Nights in ragged flannel

Nights in bleached cotton

ending much to soon

daylight long forgotten

living only with the moon

Beauty I've always seen

there for the taking

but a taker I've never been

just a dream before awaking

Gazing at other early birds

traveling in the dark

are they going homewards

or are they living in the park

Lust for life gets evaporated

each day a lonesome emptiness

mutual time cruelly prorated 

never any daylight blitheness

Nights in ragged flannel

to short to get some rest

enjoyment on deferral 

an aging heart in my chest

Beauty I've always known

shivering by the lac of light

still our light bulb love has grown

knowing the future is going to be a fight

Fabricated answers..

There's never been a solution,

there's never been a helping hand.

For those who seek consolation,                    

for those who seek their space.

There's never been a book,

there's never been a guide.

For those who lost their senses,

for those who abandoned trust.    

Time does not have all answers,

the answers aren't revealed.

For those daring to ask questions,

for those freed from of divine facts.

Reality is just a presumption

for those who can't bare a holy vacuum

Figments accepted as deliverance

by those with a darkened power of cogitation.

Why didn't we die in time

Why didn't we die when we were twenty?
When we were melted in each other's love
Why didn't we die when we were twenty?
When the future was a far away horizon.

Why didn't we die when we were thirty?
When our hearts still overruled our brains
Why didn't we die when we were thirty?
When days to come were just pictures in the fog.

Why didn't we die when we were forty?
When making love became a form of art and poetry
Why didn't we die when we were forty?
When we were breathing each others fantasy's

Why didn't we die when we were fifty?
When thoughts about the past were vague memories
Why didn't we die when we were fifty?
When our love grew to unconditional trust.

Why didn't we die when we were sixty?
When our body's could still bare the tortures of aging
Why didn't we die when we were sixty?
When gravity was fought with pride.

Why didn't we die when we were seventy?
We would never have known each others pain
Why didn't we die when we were seventy?
We would never have lost our independence.

Why didn't I die when you left life
Then I wouldn't have known the pain of emptiness
Why didn't I die when you left life
Then I wouldn't have to mourn until my last breath.

The worst Christmas song ever, although....

Recorded on a cold and depressing afternoon at the Bluesbarn Studio.

Just Me, hot coffee, a pig-nose and a resonator guitar.

Seeds of respect

My head is working overtime, my body can't keep up. That working-class family education will be the reason for my self-respect to be mirrored on physical performance. 'Respect must be earned', a common expression that is often linked to behavior and the impressions you leave with the people you meet. Our so-called 'Liberal' society of today, blended the norm to being merged into the meaningless mass. A little philosophically minded man is easily an outsider, artists are more often disrespectfully named subsidy-hungry 'leftist' outcasts. “Working for your bread” implements that enough 'bread' eliminates the need to work and real life can be lived. In today's world it's not the effort that earns respect but the result of that, measured by performances and goals achieved.

Generally worn respect is a Utopian fantasy. An onset writer with a good selling novel, reaching the top ten of most sold books, doesn't automatically get the respect of the literary elite, on the contrary. A nurse in a nursing home may carry out her work with passion against a disrespectful monthly fee, as in various sectors like horticulture, call-centers and on manufacturing-lines, a modern form of slavery is introduced that, when it comes to self-reliance and self-respect, crushed any straw of hope. Self-esteem is linked, according to my experience, with pride, freedom and realizing your right to be, supported by receiving compliments and love of others. Small uplifting words as; 'You've done well,' when your unemployed neighbour tries to strip the weeds out of your driveway, or; 'What a beautiful drawing,' while some children made a mess on the sidewalk, expressing their creativity, are the seeds needed to grow self-esteem. Self-respect is growing by every appreciation for making the effort, not by rewarding only performances.

Silence

Aut Viam Inveniam, Aut Faciam

There's always a road, if not, we'll make on.

A Fucked-up World

On the land with plenty
the rains keep falling down
The soil lost all absorption
summer leafs turned brown

Streets are overflowing
with heartache and pain
New carton-box villages
this world is insane

We're living in a fucked-up world
a fucked-up world

The suits are getting richer
the rest just gets sick
Their grass 's getting greener
their wallets thick

The little people poorer
eating poisonous food
just broken down spirits
in a frown-away mood

We're living in a fucked-up world
a fucked-up world

So many places on fire
weapons payed for by the man
making money by the dead
delivered guns to the evil clan

Deceases getting spread
by people in a white gown
they already know the cure
another financial touchdown

We're living in a fucked-up world
a fucked up world

The man 's making statements
You go back to sleep
We've got it all covered
making an even bigger dust-heap

Now you just listen
listen to your priest
go fuck and make children
'cause the ones we used are deceased

We're living in a fucked-up world
a fucked-up world

Believe in your religion
grasp on to that thought
There's a hard waking up
when the truth is caught

There's no more escaping
in words and in songs
No planet to hold on
knowing to whom it belongs

We're living in a fucked-up world
a fucked-up world

There's no turning back
to times of freedom and wealth
They're steeling your life
messing up your health

You've lost all your rights
sticking your head in the sand
How-come you were silent
when the world came to an end

We're living on a fucked-up world
a fucked-up world

We're living in a fucked-up world
a fucked-up world

The State of Portugal

Two dead, a hopeless situation, a banking union and national mourning.

January the 5th. The night before was dominated by German detectives and therefore lasted until dawn. The unnoticed passage of the morning is due to the dark clouds and the aqueous spray around the hill on which we live. After a night of naked busty ladies who offer their chat abilities through commercials that last as long as the episodes of 'Lasko, the Fists of God', in which a German monk, with the skills of Bruce Lee, solves many kidnappings, robbery's and murders, the compensation for the sleepless night lasts until 11 am. The awakening is accompanied by a message on the radio. Three days of national mourning. Who died, what happened? Is the president killed? Was Lisbon again destroyed by an earthquake? Did Portugal get Bankrupt? The Portuguese reporter speaks at a pace which makes it impossible for a half-awake brain to translate synchronously, let alone understand.

We do what we usually do, if the curiosity wins from indifference. Coffee, cigarette and behind the laptop to figure out, what's going on. It's okay. It appears to be all about a footballer that died. No, not a Portuguese but one Eusebio da Silva Ferreira from Mozambique. It seems that The Portuguese incorporated this man, product of their colonial past, as a national folk hero. Television, internet sites, Twitter and Facebook are overflowing with fabulous facts about this soccer player. He scored 733 times in 745 games. The Portuguese football connoisseurs state that he was just as good, or perhaps better than Cruyff, Maradona and Pele, in whatever important thing they changed the world with. For his club Benfica he scored from 1960 to 1975 more than once per game: 317 times in 301 games, and that seems to have changed the world for the better.

Yesterday, the bells of the basilica rang through the valley. A villager had the courage, to give up living after 85 years. A simple piece of paper with an announcement of the funeral was nailed to the door of his little house. At the cafe his old mates gathered to toast on the life of their friend with a zip of aquadente. His descendants are informed and hopefully be on time in their hometown to attend the funeral. It's 2014 and it's hard to imagine that the deceased has never known the luxury of an indoor toilet or bathroom with hot water. Yet that is how he lived his life. A single light-bulb above the table, no TV or fridge, no heating. Only a wood burning stove, which also served as a source of heat and hot water, a bit of nostalgia that nowadays can't be missed in the cooking experience of a modern kitchen, and therefore stands unused as a show off next to the induction hob. No, not three days of communal mourning for him, in fact it seems to be a relief, a liberation and an imminent solution to existing problems. You must die before you really are in need of care, especially in a country where homes for elderly are a rarity and for the underprivileged priceless anyway. Caring for your parents seem a vanishing tradition. Not because the kids don't want to wear accountability but simply because of the lack of financial resources. Surviving in today's economy only works if both partners have three jobs between them.

Lonely elderly people are literally dying of starvation, the poorest families get their parents at home to strengthen their income with the little pension. Occasionally, a demented elderly is set free from a locked back room where they should stay as long as the children are out to their underpaid job. Degrading situations.

Portugal has declared three days of national mourning. Not for all those affected by the desperate situation caused by criminal bankers. Not for that old man who died alone in his cold house. Not for those children who go to school with an empty stomach. Not for those families who put off their electricity bill is because they have to choose between food and heating. No, three days of national mourning for a footballer from the former colony of Mozambique, who by chance was blessed with a talent and became a hero in the Stadium of Light. That it's a loss for the 'as aguias' may be so, but national mourning? Portugal is doing well, the budget deficit is going in the right direction, Europe is satisfied. But what if the European banking union becomes a reality? Suddenly the Portuguese society also stands for the savior of other banks in Europe. How many days of National Mourning will be proclaimed when a Dutch or French bank gets saved by the Portuguese taxpayer?

About Jenny's quest for her place underneath the sun.

January the 2nd 2014. The first day in a new life as a result of the decision to see the sun and avoid the dark. All I had to do to make a positive contribution to the day was listening to a story that morning.

The night turned dark. Accustomed to lampposts, white stripes and reflective bollards, she drove confidently away in her right-controlled Mini. For the first time alone, finally. Jenny decided to get a life for herself, a future with making her own choices. At the first intersection she confidently chose to turn right, towards the south, towards freedom. The street was narrow and the treetops high above the road surface formed an arch of leaves, which made it almost impossible for the moonlight to lighten up the street.

While concentrating at the, headlights illuminated, road of cobblestones and little parts of asphalt , she tried to justify her decision to leave. She was just thinking about all the frustrations that came with being forced to live in a foreign country. Two years after she emigrated, against her will, with her parents to a small village in the rural heart of Portugal, time had come to start her own quest for happiness. Her, last week granted, drivers license and the, imported Liverpool, Mini that she affectionately maintained and cleaned over the last two years, were her only possessions. Never again would she conform to other people's decisions, not even those of her parents.

Her parents had worked among industrial smoke in an increasingly degenerating working-class neighborhood. For them it was the ultimate dream, living in a small village, away from the sickening conditions and underpaid work in a slaughterhouse. Jenny went to school, Jenny had friends, Jenny wanted nice clothes, Jenny had some fun on the weekends. The life of her parents was all about Jenny's happiness. In retrospect, it became clear what her parents had done for her and how hard they worked to make their daughters life as pleasant as possible. The arguments about school performance, scolding when coming home hours after the agreed time and the cryings of her mother when her drunk father cursed the world, didn't seem to be of any importance as a teenager. While in the distance the lights of an oncoming vehicle loomed, Jenny realized that her parents had only taken one decision in their lives for themselves, emigrating to another country, searching for a different way of life. No, it was not Jenny's choice. No friends, no nightlife and school hadn't been successful. The Portuguese language was very challenging and the lack of free time, because she occasionally had to help on the farm that her parents bought, felt like a punishment. Again and again she had entered the discussion why her parents' chose this life, in which they had to work harder and earn much less than in the past, and why it made them happier. Her parents made a choice at the moment in their lives when an opportunity presented itself, and opted for the unknown path.

Jenny decided again to turn right, not because of any rational reason, but simply because this exit brought her to a paved road. After half an hour of concentrated staring at the road, the first street lights loomed in the distance. The views on the Zêzere river looked familiar to. Jenny stopped on the high bridge that connects the two mountains together and where the the river flows towards the Tagus. She convinced herself that the tears came through the stiff wind that blew in her face. Back behind the wheel again, Jenny decided to turn right and follow the river. She would prove that she could take care of herself and a find a job in some bar or restaurant down in the Algarve, save money and, if she had enough for a ticket, go back to Liverpool, back to her friends and her former life.

Her left arm was warm from the bright sun rays at dawn that penetrated into the small car. At every turn left the bright light reflected on the lovingly polished bonnet. The low level of the shining copper circle in the sky made the folded down sun visors useless. Perhaps it was the heat, maybe the disappearance of the dark and eventually her own thoughts sorted by the midnight ride, who forced her to take a right turn at a crossing in the picturesque village of Martinchel. At some point she found herself on the dam of Castelo do Bode, just ten minutes from Tomar, the city where she went to school until recently. After the long ride in the dark, her concentration showed to be desired and Jenny decided to stop at an early opened cafe. She ordered a galão and a croissant and sat at a table facing the TV ever-present in such establishment. She started a conversation with an elderly immigrant, who happened to drink his abatanado there every weekday morning. It turned into a monologue full of reflection. She found a sympathetic ear and the stranger wordlessly confirmed her conclusions. Saddled with a kind of secret confession he gave his business card with the remark that she could always call or visit him when she thought she would need it.

It must have been around nine when an e-mail appeared in the Gmail window.

Jenny had parked the car and closed the door with just a click. With some fresh eggs from the chicken coop where she walked along towards the back door, she entered the house. Her parents were sitting at kitchen table and looked surprised. They thought she was still in bed. No, Jenny was up early, had fed the chickens and actually wanted to surprise her parents with fresh croissants for breakfast. It will be a tough day for her after a night of pondering, but the strange quest in the dark will probably help her with finding her place under the sun.