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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: 6403  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

What I am made of by Andre Platteel , March 6th

She’s standing on the corner of a quite street, her left hand shaking the liquid inside a little canister; she takes off the cap with her right hand, puts the cap in her pocket and, still using her right hand, begins sliding a small stick in and out of the container, soaping it with the liquid inside. She brings the stick to her mouth, and blows. Transparency, carried by the wind. Her eyes follow her newly created world, the stick still at her lips. No movement: it could ruin everything. There it goes, higher. Her eyes travel with it. At the far end of the street, someone is walking her way. But the strength of her belief makes him stop. Don’t interfere. Not now. She knows that the slightest doubt could make it collapse. The bubble has already been aloft for seconds. Her left hand holds the canister tighter, tighter: how strongly can you grip the source? Will it help – holding the source tightly – to prevent what it creates from disappearing? For no reason, the transparent world pops. There is no sadness: she is not a child anymore; she’s familiar with things disappearing. She covers the stick in liquid again and seconds later a new, even bigger transparent world is created. I walk up to her, clap my arm around her shoulder and feel her strong body through the soft wool of her sweater. Whatever she has borne has shaped her beautifully. She lets me have one go. “Blow.” And I do. I blow and create a world just by inhaling a little oxygen – a tiny quantity compared with what my lungs can hold – and letting it escape through my mouth. I am making something. “What do you want?” she asks. Her question jolts me. Three transparent worlds’ thinking time, a million pieces of wanting, all projected into the last transparent circle. “What do you really want?” The bubble collapses. The million pieces disappear. The wind has stopped. She was wearing a boat on her head when I met her. It had suddenly started raining. The ink of what had been a newspaper had almost disappeared. I was en route to nothing, she to everything. She was wearing red shoes; a bit quaint like the rest of what she had on, and just perfect. Three seconds – life started to course like a river knowing it is almost at the sea. “What you want is what created silence there.” She puts her finger into the little container, covers it in the liquid and draws a little heart on my forehead. Her fingers are long; short nails, and soft skin. The soapy water doesn’t smell particularly nice. It feels sticky. The spring sun slices through some clouds that are hanging motionless. We cross the street and enter a park. Trees in flower. Blood running everywhere. She has her arm around my shoulder now, and occasionally pinches my arm, as if she wants me to be conscious of her. + more She’s standing on the corner of a quite street, her left hand shaking the liquid inside a little canister; she takes off the cap with her right hand, puts the cap in her pocket and, still using her right hand, begins sliding a small stick in and out of the container, soaping it with the liquid inside. She brings the stick to her mouth, and blows. Transparency, carried by the wind. Her eyes follow her newly created world, the stick still at her lips. No movement: it could ruin everything. There it goes, higher. Her eyes travel with it. At the far end of the street, someone is walking her way. But the strength of her belief makes him stop. Don’t interfere. Not now. She knows that the slightest doubt could make it collapse. The bubble has already been aloft for seconds. Her left hand holds the canister tighter, tighter: how strongly can you grip the source? Will it help – holding the source tightly – to prevent what it creates from disappearing? For no reason, the transparent world pops. There is no sadness: she is not a child anymore; she’s familiar with things disappearing. She covers the stick in liquid again and seconds later a new, even bigger transparent world is created. I walk up to her, clap my arm around her shoulder and feel her strong body through the soft wool of her sweater. Whatever she has borne has shaped her beautifully. She lets me have one go. “Blow.” And I do. I blow and create a world just by inhaling a little oxygen – a tiny quantity compared with what my lungs can hold – and letting it escape through my mouth. I am making something. “What do you want?” she asks. Her question jolts me. Three transparent worlds’ thinking time, a million pieces of wanting, all projected into the last transparent circle. “What do you really want?” The bubble collapses. The million pieces disappear. The wind has stopped. She was wearing a boat on her head when I met her. It had suddenly started raining. The ink of what had been a newspaper had almost disappeared. I was en route to nothing, she to everything. She was wearing red shoes; a bit quaint like the rest of what she had on, and just perfect. Three seconds – life started to course like a river knowing it is almost at the sea. “What you want is what created silence there.” She puts her finger into the little container, covers it in the liquid and draws a little heart on my forehead. Her fingers are long; short nails, and soft skin. The soapy water doesn’t smell particularly nice. It feels sticky. The spring sun slices through some clouds that are hanging motionless. We cross the street and enter a park. Trees in flower. Blood running everywhere. She has her arm around my shoulder now, and occasionally pinches my arm, as if she wants me to be conscious of her. Kids are playing. Fourteen forever. A ball escapes and heads in our direction. Two kids start running after it, one stopping long before he reaches it. Too afraid to actually run after it. “If what you create always collapses, what is the use of wanting, of creating?” I ask. I stop the ball and kick it to the kid who stopped running. The other kid, the one who kept going and had almost reached the ball, makes me disappear with his eyes. He is close, so I can read it: he really wants me to disappear. And maybe because the kid is too small to fight with me, she suddenly starts to hit me. Playfully, foolishly, but quite hard nevertheless. She laughs. I do not know how to react. It feels like I am losing something. But what? Over what? “Isn’t it amazing?” She stops hitting me. “What?” “This.” No more words follow this ‘this’. She stands there and looks at me with a look that doesn’t want to be described. She lets me gaze at her. I look at the two barely visible lines on her forehead; not signs of age, veins just under her skin. I look at her strong nose, distinct but so tremendously beautiful. I look at her ears – no particular reason except that they show themselves through her thick and naturally coloured hair. I look at her jaw, graphically shaped but not sharp or mean. I look at her eyes – rivers that have already reached the sea. I know she is not a magician. The kid that was supposedly mad with me is frozen in front of an open goal, waiting for the ball that would have arrived a moment later. This is not his lucky day. The ball is hanging in the air. The clouds are still up there too. It is a lazy day. Love stops time; love creates all. Her distinct appearance becomes indistinct – just like everything else. Form loses ground. Light. There is only everything. Form touches ground again; form appears and disappears. I can play with it; I am played by it. The kid is getting the ball and just before he scores, he disappears. It is playing playfully with him. - less tagged:   consciousness   connectedness   light   reality   playing   everything   love   hearth    permalink  read: 5631  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

The eagle and the condor flying together by Andre Platteel , January 23rd

There are four of us, maybe six. It feels completely dark. The only light comes from the sky: thousands of stars and a sliver of moon reaching to the earth. Yet even though the sky above me is clear, the heavens still don’t provide enough light for me to see my immediate surroundings. Although we have walked this path along this amazing coastline at least a dozen times over the last five days, most of us carry flashlights. The near abyss is magnetic. I am having a lazy time in the place that gave birth to the Human Potential Movement, back in the early Sixties. Actually, the Sixties never stopped. There are people gardening naked; the food comes from little gardens within the compound; girls are painting flowers on the walls of buildings; in the evening we gather around a fire outside and those people with guitars play Fleetwood Mac, Crosby, Stills and Nash and Bob Dylan. I went hiking through the wilderness the other day. The sky changed second by second. I walked through rain, in the sun, through storm and even snow, all in no more than half an hour. I felt like Hugh Grant near the end of Notting Hill, with a bit of Indiana Jones thrown in. I tried to find my way through the tall trees and wild bushes. There was no path. Then, the moment the wilderness opened up a bit, my eyes met those of three huge, powerful birds. They stared and shifted their long, thin necks in my direction. They spread their wings – at least six feet wide, I guess – not to take off but to impress on me how big they were. At first, fear stiffened my body. I tried to relax and backed off a bit, still looking into the eyes of these creatures. Condors. I had read in a guide that they used to live here, but had not been seen since the end of the Sixties. Had they been hiding since then, or had they returned? Watching these Condors, I felt a strange otherness I had never encountered before. I felt so alive. Sometimes it takes otherness to remind us what we are made off. + more There are four of us, maybe six. It feels completely dark. The only light comes from the sky: thousands of stars and a sliver of moon reaching to the earth. Yet even though the sky above me is clear, the heavens still don’t provide enough light for me to see my immediate surroundings. Although we have walked this path along this amazing coastline at least a dozen times over the last five days, most of us carry flashlights. The near abyss is magnetic. I am having a lazy time in the place that gave birth to the Human Potential Movement, back in the early Sixties. Actually, the Sixties never stopped. There are people gardening naked; the food comes from little gardens within the compound; girls are painting flowers on the walls of buildings; in the evening we gather around a fire outside and those people with guitars play Fleetwood Mac, Crosby, Stills and Nash and Bob Dylan. I went hiking through the wilderness the other day. The sky changed second by second. I walked through rain, in the sun, through storm and even snow, all in no more than half an hour. I felt like Hugh Grant near the end of Notting Hill, with a bit of Indiana Jones thrown in. I tried to find my way through the tall trees and wild bushes. There was no path. Then, the moment the wilderness opened up a bit, my eyes met those of three huge, powerful birds. They stared and shifted their long, thin necks in my direction. They spread their wings – at least six feet wide, I guess – not to take off but to impress on me how big they were. At first, fear stiffened my body. I tried to relax and backed off a bit, still looking into the eyes of these creatures. Condors. I had read in a guide that they used to live here, but had not been seen since the end of the Sixties. Had they been hiding since then, or had they returned? Watching these Condors, I felt a strange otherness I had never encountered before. I felt so alive. Sometimes it takes otherness to remind us what we are made off. In the darkeness I tell about my encounter with the birds to the four (or is it six) others I’m with. A girl’s voice reacts. I recognize an Esalen-girl I had met earlier and who has lived here all her life. She says that the area is known for eagles and that the condors left decades ago. An Esalen legend tells that when the eagle and condor fly together peace will descend on Earth. Light will defeat darkness. The moment she finishes her story, we all look up into the sky, our attention grabbed by a huge fire high above. Something’s burning. An enormous fire, blazing away, the seconds dragging by. We stop and watch. We don’t speak. It can’t be a plane crash – it’s too high up and too intense. And it’s burning too long. You can see whatever it is trying to reach through the earth’s atmosphere. The fire crackles and bangs. It makes the normally invisible atmosphere visible. Watching the mysterious fire I find myself in the same situation as when I was eye to eye with the condors. Primal fear invades my body. My mind is posing questions that make me feel small: Just how little do we know of the place the fire comes from? How little do we know of the Earth as part of that? How little do I know about myself as part of all this? I feel vulnerable and mortal. Suddenly I feel the fire I see above burning inside me. As if there is no longer any difference between outside and inside. Vulnerability and mortality going up in flames, creating a huge fire. Earth, the Heavens and I are burning, too, but are not destroyed. There is only aliveness. Sometimes it takes fire to show us that what we are is always burning, and always will be. - less tagged:   fire   fear   life   heart   Eagle   Condor   light   darkness   Esalen   sky   understanding   spaciousness   reality    permalink  read: 7384  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

Alternative routes by Andre Platteel , September 20th

I have always liked the opening scene of the film Slacker (Richard Linklater, 1991). A guy just getting off a bus hails a cab to continue his route. He starts a conversation with the cab driver based on the question: what if I would not have taken this cab but would have waited at the bus station instead? His imagination plays with the possibility that back at the bus station, a beautiful girl starts talking to him, she offers him a ride, she invites him to her beautiful apartment and eventually he moves in with her. Because all of this is not happening right now, he continues, it does not mean this ‘thought of reality’ is not part of reality. ‘The thing you choose not to do fractions off and becomes its own reality.’ By thinking of a different reality we acquire a glimpse into this other reality that is as much as true as the one we have actually chosen. In our lives there are many routes not navigated. Somehow we do not pay attention to these routes; we seem to be trapped into this one reality restriction kind of thing. Goethe lived at the same time Newton did. Both were scientists, and more. Newton created a mechanistic world-view seeing reality as something that can be measured. He divided reality into different components and studied them, trying to gain knowledge out of its different parts. Goethe saw science as a contemplative looking (Anschauen), seeing that reality does not exist out of different separate realities but that all different realities are somehow connected. He spent years and years looking at plants. Goethe came to see that, although many plants have different forms, they are not isolated but intrinsically related: they belong together in an organic way. What Goethe teaches us is although we could acquire a lot of knowledge by means of scientific objectification this does not mean that we can fully understand reality as such. Knowledge divides reality in separate units resulting into fragmentation. Understanding, I propose, cannot be fragmented but must be holistic. + more I have always liked the opening scene of the film Slacker (Richard Linklater, 1991). A guy just getting off a bus hails a cab to continue his route. He starts a conversation with the cab driver based on the question: what if I would not have taken this cab but would have waited at the bus station instead? His imagination plays with the possibility that back at the bus station, a beautiful girl starts talking to him, she offers him a ride, she invites him to her beautiful apartment and eventually he moves in with her. Because all of this is not happening right now, he continues, it does not mean this ‘thought of reality’ is not part of reality. ‘The thing you choose not to do fractions off and becomes its own reality.’ By thinking of a different reality we acquire a glimpse into this other reality that is as much as true as the one we have actually chosen. In our lives there are many routes not navigated. Somehow we do not pay attention to these routes; we seem to be trapped into this one reality restriction kind of thing. Goethe lived at the same time Newton did. Both were scientists, and more. Newton created a mechanistic world-view seeing reality as something that can be measured. He divided reality into different components and studied them, trying to gain knowledge out of its different parts. Goethe saw science as a contemplative looking (Anschauen), seeing that reality does not exist out of different separate realities but that all different realities are somehow connected. He spent years and years looking at plants. Goethe came to see that, although many plants have different forms, they are not isolated but intrinsically related: they belong together in an organic way. What Goethe teaches us is although we could acquire a lot of knowledge by means of scientific objectification this does not mean that we can fully understand reality as such. Knowledge divides reality in separate units resulting into fragmentation. Understanding, I propose, cannot be fragmented but must be holistic. Modern society did not choose to navigate the route of Goethe, but that of Newton. This choice does not make Goethe’s reality obsolete. We now come to understand that knowledge without understanding is not enough and that knowledge without understanding is shallow. We become to understand, just like the guy in the cab that all routes thought of are happening right now. - less tagged:   Goethe   understanding   Anschauen   Slacker   Linklater   Newton   reality    permalink  read: 3202  print  forward  comments: 0  add comment      name:

Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen

World happening by Andre Platteel , September 2nd

For a long time I worked as a strategic consultant for various corporations. This involved putting my ideas into models to meet the desire of both my clients and myself: making the world identifiable, making my strategic ideas understandable, and reassuring others and myself with a logical outcome: ‘If we do this, that will happen.’ During my conversations with clients it had was not uncommon that at some time during the conversation I would take out my pencil and my notebook and that I would draw a circle with some inner-circles, words written in those different circles, interconnecting the words with lines suggesting correlations. Look: this is how reality works! The idea of observing the world, and being able to measure it, has been a fundamental believe in Western civilization. Galileo and Newton are our grandfathers. And as their grandchild, I enjoyed making models - actually I still do. However, I have been noticing - after some time and after the willingness to check the status of my models in reality - that once such a model is created, most of the time reality does not unfold accordingly; instead it is behaviour trying to act accordingly. The models do not placed others and myself in reality, we are placed outside of reality and into our own multi-mirrored worlds. It has been painful to see that the efforts of trying to make reality clear results in these self-created illusions. Once you want to put reality into a model, realty itself just seems to want to go another direction. In a sense reality is like water: once you think you can touch it, the water moves away from you, going in all sorts of unexpected directions. + more For a long time I worked as a strategic consultant for various corporations. This involved putting my ideas into models to meet the desire of both my clients and myself: making the world identifiable, making my strategic ideas understandable, and reassuring others and myself with a logical outcome: ‘If we do this, that will happen.’ During my conversations with clients it had was not uncommon that at some time during the conversation I would take out my pencil and my notebook and that I would draw a circle with some inner-circles, words written in those different circles, interconnecting the words with lines suggesting correlations. Look: this is how reality works! The idea of observing the world, and being able to measure it, has been a fundamental believe in Western civilization. Galileo and Newton are our grandfathers. And as their grandchild, I enjoyed making models - actually I still do. However, I have been noticing - after some time and after the willingness to check the status of my models in reality - that once such a model is created, most of the time reality does not unfold accordingly; instead it is behaviour trying to act accordingly. The models do not placed others and myself in reality, we are placed outside of reality and into our own multi-mirrored worlds. It has been painful to see that the efforts of trying to make reality clear results in these self-created illusions. Once you want to put reality into a model, realty itself just seems to want to go another direction. In a sense reality is like water: once you think you can touch it, the water moves away from you, going in all sorts of unexpected directions. Reality is not here to be captured: reality is here to invite us in its ever-unfolding mysteries. The real realist, it seems to me, is not a visionary who captures reality; the real realist is a mystic who is able to embrace reality in all its different forms, changing every single second. The world is not given, it is happening, every moment, right now. This does not mean that we should neglect models or concepts; they can be of help. As it is of help to me using words to make myself understandable, knowing at the same time that these words can never fully capture the reality that I experience; that they can never transfer the meaning that I experience in its entirely. A model is exactly what it is; it refers to reality, but it never can be this reality itself. Can it? - less tagged:   concepts   reality   connectedness   ever-unfolding   strategy   marketing    permalink  read: 3322  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