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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: 8184  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

In the heart of Otherness by Andre Platteel , January 29th

Although he had stood in front of the mirror probably a million times over the past decades, he had never before seen the little boy inside his heart. It happened by coincidence: he was walking in a shopping street, passed a window and suddenly clearly saw something inside him. At first he thought it was his reflection and that of something else coming together in the window. But the moment he saw the image he also became conscious: he felt the boy inside his heart. Although he felt the little boy, he didn’t feel he was discovering something he had known was there all his life, something that was suddenly and finally revealed to him. He didn’t know the little boy; had never seen him before. He was not shocked to see him inside him; it just felt as if his world had become utterly new, in less time than time can measure. He knew it by his breath. He thought of his breath as a fresh meadow in Spring, blossoming grass telling the animals it’s time to come home again. It was as if his heart had opened and he himself had just walked in. He knew how it felt when his heart opened slowly, like a flower. He had known love. But inside his heart now was not a lover but a little boy. And his heart was opening not because he wanted to give it to a lover: there was someone in his heart already. He moved closer to the window and saw how the little boy had found a small but perfect space inside his heart. The little boy was part of its flesh and blood. It felt so completely strange and so natural. He knew things were about to change for him. Everything always changes, so why not his heart, why not his breath? He had walked away from the window; people had passed him, one of them almost bumping into him, he had closed his jacket; he had crossed his arms high, protecting the area around his heart. He didn’t want anybody else to see the little boy he, himself, had only just discovered. What he had found was too precious to show to anyone else at this stage. When he arrived home he undressed and walked to the mirror. He stared at himself, met his naked reflection and saw two people. He had never before experienced his nakedness from within. + more Although he had stood in front of the mirror probably a million times over the past decades, he had never before seen the little boy inside his heart. It happened by coincidence: he was walking in a shopping street, passed a window and suddenly clearly saw something inside him. At first he thought it was his reflection and that of something else coming together in the window. But the moment he saw the image he also became conscious: he felt the boy inside his heart. Although he felt the little boy, he didn’t feel he was discovering something he had known was there all his life, something that was suddenly and finally revealed to him. He didn’t know the little boy; had never seen him before. He was not shocked to see him inside him; it just felt as if his world had become utterly new, in less time than time can measure. He knew it by his breath. He thought of his breath as a fresh meadow in Spring, blossoming grass telling the animals it’s time to come home again. It was as if his heart had opened and he himself had just walked in. He knew how it felt when his heart opened slowly, like a flower. He had known love. But inside his heart now was not a lover but a little boy. And his heart was opening not because he wanted to give it to a lover: there was someone in his heart already. He moved closer to the window and saw how the little boy had found a small but perfect space inside his heart. The little boy was part of its flesh and blood. It felt so completely strange and so natural. He knew things were about to change for him. Everything always changes, so why not his heart, why not his breath? He had walked away from the window; people had passed him, one of them almost bumping into him, he had closed his jacket; he had crossed his arms high, protecting the area around his heart. He didn’t want anybody else to see the little boy he, himself, had only just discovered. What he had found was too precious to show to anyone else at this stage. When he arrived home he undressed and walked to the mirror. He stared at himself, met his naked reflection and saw two people. He had never before experienced his nakedness from within. He stood in front of the mirror in silence, the minutes passing. The little boy smiled at him. He waved back. And felt ridiculous. Had he gone mad? Still naked, he made some tea. Somehow it didn’t feel appropriate to get dressed while this little boy was still inside him. He was afraid to insult him, as if by getting dressed he would be drawing the curtains; a strange idea actually, because he had originally seen the little boy when he was dressed. When the tea was ready he invited the little boy to join him for a cup. While they were enjoying the fine Darjeeling, he asked the little boy what he was doing in his heart. He had always been there, came the reply. Not as a little boy, but as everything. Did the little boy have a name, he wanted to know. “Now, I am Otherness; I am neither your past nor your future, nor I am you here and now. I am enduring. I am all the ones you have always been and all the ones you will become in the future, all at the same time.” “That’s not Otherness, that’s me in all of my stages,” he said to the little boy. The little boy took a cookie from the box that was always on the kitchen table. “If you believe what you already are, you can never become. In order to become who you really are you have to meet me, Otherness.” Otherness was starting to feel more and more strange to him. “Are there others hiding in my heart,” he asked, fear invading his voice. Yes, in a way, the little boy answered. And no, because all others were he - the little boy continued. “Why have you chosen to be Otherness now,” he then asked the little boy. “Because you have asked for me: you have invited me into you heart.” “How can I have asked for something I am not aware off?” The little boy did not answer. He smiled, not arrogantly or ironically, not even tenderly – just smiled. The room they were in grew darker. He could barely see Otherness now. He felt lost. Indeed, he did lose everything in a moment that cannot be measured by time. His heart screamed, as if the little boy in him was for the first time experiencing a never-ending, hard-core rollercoaster ride. It was as if he had dived to the bottom of the earth and any idea of him, the world or others faded. He thought he would die, and panicked. But the panic also faded. He met nothing. Within seconds – if you want to measure in time – his eyes adjusted to darkness and nothing, and he saw Otherness again, more clearly now, no longer as a little boy but as all that he had never known; all of which he now knew was him too, all of which he had known deep in his heart without being conscious of it. In the darkness he and the now formless Otherness drank more tea, ate more cookies and saw the brightness darkness is made of. Drinking tea, eating cookies and watching brightness in the dark – yes, that’s what they did. - less tagged:   otherness   image   consciousness   fear   Spring   flower   blood   change   gravity   darkness   brightness   heart   knowing   earth   irony   experience    permalink  read: 7543  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

The man on the bench by Andre Platteel , October 22nd

As long as there is even the slightest bit of sun about, you’ll find him there, sitting on a bench in Spui square, in the heart of Amsterdam, shouting at everyone who passes by: ‘Who do you think you are?’ His voice is not aggressive, nor ironic – it’s just his voice speaking, asking. He almost always wears a sweater and always has his racing bike next to him; he leans it against the bench he’s sitting on, which makes it impossible for others to sit next to them – should they even dare to consider it. Some people are annoyed by his challenge, some act as if they haven’t heard the question, some answer by giving their name, some just laugh, and some – although I have not seen more than a few people try this – attempt to answer the question seriously and walk up to talk to him. ‘Who do you think you are?’ In my case, the question reminded me of Pirandello’s story ‘Uno, Nessuno e Centomila’ (‘One, None, and a Hundred Thousand’). A man looking at himself in the mirror is confronted by what he sees when his wife points out his big nose, which he had never noticed. He becomes confused because he thought he knew himself so well, his behaviour modelled on the picture he had created of himself. He starts asking his friends how they see him and discovers that each has a different picture of him and that none of these pictures match the picture he has of himself. So he abandons his mental self-image and the behaviour he thought went with it and starts to act and behave in the moment. His ‘I’ is released and in doing so he escapes the rigid, suffocating structure of his earlier self-image; he becomes ‘fresh’: his thinking is no longer connected to a mental structure but to what appears at every moment, again and again. ‘Who am I?’ The confusion is already in the language. When we speak of a flower we use the word to refer to a collection of sensations: its colour, scent, shape, form and so on. There is no flower without these sensations or qualities. There is no flower behind or besides these. The flower is in the sensation, in the phenomenon that we call ‘flower’. It is similar with ‘I’: there is no such thing as ‘I’ behind or besides the sensations we experience. There is only what we experience. Most of the experiences we have, at least my own, anyway, are not even experiences but mental projections – just like the guy in Pirandello’s novel. We do not see a flower, a friend, a building or a guy sitting on a bench; we see a mental projection – we are looking in the past and relating a fresh moment to something we have already experienced. + more As long as there is even the slightest bit of sun about, you’ll find him there, sitting on a bench in Spui square, in the heart of Amsterdam, shouting at everyone who passes by: ‘Who do you think you are?’ His voice is not aggressive, nor ironic – it’s just his voice speaking, asking. He almost always wears a sweater and always has his racing bike next to him; he leans it against the bench he’s sitting on, which makes it impossible for others to sit next to them – should they even dare to consider it. Some people are annoyed by his challenge, some act as if they haven’t heard the question, some answer by giving their name, some just laugh, and some – although I have not seen more than a few people try this – attempt to answer the question seriously and walk up to talk to him. ‘Who do you think you are?’ In my case, the question reminded me of Pirandello’s story ‘Uno, Nessuno e Centomila’ (‘One, None, and a Hundred Thousand’). A man looking at himself in the mirror is confronted by what he sees when his wife points out his big nose, which he had never noticed. He becomes confused because he thought he knew himself so well, his behaviour modelled on the picture he had created of himself. He starts asking his friends how they see him and discovers that each has a different picture of him and that none of these pictures match the picture he has of himself. So he abandons his mental self-image and the behaviour he thought went with it and starts to act and behave in the moment. His ‘I’ is released and in doing so he escapes the rigid, suffocating structure of his earlier self-image; he becomes ‘fresh’: his thinking is no longer connected to a mental structure but to what appears at every moment, again and again. ‘Who am I?’ The confusion is already in the language. When we speak of a flower we use the word to refer to a collection of sensations: its colour, scent, shape, form and so on. There is no flower without these sensations or qualities. There is no flower behind or besides these. The flower is in the sensation, in the phenomenon that we call ‘flower’. It is similar with ‘I’: there is no such thing as ‘I’ behind or besides the sensations we experience. There is only what we experience. Most of the experiences we have, at least my own, anyway, are not even experiences but mental projections – just like the guy in Pirandello’s novel. We do not see a flower, a friend, a building or a guy sitting on a bench; we see a mental projection – we are looking in the past and relating a fresh moment to something we have already experienced. The confusion I repeatedly encounter with self-inquiry and understanding who or what I am, lies in language. In spiritual literature, to refer to what we truly are often means using words like Self (with a capital), Spirit (also with capital) or Big Mind (something immense, probably behind something that is called Small Mind). But what I am, what I experience, lies in the phenomenon itself. There is no Self, Spirit or Big Mind behind or besides what I experience. Believing there was would put me on a endless journey to find what can never be found, because it is here – all the time and readily available. In being with what is. Making space for the phenomenon to settle and ‘unpack’ in my mind is not only seeing what truly is at that particular moment (a flower, for example) – and therefore experiencing it afresh – but also and simultaneously understanding who I truly am. In seeing the flower anew, I see myself. In that process my connectedness with others and the world becomes more than just a thought. - less tagged:   consciousness   spaciousness   Pirandello   language   flower   wholeness   connectedness    permalink  read: 4833  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

Coloured Mind by Andre Platteel , October 9th

I’m wandering around somewhere north of New York’s Little Italy district, where the streets have names like Mott and Baxter. I suddenly stop in front of a shop. Something must have grabbed my attention – in a split second and before I am conscious of what it is. The window in front of me plays a wonderful game with my imagination. I see a table, made from wood and beautifully done. But that’s not what has stopped me in my tracks. There’s a vase of flowers on the table and somehow the image of the vase with flowers looks like a paper cut-out by a photographer I recently bought a picture from. Looking closer, however, I see that there is actually nothing on the table. The table is bare, and the vase with flowers combination is a reflection from the flower shop opposite. As I turn around I see an exact copy of the vase with flowers, calling for attention. The flowers themselves are very colourful, but I prefer its reflection, for now. The reflected image makes the colours look more withdrawn and seems to bring forth the shape of the flowers more accurately. Is my mind tired of being coloured? I walk to the other side of the street and indulge myself in the flowers’ colours. The red and orange of certain flowers is intense. Looking longer, more closely and giving the colours the chance to grow in my mind, I suddenly see something other than the colour in the colours. The red, for example, is no longer just a certain shade of red; the red has a ‘floweriness’ to it as well: the flower adds something to the red and makes it unique to that flower. The red also communicates the velvety feeling that is part of the flower. I can see little spots bearing a slightly different shade of red and which give the flower its particular character. And at the centre of the flower, the red turns to black, giving it a specific shape. So although the reflection across the street actually communicated the outer form of the flower more accurately than the coloured version, the colours bring out the 'inner' part of the flower far better. + more I’m wandering around somewhere north of New York’s Little Italy district, where the streets have names like Mott and Baxter. I suddenly stop in front of a shop. Something must have grabbed my attention – in a split second and before I am conscious of what it is. The window in front of me plays a wonderful game with my imagination. I see a table, made from wood and beautifully done. But that’s not what has stopped me in my tracks. There’s a vase of flowers on the table and somehow the image of the vase with flowers looks like a paper cut-out by a photographer I recently bought a picture from. Looking closer, however, I see that there is actually nothing on the table. The table is bare, and the vase with flowers combination is a reflection from the flower shop opposite. As I turn around I see an exact copy of the vase with flowers, calling for attention. The flowers themselves are very colourful, but I prefer its reflection, for now. The reflected image makes the colours look more withdrawn and seems to bring forth the shape of the flowers more accurately. Is my mind tired of being coloured? I walk to the other side of the street and indulge myself in the flowers’ colours. The red and orange of certain flowers is intense. Looking longer, more closely and giving the colours the chance to grow in my mind, I suddenly see something other than the colour in the colours. The red, for example, is no longer just a certain shade of red; the red has a ‘floweriness’ to it as well: the flower adds something to the red and makes it unique to that flower. The red also communicates the velvety feeling that is part of the flower. I can see little spots bearing a slightly different shade of red and which give the flower its particular character. And at the centre of the flower, the red turns to black, giving it a specific shape. So although the reflection across the street actually communicated the outer form of the flower more accurately than the coloured version, the colours bring out the 'inner' part of the flower far better. A few days ago I visited the Ursus bookshop, on Madison Avenue. It’s on the first floor of the legendary Carlyle Hotel (Woody Allen lives nearby and performs in the Carlyle café once in a while). I bought a book by Karl Blossfeldt, who began photographing flowers to show his architecture students just how similar natural forms and man-made buildings can be. I love his black and white photos, which show the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen. Just as with the reflection in the window, the black and whiteness of the pictures gives the viewer the opportunity to see the outer form of the flower more clearly. But now I wonder how Karl Blossfeldt must have seen those flowers in their true colours? If part of the uniqueness of a flower lies in its colour, is it possible to bring out that uniqueness without using colour? Can an artist like Karl Blossfeldt succeed in communicating the uniqueness of the flower if he doesn’t use the elements that bring out the uniqueness of the flower? In other words: Can Karl Blossfeldt find artistic ways to communicate the uniqueness of the flower by describing both his particular experience of it as well as the universal uniqueness of the flower itself? It hits me that our thinking is always coloured; we always think from a certain perspective. Our minds are coloured, I realise, but what happens when the colours start taking over mind? Our mind cannot be coloured enough in order to see what really is. - less tagged:   WoodyAllen   consciousness   KarlBlossfeldt   Ursus   NewYork   flower   red   mind   Nolita   imagination    permalink  read: 5543  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

Spaciousness for a flower to grow by Andre Platteel , August 28th

Due to increasing media and interactive media qualities it is easier to connect with others. Does this form of connecting lead automatically to more consciousness – are we becoming more aware of our connectedness with all that lives? Are we becoming more conscious when we are outside using our mobiles to talk to someone, to connect to that other one, at the same time not being aware anymore of our physical surroundings? Are we becoming more conscious when we are connected with others in a multi-player game on the net, at the same time being addicted, not leaving our space behind the computer anymore, for days, weeks, or even months? Connecting media have the possibility to create more consciousness, but only if, in my view, our being with these media is coming from the space of consciousness. Else we will just create a society of mediocrity – our experience of life being depended of media. Due to media we are becoming conscious of more phenomena, seeing more places, more cultures, more habits and more patterns - but are we seeing these phenomena in there own depths? Consciousness for me resonates with spaciousness: consciousness being the space for all phenomena (without preference, without judgment) to arise in; and also, at the same time, consciousness as being the space for all phenomena to appear in into their own being. + more Due to increasing media and interactive media qualities it is easier to connect with others. Does this form of connecting lead automatically to more consciousness – are we becoming more aware of our connectedness with all that lives? Are we becoming more conscious when we are outside using our mobiles to talk to someone, to connect to that other one, at the same time not being aware anymore of our physical surroundings? Are we becoming more conscious when we are connected with others in a multi-player game on the net, at the same time being addicted, not leaving our space behind the computer anymore, for days, weeks, or even months? Connecting media have the possibility to create more consciousness, but only if, in my view, our being with these media is coming from the space of consciousness. Else we will just create a society of mediocrity – our experience of life being depended of media. Due to media we are becoming conscious of more phenomena, seeing more places, more cultures, more habits and more patterns - but are we seeing these phenomena in there own depths? Consciousness for me resonates with spaciousness: consciousness being the space for all phenomena (without preference, without judgment) to arise in; and also, at the same time, consciousness as being the space for all phenomena to appear in into their own being. We become consciousness of more through experiencing more divers phenomena than ever. But do we really see these phenomena or are we only interested in experiencing, not giving the phenomena the space to come into being in our consciousness? Almost always when experience takes place, I notice myself, the habit is to revolve myself around the phenomenon, imposing meaning externally from the phenomenon. When I see a flower all my ideas of a flower are being projected on the image I see. I therefore do not see the flower in front of me; I see a mental image of a flower already present in my mind. I do not receive the phenomenon 'flower'. I project meaning on the phenomenon 'flower'. Consciousness for me would be to open up to the phenomena in such a way that the phenomenon itself can come inside ourselves into being. For this process to happen we need to be attentive. We need to create space in order for the phenomenon to dwell in our consciousness. It is then the phenomenon itself that will appear as an idea in our thinking. The actual flower arises. - less tagged:   flower   spaciousness   connectedness   phenomena    permalink  read: 2993  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

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Advaita  AlexvanWarmerdam  aliveness  Allen  animals  Anschauen  Antonioni  Aronofsky  arrogance  art  attention  authetic  awareness  Babel  balance  beauty  Bechstein  Beloved  Berber  beyond  BigMind  BigSur  bird  blackhole  blindness  blood  Body  Bohm  books  borders  Borges  brands  brightnes  brightness  BruceLee  business  Butterfly  carpet  Cartesian  CEO  change  child  Chinese  circle  Clueless  co-creation  colours  communications  community  concepts  condor  confusion  connectedness  consciousness  consuming  Coppola  creation  crocuses  Curse  dancing  darkness  Death  decadence  decay  desert  desire  dialogue  DiegoMaradona  difference  DirtyDancing  disorientation  doubt  dream  Duchamps  Dunaway  eagle  earth  endless  erotic  Esalen  ever-unfolding  everything  Evil  evolution  experience  faith  falling  family  father  fear  feeding  feeling  fighting  film  fire  flame  flow  flower  flowers  fluid  foam  form  fragment  freedom  friend  Gangaji  God  Goethe  goodness  gravity  grip  ground  Groundhogday  grounding  guilty  Gypsy  heart  hearth  heaven  Hero  holy  home  horizon  house  Hungary  hypocrisy  ignorance  image  images  imagination  India  innocence  intimacy  inviting  irony  Japan  Jarrett  Jewison  judgement  KarlBlossfeldt  Knowing  language  laughter  leaves  lie  life  light  Linklater  love  Lynch  lyrics  Madonna  Magic  Manhattan  MarcForster  marketing  martial-art  MartinParr  master  matter  McLuhan  McQueen  meadow  media  meditation  memories  memory  merketing  Merleau-Ponty  MET  mind  MIT  Moma  Monet  Montauk  moon  mortal  mother  mountain  mountains  movement  Murakami  Muslim  natural  Nazis  Newton  NewYork  Nolita  nothing  Olive  oneness  opinion  opposites  otherness  painters  painting  Paris  passion  patterns  phenomena  philosophy  photographer  physiology  Pirandello  plane  playing  Pollock  pornographic  power  promise  punishment  reality  red  repetition  resistance  river  Romania  roses  sadness  seduction  self-consciousness  Serra  shadow  Shakespeare  shame  Shapiro  silence  silk  singing  sky  Slacker  slopes  SmallMind  snow  SoHo  sorry  space  spaciousness  spirit  spiritual  spirituality  Spring  stars  stone  stories  StrangerthanFiction  strategy  stress  sun  swan  swordsman  T'aiChi  TallbergForum  tears  thinking  time  totalitarian  totality  travel  trees  TV-series  understanding  uniqueness  unity  untrue  Ursus  utopia  virginity  vitality  voices  Waiter  warrior  water  wholeness  wind  wing  Wing-Chun  wolf  WoodyAllen  youth  Zelig  Zen 

2010	June May April
2009	June May April March January
2008	December October September August May April March February January
2007	December November October September August

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June, 2010 Dutch Political Leaders Receive book Our World		May, 2010 Resistance Decadence New Book: Our World		April, 2010 Arrogance Naivety Ignorance		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