happenings in the world of street alcoholics, no, dealers and shitholes, the police then where those in the possession of the feared ticket book...yeah, definitely a Ring Of Permanency involved here...

A challence with silicum-based intelligence

Holland, Amsterdam,
06-aug. 2010.

The house is dark and obscure when I wake up, for a moment I believe I am back in my 6 Euro a night room in Pattaya, that crazy beach resort made infamous by American marines taking a break from killing Vietcong warrior...Pattaya where I so often consider myself the male caracter in the Literary bestseller called Susie Wong from Hong Kong, being besieged by Hot Mommas so willing to pose for me, so much knocking on my door I sometimes fear it will become undone from its hinges by determined Asian female knuckles whose owners are looking for dough to make ends meet...

In the misty corners of my mind, still in limbo, still wavering between the dream world and present reality, I seem to remember Hot Mommas turning into talking parrots that declare the need to talk to me in a variety of languages...I shake them off - or try to anyway - making early morning coffee and take a shower, as always when Lord Morpheus plays His fickle tricks on me, feeling lame and restless but despite eight hours of deep sleep still worn-out, still a physical wreck...but I have a appointment at the Anne Frank House, a deal with my one-man Mandala business, I have to make money, beaucoup d'argent to escape the Dutch winter...no time to waste on a mental study of antropology of the self...

I have an challenge with my silicum-based intelligence, the computer in my house that connects me with the Sacred Internet, trying to put in all down in words and sending my deepest fears and angst out in the open for the whole world to read, for all of humanity to share...such a difference to the times I wrote it all down in moleskine sized notebooks, stupid sketches and words mixed all in one page, or maybe more, a whole book case full with chaotic stories and meaningless drawings that after all these years still make no sence to me when I read them again...

Today I sold 23 games, good Dinero for an easy winter somewhere far away from my chaotic house, the chaotic mind will come along though...

Michelle from Chicago

Holland, Amsterdam,
04 Aug. 2010.

This is Michelle from Chicago who managed to find herself to the couch in my living-room by means of www.couchsurfing.org and who, according to her own admission, had a wonderfull time in Amsterdam while lodging with me...

Thanks for the graet dinner in that Ethiopean restaurant, Michelle, I enjoyed the food as much as your dinner stories...oh, and thanks for posing for my sketchbook pages...

For those of you that don't know, www.couchsurfing.org is an online community where travellers stay with locals, usually sleeping on their couch free of charge...maybe a free meal and some beers to show their gratitute to their hosts...

A failed creation in the name of God

Holland, Amsterdam,
02 August 2010.

I have searched, no trashed every department of my chaotic Farang mind but Nong remains truely hidden, hidden in the more murky corners of that gray brain mass that in my case, is a mess invected with countless virusses and traumas caused by a useless life of running around the world looking for the more darker side of human nature, staying in the cheapest and dirtiest of hotels, often no more but bottom-end whorehouses where the shared toilet was the territory of cat-sized rats and cockroaches bigger as I am used to here in Holland...

Well, lets get into the Mai Pen Rai mode and keep searching though there is no indication to my detective paperwork as where she might be hidden, no point torturing myself...blotted-out memories but no trace of Pom Tilac Nong who used to come to that rat-invested hellhole where I was locked up all these years ago, my fighting spirit responsible for thirty days of incarceration in a Krung Thep holding cell, where her brother she came to feed daily became a close friend despite our regular Muay Thai bouts in the Tamruat station's backyard, enjoyment for those clad in thight brown uniforms and Bangkok locals brought in from the busy streets, a hundert Thai Baht for the police "retirement fund" and they could enagage in the Thai's favorite pastime, gamble your hearts out and watch the Farang slash in out with his inmates...

"What happens when I don't fight?"..."You get beat up"...."Can I phone the embassy?".."NO"...plain and simple...

Back to Mai Pen Rai mode, back to present day, sitting here in the sun, making games and giving directions to foreing visitors lost in ancient Mokum, where the freedom of the city birds makes me feel jealous while I chase the dream of riches...hard to reach though selling games that bring in five Euros a piece or three for ten...

Back to present time and Mai Pen Rai mode where I make a quick sketch of a Saudi woman whose kids just bought three games for ten Euros, a young woman with three HDAD sons who wants to know if I believe in God, maybe a firm inclination to the Muslim faith or else the conviction of the Buddha way whose amulet is dangling around my neck...

Haaa, if there is a God he/she must have gone mad over a serious lack of sleep, a failed creation in the name of a Higher Being...