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Mother of all memories by Andre Platteel , June 1st

It was almost finished: the detailed model of the memory he had spent the last few years searching for. A search begun after a short but terrifying moment one particular night (a night thus far unmemorable). The night had gone something like this: woke up; realized the reason he had woken up was a lack of breath; reached for oxygen that his body failed to absorb; opened his mouth only to find nothing there, nothing that was willing to fill his lungs; noticed he had left his body and saw himself choking into nothingness, just white, recently washed sheets around him. And then, out of nowhere, something, a little sound (he thought), or at least something that sounded like a sound, something not so trivial, a vivid but veiled memory that made life flow again. That which had brought life back into him had not only brought back his body; his body was brought back into something, something full and sweet, something he knew he knew, but was forgotten. He became obsessed with the sweetness and fullness he felt connected with, something that he called ‘it’. Immediately the same night, the night now made memorable due to what had happened, he crammed his ideas and thoughts about what ‘it’ could be onto small, sticky pieces of yellow paper. He was tracing ‘it’ and felt how he was coming closer and closer to knowing it. There were moments when he thought he would embrace what he was looking for in a split second, something ‘just around the corner’. But always, the thing he was chasing found a way to escape. The harder he tried the more he seemed to forget what ‘it’ exactly was all about. He changed his strategies; he surrounded ‘it’ carefully and peeled the mystery from the thing he wanted to know so obsessively. That’s actually how the idea of a model began. Since ‘it’ had hit a memory deep inside him, ‘it’ had to be something in his brain, he thought. He created a copy of his brain with its collective memories represented by the sticky yellow notes, by images he had drawn or torn out of magazines, and by sounds he had collected. Sometimes (almost always when he was not so busy chasing) images entered his mind that resonated with ‘it’. He wrote them down and stuck them into his model: jigsaw pieces of a puzzle soon to be whole. + more It was almost finished: the detailed model of the memory he had spent the last few years searching for. A search begun after a short but terrifying moment one particular night (a night thus far unmemorable). The night had gone something like this: woke up; realized the reason he had woken up was a lack of breath; reached for oxygen that his body failed to absorb; opened his mouth only to find nothing there, nothing that was willing to fill his lungs; noticed he had left his body and saw himself choking into nothingness, just white, recently washed sheets around him. And then, out of nowhere, something, a little sound (he thought), or at least something that sounded like a sound, something not so trivial, a vivid but veiled memory that made life flow again. That which had brought life back into him had not only brought back his body; his body was brought back into something, something full and sweet, something he knew he knew, but was forgotten. He became obsessed with the sweetness and fullness he felt connected with, something that he called ‘it’. Immediately the same night, the night now made memorable due to what had happened, he crammed his ideas and thoughts about what ‘it’ could be onto small, sticky pieces of yellow paper. He was tracing ‘it’ and felt how he was coming closer and closer to knowing it. There were moments when he thought he would embrace what he was looking for in a split second, something ‘just around the corner’. But always, the thing he was chasing found a way to escape. The harder he tried the more he seemed to forget what ‘it’ exactly was all about. He changed his strategies; he surrounded ‘it’ carefully and peeled the mystery from the thing he wanted to know so obsessively. That’s actually how the idea of a model began. Since ‘it’ had hit a memory deep inside him, ‘it’ had to be something in his brain, he thought. He created a copy of his brain with its collective memories represented by the sticky yellow notes, by images he had drawn or torn out of magazines, and by sounds he had collected. Sometimes (almost always when he was not so busy chasing) images entered his mind that resonated with ‘it’. He wrote them down and stuck them into his model: jigsaw pieces of a puzzle soon to be whole. One night, a night when sleep would not come, he went downstairs, switched on the light of a room that was once his office space but which now provided space for the model that had outgrown the size of his brain by at least twenty times. He saw how the light brought life to the fragments and realized, out of nowhere, that all the different pieces could never unravel the memory he was so obsessed with. All these fragments could never add up to what he was seeking. How could he have thought that he would discover the totality of ‘it’ by isolating fragments, by analysing memories? Not a single piece of what he had gathered said anything about what was so important to him. Every connection he had tried to make, every effort to connect two or more fragments together, had created only the idea of something that was about to become whole. He had been tracing something that could never be revealed by assembling fragments to serve as a manual. And yet it did. He was about to leave the room when, for no particular reason, he turned back with an almost unnatural faithfulness. He flicked the light on again and saw how his model of many fragments had come alive. It could have been something about the artificial light, or the sleep that was about to knock him out, but he saw how the fragments not only told their own story, he saw ‘it’ in every fragment. ‘It’ was not a particular memory; ‘it’ was omnipresent. He saw how his model became a hologram, 'it' being present in all the different parts of his model. And fragments he had not connected became connected by ‘it’. He turned off the light again, went to sleep and dreamed about what he had seen. He knew that what he had seen was something that can never been seen by the eye, and yet is present in everything we see. He slept well that night, heard the sound of light, and felt how the memory that is embedded in everything made all memories come home. - less tagged:   light   spaciousness   connectedness   life   Body   mind   memory    permalink  read: 3714  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

Come again, and again, and again by Andre Platteel , May 13th

He felt strange the moment he walked into the shop, but not because there was something weird about it. It was more the strange feeling you get when you walk into your new house, eyes roving the walls, the corners, the way the light breaks through the window, maybe following the contours of the few pieces of furniture that have been already moved in. Everything not quite familiar, the connections not quite there yet soon to become home. Bookshops were like homes to him. Books were like furniture for his mind, longing to find just the right chair to relax in. The owner of the second-hand book shop would later tell others about this customer. How he would spend hours and hours in his shop. How he treated each book, first touching the cover, moving his fingers slowly, like a blind man reading. How he would read the first five or so pages, his eyes never blinking. How he sometimes held a book just an inch from his nose and sniffed, trying to understand it by its smell. How the man, after great deliberation, would finally select a book. The bookseller, his tone very serious, would then tell his friends how he was misled by his client’s behaviour. Although the man bought a masterpiece every time he visited, creating the aura of a connoisseur, he didn’t seem to know anything about literature. Despite the bookseller’s efforts to make conversation, the man had not the slightest idea about the book he had bought, about the author, or about the importance of the book for modern literature. And when his friends grew tired of hearing him talk about his client, the bookseller would protest, “But this has happened, this is true”, as if afraid his friends had lost interest in reality. As if the stories in the real world were somehow different to those in a novel. More urgent. When his friends’ interest in listening returned, the bookseller would describe every detail of his client: his appearance (large, like a giant), how he smelled (like something that absorbs everything, the musty, dusty smell of second-hand books departing with him), what he wore (a heavy leather jacket, even in the summer, that was too short for his arms), his habits (liquorish in his left pocket, of which he ate four or five pieces per visit, noiselessly). Yes, the bookseller missed nothing in describing the man’s habits; he knew that a good writer would lavish attention on the behaviour of the characters in his novel. Attention, that is what a good writer can give his readers. + more He felt strange the moment he walked into the shop, but not because there was something weird about it. It was more the strange feeling you get when you walk into your new house, eyes roving the walls, the corners, the way the light breaks through the window, maybe following the contours of the few pieces of furniture that have been already moved in. Everything not quite familiar, the connections not quite there yet soon to become home. Bookshops were like homes to him. Books were like furniture for his mind, longing to find just the right chair to relax in. The owner of the second-hand book shop would later tell others about this customer. How he would spend hours and hours in his shop. How he treated each book, first touching the cover, moving his fingers slowly, like a blind man reading. How he would read the first five or so pages, his eyes never blinking. How he sometimes held a book just an inch from his nose and sniffed, trying to understand it by its smell. How the man, after great deliberation, would finally select a book. The bookseller, his tone very serious, would then tell his friends how he was misled by his client’s behaviour. Although the man bought a masterpiece every time he visited, creating the aura of a connoisseur, he didn’t seem to know anything about literature. Despite the bookseller’s efforts to make conversation, the man had not the slightest idea about the book he had bought, about the author, or about the importance of the book for modern literature. And when his friends grew tired of hearing him talk about his client, the bookseller would protest, “But this has happened, this is true”, as if afraid his friends had lost interest in reality. As if the stories in the real world were somehow different to those in a novel. More urgent. When his friends’ interest in listening returned, the bookseller would describe every detail of his client: his appearance (large, like a giant), how he smelled (like something that absorbs everything, the musty, dusty smell of second-hand books departing with him), what he wore (a heavy leather jacket, even in the summer, that was too short for his arms), his habits (liquorish in his left pocket, of which he ate four or five pieces per visit, noiselessly). Yes, the bookseller missed nothing in describing the man’s habits; he knew that a good writer would lavish attention on the behaviour of the characters in his novel. Attention, that is what a good writer can give his readers. “I would love to return this book.” A few weeks had gone by and the client wanted to give back the book he had bought. Not that he wanted his money back: “It just did not interest me and I don’t want to own something that does not interest me completely”, he had explained. This buying and returning became a pattern. For years, every book he bought, he returned, the interval between sale and return growing shorter and shorter. And long after the bookseller had stopped talking about his client (he understood that a recurring pattern with no new developments is no basis for a good tale), the man had still not found a ‘suitable’ book. And while other booksellers would have discussed this with the client, or maybe stopped selling him books altogether, or just gone mad, this bookseller didn’t ask anything. He waited, thrilled, for his client to return, one of the few people who still visited his shop, too few to run a business. The white, hand-painted announcement that appeared on the shop window didn’t deter the client from visiting. ‘Final discounts.’ Nor did the client ask the bookseller why he was still in business months after the words had changed to ‘last few days’. Some people thought the client would have stopped coming if he had known that the bookseller had stayed in business just for him, and that it would have saved the bookseller. “Why are you so obsessed with this client,” a friend who had become a stranger following the visits of the man, once asked. The bookseller’s answer tumbled forth, strange: “This client is not a man but a lover ... After a while I suddenly understood that his love was not of the stories ... the most beautiful stories ever written could not capture his entire interest ... he liked reading, but he was searching for something that could not be read ... he was trying to find an entrance to the Beloved by reading all that was ever written ... you know the Beloved (his friend had not answered)? At a certain point I stopped asking him questions, stopped trying to make conversation about books and writers. I just watched him moving, feeling, smelling, reading, selecting and returning. And with every book he returned I knew he would come closer with every subsequent one he bought. The time would come when he would meet the Beloved. And I felt privileged to watch this happening. In silence. And I felt happy to invite this client again and again, just being there for him. And by not closing my shop. Somewhere in my head I heard a voice saying: come again, and again, and again. And these words were the most beautiful ones I had ever heard. They were so inviting, not only for my client, but for me as well, inviting to meet the Beloved, knowing that every story can come home into It. Even the stories you are ashamed of reading.” The friend who had become a stranger told people that as the bookseller spoke it was as if he had become half a man, that he had almost dissolved while speaking, his head covered with white paint too, as if he also entered his ‘last few days’. And when the bookseller really disappeared, the discussion started. Some people said that the bookseller had gone mad and killed himself. Others were convinced that the client had finally found the book he could rest in, and that they had left together. Some would add that they had become lovers. All stories, all of them come home. - less tagged:   Beloved   love   books   inviting   reality   stories    permalink  read: 3416  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

The Wolf by Andre Platteel , April 17th

He closed the door of his house but in the act of closing could not forget the encounter he had had a few hours ago with his friend, the wolf, who actually had turned into a wolf and told him, in a language that was strange to him but which, to his surprise, he could immediately understand, that the world was made of foam, a tiny and transparent layer of experiences that evaporates the moment you try to catch it, foam that creates an illusion of substance and the idea that something lies between you and the world – “be careful,” the wolf had warned, “make sure the foam doesn’t create the suggestion of two where there is really only one, and do not waste time putting energy into it for it will make you childish, like a child blowing soap bubbles who believes they are worlds outside him when they are actually created by the same substance that give form to the child itself” – yet even as he was listening to the wolf’s howling speech, his brain struggling to digest the meaning of it all, the wolf was forging ahead – “and when you waste time, be aware that this waste is actually the product of time, and that time itself can never be wasted, since time is just a creation of foam, as the bubble is a creation of the child” – but these words didn’t reach him because he was too busy thinking over the other stuff the wolf had said, his mind drifting away and coming up with this strange but persistent idea that he trusted the wolf more than he had ever trusted his friend when he was just called Wolf but had not yet turned into one as this wolf probably had no need to make him feel small, saw no advantage to lying to him and would not use the manipulative strategies he had noticed his friend sometimes using (and to be honest, used himself as well) when he was still a human being, and because he trusted the wolf more than the man his friend once was the howling sounds touched him in unexpected ways opening doors of darkness that he saw and felt transform his body, making his legs weak, slowing his thinking, turning his blood a lighter colour, directing his breath to something unfamiliar, far away (like the ant he once read about who left his friends and loved ones to go to ‘far away’ and never came back) and while noticing all this happening heard how a voice had entered his body or actually how he had become attuned to a weathered voice that seemed to come from + more He closed the door of his house but in the act of closing could not forget the encounter he had had a few hours ago with his friend, the wolf, who actually had turned into a wolf and told him, in a language that was strange to him but which, to his surprise, he could immediately understand, that the world was made of foam, a tiny and transparent layer of experiences that evaporates the moment you try to catch it, foam that creates an illusion of substance and the idea that something lies between you and the world – “be careful,” the wolf had warned, “make sure the foam doesn’t create the suggestion of two where there is really only one, and do not waste time putting energy into it for it will make you childish, like a child blowing soap bubbles who believes they are worlds outside him when they are actually created by the same substance that give form to the child itself” – yet even as he was listening to the wolf’s howling speech, his brain struggling to digest the meaning of it all, the wolf was forging ahead – “and when you waste time, be aware that this waste is actually the product of time, and that time itself can never be wasted, since time is just a creation of foam, as the bubble is a creation of the child” – but these words didn’t reach him because he was too busy thinking over the other stuff the wolf had said, his mind drifting away and coming up with this strange but persistent idea that he trusted the wolf more than he had ever trusted his friend when he was just called Wolf but had not yet turned into one as this wolf probably had no need to make him feel small, saw no advantage to lying to him and would not use the manipulative strategies he had noticed his friend sometimes using (and to be honest, used himself as well) when he was still a human being, and because he trusted the wolf more than the man his friend once was the howling sounds touched him in unexpected ways opening doors of darkness that he saw and felt transform his body, making his legs weak, slowing his thinking, turning his blood a lighter colour, directing his breath to something unfamiliar, far away (like the ant he once read about who left his friends and loved ones to go to ‘far away’ and never came back) and while noticing all this happening heard how a voice had entered his body or actually how he had become attuned to a weathered voice that seemed to come from deep inside and told him - no warned him - that curiosity will kill us, that courage will kill us, that love will kill us, and while listening he thought of a person behind the voice and saw a fat man wearing dark glasses with dark hair and dark shoes and told this man “no this is not true, love, curiosity and courage are our supporters” and then thought (and said) “no you are right it will kill us, it will kill what needs to be killed in order to discover the wolf inside us” and started howling as if he had always been a wolf and left to give voice inside and started howling out loud reaching out to his friend the wolf and chatting howling about the freedom they were experiencing and how freedom was no longer a place to escape to but a state of being, and they were howling about the pleasure of giving up this fight against the ‘that’ that makes us fearful; the ‘that’ that creates enemies blood stench and wounds; the ‘that’ that is continually changing so it is hard to fight and so creates even more fear the next ‘that’ and the next ‘that’ and the next and the one after that because the wolves could go on forever because ‘that’ goes on forever “as long as you do not see that ‘that’ is just foam” the first wolf said, and the other wolf just turned and said “yes, that’s right and now it’s time to go home” to which his friend the first wolf said “you never left home”. And the wolves turned to the home they had never left. - less tagged:   wolf   friend   creation   home   foam   life   darkness    permalink  read: 3692  print  forward  comments: 1  add comment      name:  prague@planet.nl, April 17th • Prachtig verhaal, Dré. Je geeft er een hoop liefde mee weg en daar is liefde ook voor. Louis

Photo: André Platteel

The three voices by Andre Platteel , March 13th

And you stand on that mountain overlooking a sandless desert, hearing three female voices while a man in white walks up towards you from a place without time. It took a while for you to get there; and it takes a while for you to hear what is being sung to you. Step by step, the white-clad man draws nearer, a strong branch in his right hand to help him climb higher. He holds all time in his left hand. And in the fluorescent light of his eyes you read something vaguely familiar, something unsheltered and fierce. You feel like a newly born, reaching out to these voices. How many steps does it require for you to grasp the words that are longing so hard to reach your ears and caress your heart? You know it takes just one false step to fall from this mountain. “Dive into the infinite sandless desert!” a voice inside you commands. “That little river, crawling upwards, will carry you like a drop of rain returning to its source.” You are on the point of answering this devastating command. But just before you do, you remember the last time you were thirsty, and how drops of water created an invisible thread connecting you with everything that is, enabling you to understand how God could create Heaven and Earth in an instant. It was not the first thing He created. It is what is being created all the time. Some small stones lose the spot they had regarded as their home for centuries. A porcelain face draws near. The white cloth appears to be a dressing gown, nothing but a dressing gown, the name of an unknown hotel embossed on the left side, at breast height. Bare feet. You have been warned about him. He throws his branch into Earth’s gaping wound. As it falls, the air becomes electric, making the three female voices stronger. He opens his arms and before you know, before you know it is happening, the two of you become entwined. One. He is huge. It is almost impossible to wrap your arms around his waist; you have difficulty balancing, but the moment your feet remember the holy ground you feel like a spring flower – rooted and ready to blossom. His long grey hair is reaching out to your hands. Knowing that you grow younger with every breath you take in this position, he whispers something in your ear: “Silence never moves.” And: “Your heart: see what is happening within.” + more And you stand on that mountain overlooking a sandless desert, hearing three female voices while a man in white walks up towards you from a place without time. It took a while for you to get there; and it takes a while for you to hear what is being sung to you. Step by step, the white-clad man draws nearer, a strong branch in his right hand to help him climb higher. He holds all time in his left hand. And in the fluorescent light of his eyes you read something vaguely familiar, something unsheltered and fierce. You feel like a newly born, reaching out to these voices. How many steps does it require for you to grasp the words that are longing so hard to reach your ears and caress your heart? You know it takes just one false step to fall from this mountain. “Dive into the infinite sandless desert!” a voice inside you commands. “That little river, crawling upwards, will carry you like a drop of rain returning to its source.” You are on the point of answering this devastating command. But just before you do, you remember the last time you were thirsty, and how drops of water created an invisible thread connecting you with everything that is, enabling you to understand how God could create Heaven and Earth in an instant. It was not the first thing He created. It is what is being created all the time. Some small stones lose the spot they had regarded as their home for centuries. A porcelain face draws near. The white cloth appears to be a dressing gown, nothing but a dressing gown, the name of an unknown hotel embossed on the left side, at breast height. Bare feet. You have been warned about him. He throws his branch into Earth’s gaping wound. As it falls, the air becomes electric, making the three female voices stronger. He opens his arms and before you know, before you know it is happening, the two of you become entwined. One. He is huge. It is almost impossible to wrap your arms around his waist; you have difficulty balancing, but the moment your feet remember the holy ground you feel like a spring flower – rooted and ready to blossom. His long grey hair is reaching out to your hands. Knowing that you grow younger with every breath you take in this position, he whispers something in your ear: “Silence never moves.” And: “Your heart: see what is happening within.” And you look into your heart and you see a big bird hovering above an infinite sandless desert, searching for voices. And you open your eyes and see the bird. Big wings, strong feathers. It finds the three voices, which have gathered around a fire. The bird lands and decides to sit beside them. The weakest voice picks up the bird and throws it in the air. The bird returns. It is picked up again. And directed to leave this place. An order. The bird returns. Sometimes it is like this; sometimes something does not want to obey. The three voices start singing. Something inside the bird moves. It hesitates. It is not in its nature to hesitate. A loud cry, the spreading of wings: the bird leaves. And tries to find its way in the air. The fog between the three voices and you disappears. You hear what they were singing to the bird; you finally hear what it is the voices are trying to tell you: “Here I am, Here I am, Waiting to hold you.” The singing leaves you puzzled, like a new born: Shall you stay in this tangle with the big white-clad man, or jump to get even closer to the voices? The man with fluorescent eyes whispers, very slowly: “I am holding my mirror.” And you hear how his words come home in you, beyond any horizon. Looking into the light of his eyes you remember again why you were warned about meeting him: No step has to be taken. No step is needed to hear the voices more fully. And you speak without words. And you walk without moving. And you follow the three voices to their source. You hold yourself close to the light of your heart. - less tagged:   voices   God   light   singing   bird   heart    permalink  read: 4995  print  forward  comments: 1  add comment      name:  Daniel, March 13th • dit raakt een deel in mij dat niet letterlijk benaderd kan worden, alleen in gesluierde taal. Ik wordt er wakker van, bewust van mijn keuzevrijheid in... + more Daniel, March 13th • dit raakt een deel in mij dat niet letterlijk benaderd kan worden, alleen in gesluierde taal. Ik wordt er wakker van, bewust van mijn keuzevrijheid in elk moment. - less

Photo: André Platteel

Dancing with the Beloved by Andre Platteel , January 26th

I had no idea that you could walk to the end of the world. Finally, after hours and hours of walking, Goodness came to me unreservedly. The ground had turned soft and sandy. I felt how the earth was sinking into me. My eyes had had time to adjust to the brightness of her beauty. Now that I was in front of her, I realized that she had been visible throughout my journey. Too close to see at first. The more I walked the brighter and more visible she became. She looks amazing, dressed stylishly in black, not a colour I had expected. A furrowed face reveals infinite layers of life that you can see in a single moment. “Welcome home; the place you have never left.” Her voice is tender. Every word placed carefully into silence. “You are so alive.” I didn’t mean to speak, but it’s what happens. “Life’s aliveness shines through us vividly when we remain alive and die in the same moment.” Her feet start moving. Just a little. The rest of her doesn’t move at all. A beautiful maroon flower in her hair. Two feathers. Somewhere. “Don’t you miss the other world?” Her brightness catches fire deep inside me. I know there is no way back. It’s nostalgia speaking: I fear losing what I thought I had. “From this perspective there is no other world. All worlds are included. And yet this place is beyond every world. Your question comes from memory. You are now no longer bound by memory. But you may use your memory freely.” She pulls a torch from her pocket, creates a circle of light around her and starts dancing. Funny faces. Funny movements. “Join me.” We dance. “From now on you are no longer in experiences; you are in relationship.” This woman could be my grandmother. She could be my daughter. She could be my sister. Or brother. It starts heating up. She becomes my lover. I cannot help saying it: “I think I’m beginning to love you.” “I know,” she says. “When you become intimate with what is, Love’s face appears naturally. Irresistibly. From now on, everything with which you are in a relationship will be recognized as love.” + more I had no idea that you could walk to the end of the world. Finally, after hours and hours of walking, Goodness came to me unreservedly. The ground had turned soft and sandy. I felt how the earth was sinking into me. My eyes had had time to adjust to the brightness of her beauty. Now that I was in front of her, I realized that she had been visible throughout my journey. Too close to see at first. The more I walked the brighter and more visible she became. She looks amazing, dressed stylishly in black, not a colour I had expected. A furrowed face reveals infinite layers of life that you can see in a single moment. “Welcome home; the place you have never left.” Her voice is tender. Every word placed carefully into silence. “You are so alive.” I didn’t mean to speak, but it’s what happens. “Life’s aliveness shines through us vividly when we remain alive and die in the same moment.” Her feet start moving. Just a little. The rest of her doesn’t move at all. A beautiful maroon flower in her hair. Two feathers. Somewhere. “Don’t you miss the other world?” Her brightness catches fire deep inside me. I know there is no way back. It’s nostalgia speaking: I fear losing what I thought I had. “From this perspective there is no other world. All worlds are included. And yet this place is beyond every world. Your question comes from memory. You are now no longer bound by memory. But you may use your memory freely.” She pulls a torch from her pocket, creates a circle of light around her and starts dancing. Funny faces. Funny movements. “Join me.” We dance. “From now on you are no longer in experiences; you are in relationship.” This woman could be my grandmother. She could be my daughter. She could be my sister. Or brother. It starts heating up. She becomes my lover. I cannot help saying it: “I think I’m beginning to love you.” “I know,” she says. “When you become intimate with what is, Love’s face appears naturally. Irresistibly. From now on, everything with which you are in a relationship will be recognized as love.” She takes my hands. She makes dynamic movements with me. I feel a bit silly. For a moment, I want to turn back, back to where I came from, taking the darkness I had crossed for granted. But, blinded by her brightness as I am, there is no chance my eyes will lead me back to where I came from. The area lit by her torch starts to grow bigger and bigger. And it happens by itself. She is not doing anything, just holding the torch. Effortlessly. More and more of our surroundings are enveloped. It starts snowing. A condor. Creatures howling with fear. The sun and the moon too. My bloodline. All those who were before us. Even the now is lit up. Everything becomes visible, including all the opposite sides of everything. All allow themselves to exist fully, to shine brightly and vividly, holding hands with what makes them Whole, without losing their character. The playground we dance in has become infinite, immediate, and brilliant. Although I feel a bit ashamed to ask, because it seems questions should not be voiced here, I still do so: “Is this the end?” A question deposited by fear, my curiosity kicking in. “No, silly. There is no end. Allow the end to be part of what is beyond ‘the end’. Her feet stop for a moment. She grabs my body firmly and looks into my eyes seriously. “Your Love is safe with me. For always.” And before I know it we are dancing again, and I begin to embrace the movements. - less tagged:   love   connectedness   movement   dancing   sun   connectedness   life   beyond   opposites    permalink  read: 5967  print  forward  comments: 4  add comment      name:  Herman Ouwersloot, February 10th • Heart warming words. In my experience a genuine and realistic story of a dear person Letty, February 4th • Wow... beeldschoon, onwerkelijk, surrealistisch en toch vertrouwd. Alsof je me een vergeten herinnering hebt teruggegeven. jerome, January 28th • erg mooi stuk. more comments    Diana Schadek, January 27th • beautiful thank you very much for this wonderful moment

Photo: André Platteel

Born to adore This by Andre Platteel , January 17th

My body is dancing To allow me to become awake To another world What makes difference in what ever stays the same? My body is crying For morning light In everything, in every heart What light makes all eyes turn wide open? My body is wandering In rivers that never reach their ends When it is simply circular, Where do waves return to? My body is opening To a secret that we know That we don't know how to talk about Can you have mercy for all that we don't know? My body is becoming All that I experience You are all that I am How does it feel to be a walking mountain? tagged:   body   love   light    permalink  read: 5529  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: André Platteel

Listen carefully by Andre Platteel , December 22nd

An almost silent city. Still dark. Numb early morning. My breath becomes visible. The humming sound of a motor. A grand piano hanging in the air. I have dreamed of playing the piano for a long time. And fallen in love with an old Bechstein that a crane is now lifting into my house. I’ve spent the last few minutes watching the piano being readied, the hook attached, and now I see it ascending into the air. Some excitement. A few neighbours join me to watch, still sleepy. Suddenly my eyes see a different picture: no longer the piano hanging in the air, but me. I see my feet dangling in the air, trying to find solid ground; I see my arms tied up so that nothing can escape from my hands; and I see how my voice tries to make words, unintelligible. Am I half sleeping, or was I? Soon, I will own a great instrument. But instead of happiness, fear invades me. I feel panic. Am I afraid of owning something that big? Am I afraid of all the learning that needs to happen before I can actually play? But why this sadness? And why does this heaviness feel so big? All the feelings that don’t fit this moment burst open. The ground is disappearing. I have no clue what is going on. My skin feels like paper. I watch myself becoming more and more distant. My world seems to collapse. It is slipping through my fingers, like silence. A few days go by. I’ve touched the piano for only a few minutes. The bass is intense. The higher tones too shrill. The sounds resonate with something I fear. I know it is not just a tune. Whatever it is that is being touched, it is strong enough to destroy me. If I hold my breath, I can hear it inside me. It has all the time in the world, been there for such a long time. The roaring. It just waits, like a sniper picking his moment. I try to shape what happens to me when I am not asleep; the nights are needed too. The light that separates night and day has been broken. There seems only to be darkness. I am sucked into a black hole made of different fragments of darkness. Who pushed the ‘on’ button of this crazy particle machine inside me? After a few days I feel desperate: What the hell is going on with me? My strength is ebbing. My heart tries to douse the fire. Without success. My skin bursts. No blood, but water. Unstoppable. Like a weak little boy. I feel spoilt: I, who has everything, what gives me the right to feel this way? Wake up! Be strong! Enjoy! But I can’t. + more An almost silent city. Still dark. Numb early morning. My breath becomes visible. The humming sound of a motor. A grand piano hanging in the air. I have dreamed of playing the piano for a long time. And fallen in love with an old Bechstein that a crane is now lifting into my house. I’ve spent the last few minutes watching the piano being readied, the hook attached, and now I see it ascending into the air. Some excitement. A few neighbours join me to watch, still sleepy. Suddenly my eyes see a different picture: no longer the piano hanging in the air, but me. I see my feet dangling in the air, trying to find solid ground; I see my arms tied up so that nothing can escape from my hands; and I see how my voice tries to make words, unintelligible. Am I half sleeping, or was I? Soon, I will own a great instrument. But instead of happiness, fear invades me. I feel panic. Am I afraid of owning something that big? Am I afraid of all the learning that needs to happen before I can actually play? But why this sadness? And why does this heaviness feel so big? All the feelings that don’t fit this moment burst open. The ground is disappearing. I have no clue what is going on. My skin feels like paper. I watch myself becoming more and more distant. My world seems to collapse. It is slipping through my fingers, like silence. A few days go by. I’ve touched the piano for only a few minutes. The bass is intense. The higher tones too shrill. The sounds resonate with something I fear. I know it is not just a tune. Whatever it is that is being touched, it is strong enough to destroy me. If I hold my breath, I can hear it inside me. It has all the time in the world, been there for such a long time. The roaring. It just waits, like a sniper picking his moment. I try to shape what happens to me when I am not asleep; the nights are needed too. The light that separates night and day has been broken. There seems only to be darkness. I am sucked into a black hole made of different fragments of darkness. Who pushed the ‘on’ button of this crazy particle machine inside me? After a few days I feel desperate: What the hell is going on with me? My strength is ebbing. My heart tries to douse the fire. Without success. My skin bursts. No blood, but water. Unstoppable. Like a weak little boy. I feel spoilt: I, who has everything, what gives me the right to feel this way? Wake up! Be strong! Enjoy! But I can’t. I am flooded with memories, memories that have stayed with me for centuries. I knew of their existence, and I knew of my escape strategies to avoid encountering them. It’s as if the postman has delivered letters from the past that have never been properly read. Now I get them all at once: quite a stack. Read them. Feel them. Be them. The postman watches me doing so, carefully, with complete awareness. Tarnished memories enter the present. Hidden scars start bleeding. Sounds, smells, a touch: I notice them for the first time, now part of ‘then’. Once I am really at one with the memories, they die. And those that died in the memory long ago are finally dying too. More panic. How to let go of something you love so much? I call my father. For the first time in my life, I call my father in a state of sadness. I don’t answer the familiar ‘how are you’ with the usual reassuring words, but with something that has wanted to be heard for such a long time; a strange sound that seems to ask: ‘be my father’. And although that sound can’t be found in a dictionary, he understands what I am asking for, and answers in a way that’s of no real use to me. But I hear something of value in it all the same. For he answers like a father. And for the first time in my adult life, I feel how it is to be his son. A first, fresh chalk line on a blackboard. White. Clear. A few hours later a friend calls, a friend that always calls at the right moment. This ‘dying’, he says, must be goodness, since there is only goodness. What is dying was illusion. What is being born must be goodness. His words make me remember that a black hole is actually not dark inside. A black hole doesn’t release light, and so seems to be dark. But inside, it is full of light. A black hole is actually made of light. What a great instrument, this old grand piano. - less tagged:   Bechstein   father   light   awareness   darkness   blackhole   memories   goodness    permalink  read: 4976  print  forward  comments: 1  add comment      name:  Jerome, December 28th • Mooi stukje...Laat 'm je beste vriend worden.

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

You, me and everything else by Andre Platteel , October 30th

The window needed shutting: the rain was getting in. Autumn wetness drumming on the windows, drowning out the sound of Keith Jarrett breathing loudly as he played his black, polished Bechstein. The speakers whispered: “The rain, the rain, we will defeat it.” But they couldn’t. You were lying on the velvet green couch, meeting it with your simple silk ochre dress. More albums on the ground. Van Morrison, Bartok, Sigur Ros and some that were unfamiliar to me. You were ignoring them, just like you were ignoring the music and the rain; your eyes were on me. An unknown scent of aliveness came at me from all sides; from the books, from the glass chandelier, from the flowers on the table and from the windows the rain was trickling through. Your legs were at an angle, trying but failing to reach the wooden floor. An inch separating your right foot and the ground. Your left further away. Your left hand on your belly, your right hand next to your body. Lean hands; small wrists; long fingers. Your shoulders rested against a cushion, your head was tilted back. Your golden hair was like a monotone rainbow. The whole of you seemed to melt into the air around us. It felt to me like perfect balance: the rattling rain, Jarrett’s playing, the shape of your body on the couch, the colours of your dress, the faded green velvet, the scent of aliveness. The velvety structure of your eyes made me go deeper inside myself. There was no way I could reach out to that look. I had to meet it somewhere deeper. What does something that is being reborn every moment feel like? I felt how everything that seems to be unique is connected to all other things as well. A code? It was more than a mathematical formula in which different letters suddenly form logic; there were holes in the formula, opening up to as yet unborn worlds about to unfold. Never-ending spring. Blossoming. I felt dazzled: too many shadows became forms, too many forms disappeared into the holes. I felt happy. I could have laughed hysterically. My soul appeared to have holes too: every single sound, every single colour, every single touch and every single taste was absorbed. I lived in everything, and everything lived in me. + more The window needed shutting: the rain was getting in. Autumn wetness drumming on the windows, drowning out the sound of Keith Jarrett breathing loudly as he played his black, polished Bechstein. The speakers whispered: “The rain, the rain, we will defeat it.” But they couldn’t. You were lying on the velvet green couch, meeting it with your simple silk ochre dress. More albums on the ground. Van Morrison, Bartok, Sigur Ros and some that were unfamiliar to me. You were ignoring them, just like you were ignoring the music and the rain; your eyes were on me. An unknown scent of aliveness came at me from all sides; from the books, from the glass chandelier, from the flowers on the table and from the windows the rain was trickling through. Your legs were at an angle, trying but failing to reach the wooden floor. An inch separating your right foot and the ground. Your left further away. Your left hand on your belly, your right hand next to your body. Lean hands; small wrists; long fingers. Your shoulders rested against a cushion, your head was tilted back. Your golden hair was like a monotone rainbow. The whole of you seemed to melt into the air around us. It felt to me like perfect balance: the rattling rain, Jarrett’s playing, the shape of your body on the couch, the colours of your dress, the faded green velvet, the scent of aliveness. The velvety structure of your eyes made me go deeper inside myself. There was no way I could reach out to that look. I had to meet it somewhere deeper. What does something that is being reborn every moment feel like? I felt how everything that seems to be unique is connected to all other things as well. A code? It was more than a mathematical formula in which different letters suddenly form logic; there were holes in the formula, opening up to as yet unborn worlds about to unfold. Never-ending spring. Blossoming. I felt dazzled: too many shadows became forms, too many forms disappeared into the holes. I felt happy. I could have laughed hysterically. My soul appeared to have holes too: every single sound, every single colour, every single touch and every single taste was absorbed. I lived in everything, and everything lived in me. You stood up. You walked towards me. A fugue. Mathematics reformulated with every movement: new holes appearing. Other possibilities with every breath. You passed me. You disappeared. I could smell your scent. You were still there. I loved to lose you, knowing you can never leave. The rain was still failing to defy gravity. How does an ever-falling leaf smell? You came back with nothing but yourself. You were silent. You were a woman who does not need to speak to meet. I could have told you stories; I could have sang; I could have made you laugh. But all these things were just too much for what already was. I wanted to become one with you and all other things. But the wanting wasn’t needed. I realised that everything in the world exists out of identical particles. You, me and the fresh flowers, just plucked from a nearby garden, now standing in a vase on the table – they are just different forms of the same, creating different harmonies. All one, all God-like, and all equal while different. You stopped in front of me and granted me a look at all you were. Insolent. I looked shamelessly. In a soundless movement you bent your knees and embraced me. You wanted to overcome the illusion of distance. You wanted to break with the idea that something can be ‘too much.’ I felt silk, skin. Warmth. I felt grateful. - less tagged:   consciousness   God   understanding   love   connectedness   flower   silk   Jarrett   Bechstein    permalink  read: 6040  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

God’s Gods by Andre Platteel , October 21st

He came in from the cold, his skin as thin as paper, his head covered with angel hair, arms and legs carried by the wind. It was around five in the afternoon, exactly five weeks previously, on the fifth day of a cold month. The weak, low-hanging sun had spotted him first, following him all the way to the seat he took at a long oval table, not far from where I was warming my hands around a mug of hot chocolate, my fingers sticky from the cream. Seeing his face turned the chocolate cold. Frozen hands. You could see his veins, his muscles, his bones, his tissue, his structure; you could see what was inside him. I stared into a face I knew so well that was simultaneously completely and utterly unknown to me. A face like my own. He put the bag of colours he was carrying on the table. He stretched out a hand to me. It was weak and warm. Ants. I could feel his blood streaming. “How do you do?” A glass shattered into a thousand pieces. I could not let go of his hand; the ants building a bridge between his and mine. “Listen,” he said, the sound of a fallen glass hanging in the air behind us, still tangible. The moment the sound was gone, he asked: “Where did that sound go to?” I started warming my hands again: sip of chocolate; cream in a two-day beard. I read some headlines that didn’t make sense, trying to regain my own space. His eyes were inside me, watching me from a position I could not occupy. I surrendered to his eyes. He told me his life story, his words pale and crispy, coming without a hitch. His story was too long to fit one life; his experiences too diverse to fit one man; his adventures too grandiose to fit one time. Centuries passed like the watery reflection of a lantern in a black canal. The moment he finished his story, he turned into a child and showed me the colours in his bag. There was no room in his excitement to ask questions. Dozens of leaves were spread out on the long, stained, wooden café table, forming a Matisse pattern. He giggled. His blood turned a deeper red. “They have all fallen, fallen softly to the ground.” He clustered the colours; red, orange and yellow dominated. He spoke to me through the colours of the leaves, telling me that he had had to return from the world the sound of the falling glass had gone to, and that his return had to do with solving one question. The colours were clear about that: paper man was a man with a quest. + more He came in from the cold, his skin as thin as paper, his head covered with angel hair, arms and legs carried by the wind. It was around five in the afternoon, exactly five weeks previously, on the fifth day of a cold month. The weak, low-hanging sun had spotted him first, following him all the way to the seat he took at a long oval table, not far from where I was warming my hands around a mug of hot chocolate, my fingers sticky from the cream. Seeing his face turned the chocolate cold. Frozen hands. You could see his veins, his muscles, his bones, his tissue, his structure; you could see what was inside him. I stared into a face I knew so well that was simultaneously completely and utterly unknown to me. A face like my own. He put the bag of colours he was carrying on the table. He stretched out a hand to me. It was weak and warm. Ants. I could feel his blood streaming. “How do you do?” A glass shattered into a thousand pieces. I could not let go of his hand; the ants building a bridge between his and mine. “Listen,” he said, the sound of a fallen glass hanging in the air behind us, still tangible. The moment the sound was gone, he asked: “Where did that sound go to?” I started warming my hands again: sip of chocolate; cream in a two-day beard. I read some headlines that didn’t make sense, trying to regain my own space. His eyes were inside me, watching me from a position I could not occupy. I surrendered to his eyes. He told me his life story, his words pale and crispy, coming without a hitch. His story was too long to fit one life; his experiences too diverse to fit one man; his adventures too grandiose to fit one time. Centuries passed like the watery reflection of a lantern in a black canal. The moment he finished his story, he turned into a child and showed me the colours in his bag. There was no room in his excitement to ask questions. Dozens of leaves were spread out on the long, stained, wooden café table, forming a Matisse pattern. He giggled. His blood turned a deeper red. “They have all fallen, fallen softly to the ground.” He clustered the colours; red, orange and yellow dominated. He spoke to me through the colours of the leaves, telling me that he had had to return from the world the sound of the falling glass had gone to, and that his return had to do with solving one question. The colours were clear about that: paper man was a man with a quest. During the weeks after our first encounter I visited my paper-skinned friend often. I joined him in the forest and saw him picking falling leaves from the air. I helped him group the leaves’ colours in his house. I saw him transform the fallen leaves into paper, feeding them into a big machine that made them come out as smooth as paper. He rolled the paper he’d made out of the dominant colours endlessly, creating an ever-growing expanse of paper. He cut the paper made of the minority colours into smaller and smaller pieces, the rhythm of his cutting a perfect legato. One night we went to the forest. It was windy, snowflakes hanging in the air. The man spread out his arms to gather more and more of what was floating to the ground. The wind had blown the clouds to an unknown place. The sky was bright, the heavens dark; bright planets tried to shine their light on the mystery. But the light revealed nothing of that mystery. “Did you know that the skies above us are actually not dark but have a sandy colour?” I did not know. “And did you know that when we shine our light onto a part of the universe, it widens itself, as if escaping?” I did not know that either. “The universe is breathing itself bigger and bigger, becoming wider and wider.” In saying this, he had already answered the question that had brought him back to this world. But I could not tell him. I didn’t yet know what his question was: he had refused to tell me; it was a question he had to answer himself. Without help. I enjoyed being with him. Although he was in search of something, his cutting and enlarging the paper leaves felt so peaceful. I saw things becoming bigger and I saw things becoming smaller. I saw things going in two directions at once. He used more and more advanced tools to cut the paper into smaller and smaller pieces. For days, the pieces he had been cutting had been invisible to my eyes. And the paper that had been getting bigger and bigger had exceeded my imagination for even longer. I admired my-friend-in-search-of-something-he-could-not-grasp-but-who-at-the-same-time-believed-he-could. It takes a strong belief to believe in something you cannot grasp. “What does God mean to you?” He was making pasta for the two of us, posing his question just a bit too carelessly. The blood I saw streaming in his face was boiling, just like the pasta. I could feel he was close to the answer he needed. And I knew that the question he had asked was a way of sharing his quest. We started talking. We arrived at a point where God could mean everything. Something that is unchangeable and includes all. “But if things can become endlessly bigger and smaller, and God is all, God can become bigger and smaller too. God changes.” He wasn’t only speaking to me, but to himself as well. And the colours of the leaves gave the answer to his quest: God has Gods too. The One is many. The pasta was perfect, al dente. The sauce simple yet tasty. I knew this was the last supper paper-man and I would enjoy together in this world. - less tagged:   God   colours   blood   stars   heaven   spaciousness    permalink  read: 5369  print  forward  comments: 2  add comment      name:  Louis, October 22nd • Mooi, Andre... greta, October 22nd • I love your stories, Andre. This one reminds me of Alan.

Photo: André Platteel

A fragment of a circle by Andre Platteel , October 3rd

I haven’t seen him for quite some time, although our blood is the same and his hidden scars are no doubt to be found within me too. He drinks coffee; I drink tea, just a block away from where I live. He eats a chocolate cake, fast, as if he is afraid to really taste what he eats. Fastness, there has always been this fastness with him: no time to tune our hearts, ever. Now that he’s becoming older, fastness manifest itself as unease. He has his black leather jacket on, zipped, ready to leave any minute, although another coffee is on its way. I watch his lips turning dark brown, and take a sip of my tea; salty-tasting water. He dyes his hair dark ever since a few of them turned grey, covering the aging that would actually suit him so well. Although I’m watching his lips, I suddenly see that he is dressed completely in black. I can barely remember him in colours. And with that vague memory, the past suddenly arrives as a hole between us, our conversation disappearing into its nothingness. No words left to say ‘after’. Our jaws are muddy, having difficulties digesting the past. He is dying of something that he had hoped to live longer. My mind is full of anger, screaming ‘how could you ever’. I turned what I loved into light again And God wrote in the air about love first, death His kitchen full of white The sea so blue Impossible to know where it all begins He looks at me and talks through a mouth full of chocolate. And although his tongue speaks words that disappear before they reach my ears, I hear his voice reaching out to me, trying to tell me what my heart already knows: that he couldn’t have done it differently. His voice and my knowing, holds me fast. When the world screams for peace, there can still be war Between ‘then’ and now it is dark And for it to become bright The world that we hold between us, needs to leak Its anger and tears For years I have wanted to really meet him; confused by the idea that there was something in him still to be discovered, that somewhere deep in his heart there could be something more true than what I had encountered. But this is all what he is, and all what I am: this ‘thisness’, right now. The search for someone different made the hole bigger. And this thisness is much more than my ideas of him. “When are you going to marry?” he asks me, chocolate still covering his lips. I am surprised. It is such a sweet question. “I would love to see you get married to her.” + more I haven’t seen him for quite some time, although our blood is the same and his hidden scars are no doubt to be found within me too. He drinks coffee; I drink tea, just a block away from where I live. He eats a chocolate cake, fast, as if he is afraid to really taste what he eats. Fastness, there has always been this fastness with him: no time to tune our hearts, ever. Now that he’s becoming older, fastness manifest itself as unease. He has his black leather jacket on, zipped, ready to leave any minute, although another coffee is on its way. I watch his lips turning dark brown, and take a sip of my tea; salty-tasting water. He dyes his hair dark ever since a few of them turned grey, covering the aging that would actually suit him so well. Although I’m watching his lips, I suddenly see that he is dressed completely in black. I can barely remember him in colours. And with that vague memory, the past suddenly arrives as a hole between us, our conversation disappearing into its nothingness. No words left to say ‘after’. Our jaws are muddy, having difficulties digesting the past. He is dying of something that he had hoped to live longer. My mind is full of anger, screaming ‘how could you ever’. I turned what I loved into light again And God wrote in the air about love first, death His kitchen full of white The sea so blue Impossible to know where it all begins He looks at me and talks through a mouth full of chocolate. And although his tongue speaks words that disappear before they reach my ears, I hear his voice reaching out to me, trying to tell me what my heart already knows: that he couldn’t have done it differently. His voice and my knowing, holds me fast. When the world screams for peace, there can still be war Between ‘then’ and now it is dark And for it to become bright The world that we hold between us, needs to leak Its anger and tears For years I have wanted to really meet him; confused by the idea that there was something in him still to be discovered, that somewhere deep in his heart there could be something more true than what I had encountered. But this is all what he is, and all what I am: this ‘thisness’, right now. The search for someone different made the hole bigger. And this thisness is much more than my ideas of him. “When are you going to marry?” he asks me, chocolate still covering his lips. I am surprised. It is such a sweet question. “I would love to see you get married to her.” His words are the most old fashioned he ever spoke, the sounds the most lovely he ever gave me. I hold my breath and feel how he thaws something I was not aware of. Someone once told me that in ancient China parents helped their kids to build a house once the parents thought the kid was ready to live its own life, no matter what age. Helping to build a house was a way of imparting self-belief: this life is your life to be lived. He is a fragment of a circle I left to pick an apple from the tree On my way I found A snake It bit me and I screamed The circle round - less tagged:   father   light   circle   consciousness   God   love   wholeness   life    permalink  read: 6212  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: André Platteel

Man with powers by Andre Platteel , September 23rd

We drive away in the early evening, just at that moment when darkness suddenly descends, and trees shift from producing oxygen to producing carbon. Quite a long drive through the woods; not really a road, just layers of broken branches, crushed leaves and dried mud. The outside air slips through the window, bringing the nearby sea into the car. The driver asks the usual questions I have become accustomed to over the last month: Where are you from? How long have you been here? Where are you going? For the people who live here, the questions are a way to get an idea of who you are. I answer quite fully. And I ask him about the candles I can see outside. “People meditating, using candles to keep away the bad spirits hidden in the trees.” Trees are important. I have seen trees with leaves that tell your future; I have seen trees with little dead babies wrapped in cloth hung on thick branches like exotic fruits; I have seen little black trees, home for thousands of bats, trees that look death and naked at night. The longer we drive the more silent it becomes. The driver keeps asking questions, but it is as if the darkness takes away his words. It becomes more and more difficult to understand him. He loses words, blanks develop, and soon he’s little more than a moving mouth creating soft waves of air. Weeks ago, I met a friend of a nephew of the driver. He told me that if I should visit this area, I had to contact him. He wanted to bring me in contact with a “man with powers”. And that is about to happen. The car stops. The house has no roof, just walls made of white stone. Naked walls, apart from a poster of a Buddha with the head of a bald, smiling baby. Stars and moon seem to be within reaching distance, like low hanging fruit. The couch is covered with plastic. I sit down, sparking a sound that lasts longer than the action of sitting itself. I am offered a cookie: two layers of cake with a soft pink filling. My teeth are dancing. He wears a sarong – quite colourful, purple and gold – and a simple white shirt. His belly is big, yet he is quite tall and slim. His eyes are dark with the expression of a young boy: naughty, excited, sparkling. He doesn’t say a word; he communicates by laughing. He pours tea and looks at me, laughing. He shows me the box of cookies again, and laughs. I do not dare to refuse, my teeth offered another bite. Long moments of silence don’t seem to feel odd to him. + more We drive away in the early evening, just at that moment when darkness suddenly descends, and trees shift from producing oxygen to producing carbon. Quite a long drive through the woods; not really a road, just layers of broken branches, crushed leaves and dried mud. The outside air slips through the window, bringing the nearby sea into the car. The driver asks the usual questions I have become accustomed to over the last month: Where are you from? How long have you been here? Where are you going? For the people who live here, the questions are a way to get an idea of who you are. I answer quite fully. And I ask him about the candles I can see outside. “People meditating, using candles to keep away the bad spirits hidden in the trees.” Trees are important. I have seen trees with leaves that tell your future; I have seen trees with little dead babies wrapped in cloth hung on thick branches like exotic fruits; I have seen little black trees, home for thousands of bats, trees that look death and naked at night. The longer we drive the more silent it becomes. The driver keeps asking questions, but it is as if the darkness takes away his words. It becomes more and more difficult to understand him. He loses words, blanks develop, and soon he’s little more than a moving mouth creating soft waves of air. Weeks ago, I met a friend of a nephew of the driver. He told me that if I should visit this area, I had to contact him. He wanted to bring me in contact with a “man with powers”. And that is about to happen. The car stops. The house has no roof, just walls made of white stone. Naked walls, apart from a poster of a Buddha with the head of a bald, smiling baby. Stars and moon seem to be within reaching distance, like low hanging fruit. The couch is covered with plastic. I sit down, sparking a sound that lasts longer than the action of sitting itself. I am offered a cookie: two layers of cake with a soft pink filling. My teeth are dancing. He wears a sarong – quite colourful, purple and gold – and a simple white shirt. His belly is big, yet he is quite tall and slim. His eyes are dark with the expression of a young boy: naughty, excited, sparkling. He doesn’t say a word; he communicates by laughing. He pours tea and looks at me, laughing. He shows me the box of cookies again, and laughs. I do not dare to refuse, my teeth offered another bite. Long moments of silence don’t seem to feel odd to him. Suddenly he goes to another room and comes back with what was once a green hairbrush. He shows me how to use a knife, and how to defend against a knife attack. His body is low to the ground, feet moving quickly; he maintains a perfect balance despite fast-changing positions. He holds the hairbrush in one hand and his other hand close, ready to create extra power or to defend a counterattack. He puts away the hairbrush and asks me to come to him, laughing and waving with his hand, just like a young kid who wants his friends to join him, yet is too shy to ask. “He wants you to come to him.” My driver seems to have found his words again, spoiling the moment; he has joined us silently, sitting in a dark corner of the room. “He will check and heal your body, if you want.” I walk up to the man, leaving a few inches between us. He has his eyes closed and he asks me to do the same, striking his covered left eye while smiling. Although my eyes are closed, I see his hand following the shape of my body, sometimes freezing; he is feeling the warmth and energy of my organs, his hands sensitive scanners. He grabs my hand with both of his; I feel a strong energy invading me. He whispers sounds and blows on top of my head. Silence. He hits my shoulder softly; I open my eyes. He writes something in the air with his finger, close to my heart. He nods his head and looks into my eyes. Liberation is starring into my face. I fly. Now I know that I know how Jesus could walk on water. “The words he wrote will protect you,” the driver says. “If, for example, someone wants to hurt you with knife, the knife cannot touch you.” It all feels very reassuring. The ‘man with powers’, laughing face and big belly, needs to go. “There is a Muslim celebration in a place two hours’ drive from where we are,” my driver says, explaining the sudden hurry. I am a bit confused. “Is he a Muslim?” I ask. “Yes, in this part many Muslims live. They come from Java, which is just an hour by boot from here.” ‘Man with powers’ asks my driver what we are talking about. Then he speaks to me, a couple of words, then laughs and leaves. My driver wants to translate, but ‘man with powers’ has planted his words directly into my system: What appears to be two and different must be one. - less tagged:   difference   oneness   master   darkness   trees   Muslim    permalink  read: 5190  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: André Platteel

Crazy for love by Andre Platteel , August 10th

He says he has conquered thirteen thousand feathered animals. His words are like birds. I cannot really catch them. “She is falling. Softly. She loves me. But something says she does not.” I believe him; I believe that he has fought thirteen thousand feathered animals. He’s not wearing any shoes. His big toe is thick and blue, as is his ankle. Little scratches here and there. His sweater and trousers are dirty. His face decorated with small scars, from fighting. And feathers in his hair. I envision thirteen thousand feathered animals in a battle with this bare-footed man. “I had to escape you know; they were after me.” He sees my questions building, but pretends not to. Salty air hangs in the street. “If she really asks me to go, I will leave. And I will never come back begging for her love. But she does not tell me to leave. Instead she sends me fighting feathered animals. Look.” His blond hair is reaching out to the sky. He conjures without hands; a high black hat is lifted from his head, a hat that was not there a second ago; a bird escapes. Not the white pigeon one would expect - just a bird; grey, small and with a funny beak. Not long ago I had dinner with this man. I know him for quite a while. This man is a professional in his discipline, and well respected too. “When you don’t wear shoes everybody thinks you’re a homeless person. One guy gave me some money, but I have enough of that. I want nothing but her love. For the first time I feel ground.” He stamps his foot. “Now I understand why God asked Moses to take off his shoes, since he was on Holy Ground. This is Holy Ground.” He stamps again. “And it has never been different.” His voice becomes stronger. People walking past are staring at us. Among them are people that I recognise and who I am sure also recognise him. I see them thinking: Has this man gone crazy? “How many times have I been killed the last seventy-two hours in the chambers of love’s desire? How many times?” He raises his hands heroically. Every second I expect the scenery to collapse. And for the audience to applaud. But he’s not playing a role; I have never seen his eyes so deep and bright. “I am not a crazy man.” He is clear, he reads minds. “I am hyper. Yes. So, I might look like a crazy man. But that is because all the craziness of the past decades has hit the surface of my system. What have I been doing? First working my butt off to gain more knowledge. But what have I learned? And what has work done for me but enable me to buy something I thought I needed. There was no time for love. There was time for girlfriends, and all that stuff - but no time for love.” + more He says he has conquered thirteen thousand feathered animals. His words are like birds. I cannot really catch them. “She is falling. Softly. She loves me. But something says she does not.” I believe him; I believe that he has fought thirteen thousand feathered animals. He’s not wearing any shoes. His big toe is thick and blue, as is his ankle. Little scratches here and there. His sweater and trousers are dirty. His face decorated with small scars, from fighting. And feathers in his hair. I envision thirteen thousand feathered animals in a battle with this bare-footed man. “I had to escape you know; they were after me.” He sees my questions building, but pretends not to. Salty air hangs in the street. “If she really asks me to go, I will leave. And I will never come back begging for her love. But she does not tell me to leave. Instead she sends me fighting feathered animals. Look.” His blond hair is reaching out to the sky. He conjures without hands; a high black hat is lifted from his head, a hat that was not there a second ago; a bird escapes. Not the white pigeon one would expect - just a bird; grey, small and with a funny beak. Not long ago I had dinner with this man. I know him for quite a while. This man is a professional in his discipline, and well respected too. “When you don’t wear shoes everybody thinks you’re a homeless person. One guy gave me some money, but I have enough of that. I want nothing but her love. For the first time I feel ground.” He stamps his foot. “Now I understand why God asked Moses to take off his shoes, since he was on Holy Ground. This is Holy Ground.” He stamps again. “And it has never been different.” His voice becomes stronger. People walking past are staring at us. Among them are people that I recognise and who I am sure also recognise him. I see them thinking: Has this man gone crazy? “How many times have I been killed the last seventy-two hours in the chambers of love’s desire? How many times?” He raises his hands heroically. Every second I expect the scenery to collapse. And for the audience to applaud. But he’s not playing a role; I have never seen his eyes so deep and bright. “I am not a crazy man.” He is clear, he reads minds. “I am hyper. Yes. So, I might look like a crazy man. But that is because all the craziness of the past decades has hit the surface of my system. What have I been doing? First working my butt off to gain more knowledge. But what have I learned? And what has work done for me but enable me to buy something I thought I needed. There was no time for love. There was time for girlfriends, and all that stuff - but no time for love.” A man has stopped quite close to us, listening. He’s behaving casually in the hope we won’t notice him: he’s picking his nose. And actually, what he is doing isn’t entirely fake. “I have had my doubts the last few days. Can I allow love to tear me apart? But then I thought: how can I believe my own doubt? And what is it that is actually doubting? It’s that which thinks that is in control that is doubting. But are we ever in control? Isn’t that the main cause of confusion? That we think that we are someone who can be in control of something? Isn’t that what is causing pain? Look.” He rolls up a sleeve of his light blue shirt to reveal his right arm. His veins are visible, as if they are on the surface of his skin. “Look carefully.” I can see his blood streaming. It is streaming with joy. “Have I anything to say about this blood streaming through my body? All I can do is to make myself available for life to run through me.” A short silence descends while we stare at life streaming. I wonder whether I should say or ask something, or just celebrate this rare moment of peace. He breaks the silence and bends. “Watch out.” I copy his movement instantly. Thousands of feathered animals are filling the streets. The salty air becomes stronger. Then he suddenly rises, spreads his arms and begins to speak: “I open my terrors to you. Let the mountains rejoice, my love. I have come deep into your arms. I have become endlessness in those arms. Let the wings of these animals destroy every corner of me. Let me fall softly, deeper into you, becoming you. Let my image die into you.” He speaks beautifully, like an actor in a Shakespeare play. The animals disappear. The audience applauds. I see a man no more, but love. - less tagged:   animals   love   consciousness   movement   blood   doubt   Shakespeare   mountains    permalink  read: 6057  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

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June, 2009 Mother of all memories		May, 2009 Come again, and again, and again		April, 2009 The Wolf		March, 2009 The three voices
January, 2009 Born to adore This Dancing with the Beloved		December, 2008 Listen carefully		October, 2008 A fragment of a circle God’s Gods You, me and everything else		September, 2008 Man with powers
August, 2008 The hidden promise Crazy for love		May, 2008 Dr. Feelgood What’s the limit of love		April, 2008 Spring Snow will fall The Cleaner		March, 2008 Motherless Child What I am made of Falling upwards Northern Lights
February, 2008 Glass-made-mind The outer layer of the mind Growing younger On Holy Ground		January, 2008 Watch for the wind to blow How is Diego Maradona doing? What are we guilty off? Everything is what is besides language The eagle and the condor flying together In the heart of Otherness		December, 2007 The man who loved too much The dark brightness The windmills of our mind To make two mountains one, gone Bigger than the stars		November, 2007 Act of passion Making love Life has no meaning Where the heart is Oneness is never the same
October, 2007 Mind blowing Becoming authentic Coloured Mind Hide and Seek Culture of fear The man on the bench The Swordsman		September, 2007 What is thinking? World happening Unity in diversity Smell no evil Going in all directions without beginning or end Alternative routes Superheroes don’t age No place like Utopia? Fog		August, 2007 The Wholeness of being Spirit through matter Looking in the mirror A new heart Is matter what matters? World of opinions. Spaciousness for a flower to grow