A fscination with the abombination

Amsterdam, 30 Aug. 2012.

I feel like a man obsessed, rain outside and paint inside, don't really wanna sober up from last night's drinking session with a close friend...

Maybe wanna get laid, it is after all only a phone call away. But no, I wanna get laid by the dirtiest, the cheapest and most disgusting hooker in all of Bangkok so I can sell what is left of my sorry soul and personality to the abombination of the Sukhumvit area and its fucked-up inhabitants in Krung Thep as the locals call their capital...

Maybe be back in that crazy and totally depraved sin city two hours by bus from Ekkamai, Bangkok, back in my New Star guest house where I will find a bunch of gosts tangled in the sheets of my massive bed looking at me with mocking sly eyes, betraying the sanctity of my matress with their rodential intentions but really more interested in the belongings of my fat wallet, transforming it into Yaa Baa and Shinga beer, maybe another bottle of Siamsato just for the heck of it...

The battle field of my mind leaves me no peace, my obsession and fascination with the abombination forcing me to paint in order to leave the demons at bay...

Wrestling with trembles

Amsterdam, 29 Aug. 2012.

My eyes are closed, my head leaning against the hard and dirt packed iron wall of this third world train, a few chicken cackling in protest against their forced captivity in way too small cages, too many of them and not enough room, not that it matters much, they are after all already on the menu of the relatives their owners are travelling too....

It is the time just before twilight, that magic time here in this Indian train, full with people as seems to be the rule in this over-populated nutcase country...

Despite the din of way too many people, memories come easy, poisoned by pain and rage, wrestling with trembles that are of a basic private nature in a country where privacy is non-existent...

That was there and then but still the same in the here and now, withdrawing to the dusty corners of my caucasian mind, in that part of my gray brain cells where my consciousness is supposed to sit on its throne of thorns and is harbouring all the traumas of my not so young anymore life...

If there is one thing I learned in four six months stints in that Magic Land some call India, it is that wrestling with trembles of a basic private nature is easy in a crowd of strangers...

My smile remains on my face but inside is fading fast...

Voting for the wastepaper basket

Amsterdam, 27 Aug. 2012.

The inevitable approach of the downfall of the Euro zone is in complete progress, total and inreversible decay is worming its way through Europe...

Despite the upcoming Dutch elections, less than three weeks to go, politicians have been remarkably silent, playing the infamous talking heads on talk shows but trying hard to move onto more trendy issues instead of eleborating on the political and financial wastelands of my continent...

Me, I have already voted, as a matter of fact the moment the voting papers hit the floor underneath my door slot...

I voted for the wastepaper basket!!!

Self-pleasure is less demanding

Amsterdam, 25 Aug. 2012.

"No", I tell Julia when she phones me on that handy device by some called a cell, by other an instrument of the devil himself, "I have absolutely no intentions of seeing anybody at all tonight and definitely not you"!!!

Freaking around with Antonia's semi lesbian ladyfriend porbably equals hara-kiri and therefore not my cup of Japanese tea, or was it Caribean tea? Whatever...

I don't really want to contribute adversely to her deepening dark mood but tell her nonetheless that sex really is too much trouble, adding that ever since I discovered mastrubation as a mere teenager I have I have given up on women all together, way too much emotion in having sex with a woman...

Self-pleasure is a lot less demanding that the adults only game...small wonder that I end up listening to the peep sound of a dead conexion on my cell. Or was it that devilsh device?

A walking pharmacy

                                                       Amsterdam, 20 Aug. 2012.

I think of Red Wine. smooth to the tongue, maybe Hong Thong Thai whiskey - seem to remember I still have a small bottle at home brought along from my latest stint in King Bhumipol's strange Asian realm - ,

Maybe I shoud dwell mentally on Antonia's telling me "smell me and like my scent" but I threw her out of the house last weekend together with her fatty semi-lesbian ladyfriend, enough is enough after all, any man's erortic phantasy or not...

I try hard to ignore the freaky print seller always working on my nerves but my neighbor here at the Anne Frank House for nearly twenty years already, the art of living easy beyond him, his mind on the level of a nine year old istead of the seventy-two he has claimed to have for the last four years or so "don't I look young still"? Few people in this world lying about their age in the major instead of in the minor!!!

Crazy Oscar who has been the neighborhood's number one dealer for years, a bit like a walking pharmacy, despite the city's finest hot on his heels sort of constantly, his extra-vagant way of reversing his way around and beyond them maybe impressive but definitely not to my liking...

Nor is his present customer, down and out, drunk as a skunk and flat broke but with the nasal passages screaming their lust for that mind enhancing necessity of his fucked-up existence....

Still, twenty-five games out and sold should make up for a live among the eternal losers and walking corpses of my beloved Mokum...

Another feared Menagerie-A-Trois

                                                        Amsterdam, 17 Aug. 2012.

My Aruban Dushi Antonia doesn't need to turn to the oldest profession for women in an attempt to overcome crusding poverty, the oppressive economic crises gripping the European Union totally beyond her, no way she can even slightly undestand the meager income situations of my Phillipnia and Thai ladyfriends, no sympathy for the downtrodden of Mother Earth...

Her widower pension and financial security from a overly rich deceased Dutch husband taking care of her daily needs like food and drink, a well negociated mortgage on her luxery appartment on Marnix Gracht conveniently located near the clubs and entertainment businesses on Leidseplein , a small bottle of coke containing a daily 5 grammes of the drug of choice for the rich and famous keeping her high and therefore happy, always that nutty street seller in his chaotic condo near Westerpark willing to come over, never mind the time of day or night, to satify her physical needs...

If I refuse she will take a private taxi tomy place to incite me with sexy lingerie, maybe bring a fatty semi-lesbian ladyfriend along for a feared Menagerie-A-Trois, every man's dream but not really my cup of Caribean tea...

But what can I do, selling 26 Indian games in a single day is cause for celebration, after all!!!

The story teller of longevity

The story teller of longevity is no more...

Rest in peace, Dad, and sorry that I didn't have it in me to visit you one last time.

Your first born, Hans.

One hundert procent objectionable.

Amsterdam, 12 Aug. 2012.

A feel like being in a winning combination here in some way, not that it should be surprising to my caucasian mind the aggressive manner these two Caribian ladies pursue their goal, most of the time pinning me down and rubbing various bodily parts all over my lean frame, a nightly birthday party is in full swing here and absolutely not objectionable, mind you...


My mind is still pondering on last night's wine and pleasure oriented Caribian ladies wringing me out the physically manner of speaking, a bit like a heavily used towel after a whole female soccer team has used it after a well needed bath, absolutely not objetionable, mind you...


Maybe the bottle of Jacob's Creek, Cabernet Sauvignon, vintage 2010,  Paul gave me, another birthday present I could not find objectionable, mind you...


The 35 HB wishes from my many FB friends who seem for some strange reason, totally beyond me, enjoy following my fucked-up blog stories but definitely not objectionable, mind you...


The great BD card depicting jars of paint and two enclosed shopping tickets, 7.50 Euro each Phom Nongshao send me and most surely not objectionable, mind you...

My mental ponderings of how people remember me and my BD are rudely interupted by the arrival of Rob, my street alcoholic friend, the King Of My Toilet - most likely the king of many other toilets as well - forgotten the great sunny day here at the Anne Frank House the day after my BD, making and selling my games, my body still exhausted from last night's work out with these two pleasure oriented women, my mind a mess after all the wine they fed me but making new games by the truck load, working here in the street defiantly, not really needing the abrupt arrival of this unruly lagerload whose mind is destroyed by King Alcohol, who is on a one way track to a ten Euro note in my wallet, as yet in my wallet that is...

500 gramms of deeply frozen stolen supermarket veal to open his case...Adios to my hard earned dough and not really Bienvenidos to stolen supermarket property....yes, this is one hundert procent objetionable!!!

Secrets and lies, or maybe the truth.

Amsterdam, 07 Aug. 2012.

Speak the truth and bear the suffering. A word of truth can quite simply make me an outcast of society, the masses teaming up on me, costing me my friends, the family already gone what seems an eternity ago, a scoundrel in the eyes of my former lady-friends...

But I have decided already long ago to stick to the truth no matter what crap might befal me, never mind whatever public suffering might well come my way...

Speak the truth to Cesca, that funny slightly  nutty Indonesian lady-friend of mine, a platonic friendship going back at least twenty-five comfortable years, well aware of her curiousity, her typical feminine nose always wanting to poke into my day to day affairs, especially so concerning my contacts with the opposite sex...a sickness almost...

Do let her come over to my house though Gibby from Thailand is on the bus to Amsterdam, my beloved Mokum her destination and my house and bed her end game...do tell her about this Asian beauty from the Land of the Thais, having a hard time getting her out of the house again, wanting to poke that Indonesian nose of hers into affairs where it has no right of existence, forgotten is the death message of Dad, forgotten the silver rings she came to pick up for her litte street business on Rebrant's Plein, no, all her feminine senses are focused on that Thai lady on her cheap bus to Spaarndammerstr.

When I do manage to get her out I find her back outside my door thirty minutes later, waiting for me to pick Gibby up from her bus, help her with her tons of typical female graments stuffed into an endless array of cheap Thai suitcases, high platform shoes and make up menagerie...

Secrets and lies should be my motto henceforth!!! 

The death of an arch father

My words still feel like a drag, my poor powers of description a bit like hindsight sarcasme when I reread my blog stories...Phom Nongshao seems to do a better job with her words though...

"Dad passed away early morning in his sleep at 85 years of age"...

No, that is what I call writing to the point, short and simple, no drag here but a clear message coming across the sacred internet and into my Yahoo inbox...

Twenty-five years of Pas De Contact, running away early in my adolescent years, across Europe on the cheap and with forged interrail tickets, surviving in the streets of international capitals in Ancient Europe, visiting the garbage belts of Third World countries where a stupid foreigner with a Rooi Nek had no meaning or purpose, an endless quest to understanding of the rodential nature of the human species but in reality running away from my roots and fucked-up background, the tormental upbringing in a nutcase boarding school...

I look at the Facebook pictures of a grown up family coming together with beers and sweet Dutch pancakes that I never was a part of...no recognition of brothers or Nongshao, never was a part nor did I want to...
I live in a live where the only reality is ilusion but the ilusion is reality, the live where the only fear I have is reality in itself, a fear that has only one purpose, to be conquered.

An eternity of anticipation for the next existence but no wish to ever again see those that are next of kin, not even in these trying times of losing the arch father of the family...

A sleep well and see you in that next existence sentence seems therefore out of the question for me.