The unidentifiable beauty of broken dreams

Broken dreams, everybody knows how it feels, well, except maybe Donald Trump, but most if us hope he'll encounter his first serious one soon. The problem with appropriated dreams is that if they don't include positive thoughts for others, they rarely come true. The most important condition however is knowing how to dream. Without the aptitude of opening your mind for some irrational and, at first glance, crazy ideas, your brain won't communicate with your heart. I've had hundreds, maybe even a thousand of unrealistic spins on the future and, although realizing that all these fancy castles in the milky-way of pleasant thoughts won't come true, I keep believing in the importance of unrestricted imagination. It only needs a distilled drop of positivism to fall on one of these overheated desires to germinate a little seed that could grow into the, blue sky reaching, tree you could climb in. The more trees, the more opportunities. One day you'll find that tree that's capable of carrying your treehouse.

Sometimes naivety turns out the be the best quality with which someone can be equipped. Enthusiastic people just follow their dream, not worrying about the consequences or problems that will block the way while fulfilling their dream. Central Portugal seems to have a big attraction to the kind of people who want to break with the rat-race world they're caught up in. A piece of land, off-grid, biological agriculture, sustainable housing, in short, a little private paradise. The ones that were aware of the huge effort it takes on a daily bases to maintain that ecological dream, seem to do pretty well surrounded by the beautiful vicinity in the heart of this country. Surprisingly enough, some of those who came unprepared are also successfully chasing their goals, ignoring all the mountains of yet to overcome problems, smiling away all negativity and “no can do” remarks from the outside world. Facebook communities are among these horrible “outside world” places to ask for any advise when it comes to living in Portugal. Every immigration story is different, not in the least because of reasons, background and just good old plain luck during the first actions. Oh yes we, the ones living in a “conventional” house, all had to overcome some aggravation on certain rules and regulations that seem strange through the eyes of a more or less DIW expert. Some were used to just call a company and had things done accordingly to standards, others spend their Saturday mornings in between the shelves of a local supplier figuring how to do it themselves. Standards are different, Europe isn't a big system of regulated building rules and quality is subjective to cultural excepted livability. Still, it beats living in a town where you can't paint your front door red, just because all neighbours like green.

Broken dreams are often the reason for taking a few steps forward. It all depends on the flexibility of ones mind and in many cases these shattered views, through that keyhole of the future, are a healthy guide to become grounded in reality and dig deep into ones needs and into the possibilities that are available to lay down a foundation on which upcoming air born ideas could be build. Times are changing, more rapidly now than ever. The chances you get could be different while the dreams you pursuit are still the same. That's where new dreams come in to the nightly restlessness and new ideas come to be reachable landmarks by the time you wake up. There's nothing more to it than just starting that adventure. No, there are no guaranties, there's not a written almanac, not even a Google map to follow. It means walking up a steep hill, reading between the lines and bending the borders a bit to your convenience. When we came to this beautiful country we just did. We just followed the dream and excepted all the walls and barriers that came with it. Lots of mistakes were undone afterwards, lots of wrong words taken for truthful advises, lots of bureaucratic paperwork done at the time they came to our attention. It didn't break the dream, it made the way to our goal progress in a steady pass and it didn't turn our little paradise into a land of broken dreams.

Yes I admit, we payed some fines. We didn't have a drawing of our house, except for the one some clerk made and stamped as excepted, in a few minutes at the local Camara office, after a small donation, which turned out to be incorrect after a new clerk came to the scene a few years later. We made the drawing of the “real situation” ourselves and the fine was a fraction of what an architect would have cost. Not every nightmare is real if you see it from a daylight point of view. Now does the fact that not all is going as smoothly and straightforward as the dream predicted, really matter? I guess not, I even think to know that there's a reason for all the learning moments that cross your path while chasing the future plans you dreamed about. It's all about recognizing the achievements you made, filtering out the accessible parts of the whole fancy world you imagined to be your future. That's what dreaming is all about, it gives you the ability to go beyond borders, leave out all the negatives that reality brings along and build your ideal paradise. The fact that only a small percentage of all these illusive thoughts will see the light, doesn't mean your living in a broken dream, contrariwise, without them you wouldn't know what your goals in live are. Embrace the broken dreams, the have a unidentifiable beauty in them.

The unidentifiable beauty of a foggy day

It's like walking into a cloud, well actually it is walking in to a cloud. After one of those sleepless nights, (it must have been the worrying thoughts on the upcoming encounter with the disciples of the vehicle God, at the Centro Inspecção Mecãnica em Automóveis) the misty white curtain waved into the kitchen while opening the door at six o'clock. Our little, 18 year old, four legged companion disappeared out off site within a few feet. He only sees about 20 percent, only hears about 20 percent and acts like an old man who's only pleasure left is winding up the nurses that take care of him. Even before I could lift him up to help him down the stairs, my socks were impregnated with the cold water that was mirroring on the marble tiles of the terrace and my bathrobe was covered in tiny air-filled drops that seems to stick on the terry like dog hairs. I carried the little man down the stairs and of he went for his daily early morning routine. I did reach the firewood shed a bit sooner than I thought I would, somehow the distance get's shorter in a foggy world. With a few logs I went back up, realizing it was slippery after the scratch on my knee that substituted the bump on my head, left by the gutter of the woodshed. I know, I should have had my first coffee before getting that active, but our little Jack Russel just can't wait that long anymore.

The last warmth, from burning wood the night before, left thru the door opening and after putting the kettle on, ripping that stupid wrapped plastic from the fire-starter blocks, emptying the ashtray of the burner, lighting the fire, pouring instant coffee, rolling a fag because the e-Smoker is still charging, letting the dog back in, changing socks and pushing the button “on” at the laptop, I finally  can get to my own morning ritual. Scrawling thru Facebook groups, most related to Portugal, recycling, woodworking and alternative musical instruments, posting a few ironic remarks, checking emails and look at some video's from my fellow woodworkers on Youtube. After the third coffee it's time to go into the workshop and make something. It's annoying when certain events dissuade you from that daily rhythm, like taking the car for it's yearly inspection at the CIMA center. Unconsciously I have put off visiting the test center to the last day, although I know they are just doing their job and there's nothing I could complain about, going there for the last 8 years. Normally I would be the first in line, going very early and wait for them to open the office door, but this time, well, I just don't seem to get myself down from the lonely hill. The world out there doesn't seem to exist, the kitchen is getting warmer and that fourth coffee looks like a very good option. I chastise the lazy feeling that predominantly hides from the outside world deep in the recesses of my brain, sling a washcloth over my face and some crucial parts of my, deteriorating, body that a certain age simply entails, get dressed, go outside to the van and just look over a few things that the car-judge certainly will check out during the process. The left turn signal on the back of the car doesn't work, but after dismantling the cover and spraying some contact-fluid, the problem seems solved.

It must be around noon, the sun is shining bright, the valley is still covered in clouds. We are on top of our own little world and the village is hiding underneath a veil of white vapor. The test center will be closed only a half hour for lunch, contrary to the other buildings occupied by officials, so around that time I'm steering the old van backwards through the small street, off the hill, down to the main road. After about a 45 minutes drive, staring at those first few meters of the road surface that are visible, I'm steering into the “Power-wash” at the local Intermarché. The pressure of the water gun takes away half of the blended paint, but the underside of the van is as clean as the day it drove out of the showroom. The number becomes visible at the heavy chassis our car is blessed with, and the clean sparkling rust will make the people at the test center happy. They hate muddy cars so a first sign of friendliness reveals by the look at a freshly washed vehicle. “One of the break lights doesn't work”, a short but significant sentence, replied by me with “It must be the fault of the pressure washer”. After looking annoyingly for the exhaust, which has it's final part at the middle of the car, just underneath the sliding door, the four times repeated diesel test and shaking on the vibrating plates, which would even make the most experienced porn star blush, there's another problem revealed. “You need to change these rubbers and bolts”, the man says while ordering me on my knees to see the parts he's pointing out. “I will”. To my surprise he's returning from the little office with a green sheet, which means the car got through the test. “Just make sure you do the repairs OK?” I firmly confirmed and drove of the premises with my sunglasses on. The fog cleared and the sky looked blue, more than ever before.

A few minutes later I'm treating myself to an “abatanado” and a piece of chocolate cake at my favorite café, talk a bit to the owner who had me as his first customer every morning at 7, for over two years, when I had to bring my love to the train station for her daily 2 hour commute to Lisboa. Yes, those dark day's are over, still, I sometimes miss these early morning encounters with other “work folk” in the beautiful hours, just before the city awakes. On the way back I visit some friends, just because I pass their village, and we've learned to combine as many things in one drive. The valley, the village and bus-stop at the corner of our street that leads upon the hill, are still hidden silhouette's in the ever lasting fog. It's a day where the outside world didn't reach our little paradise.

When I get home, the kitchen is warm and cozy, my partner in love, adventures and creativity is sitting next to the wood-burner, again surrounded by balls of wool, making another fishtail sleeve for some kid to keep warm during these cold times. There's no need for worldly news on days like this to penetrate our little paradise, I could care less for some famous soccer player who died in a faraway country or who became the winner of “The Voice of Holland”. Just for one day I'm not seeing the racist remarks on the Internet about refugees, I'm not being informed on the highly corrupted manners of Portuguese politicians and bank managers. Just for one day I'm not worried about a nation that supports an absolute lunatic who wants to become president of his sick, commercialized Nation. For one day I embrace that unidentifiable beauty of a foggy day!

The unidentifiable beauty of being app-less

So are they coming over for tea or not? In the moment of realizing that an appointment with friends seems to be forgotten, the aggravation of being uninformed lasts for a few minutes. After that, other, more worrying, thoughts nestle into your brain. Maybe a flat tire or, even worse, an accident. Maybe they won't come because of a not cleared-up misunderstanding or a secret open nerve that needs some healing attention. Although you realize that personal circumstances have forced a kind of survival instinct upon you, it doesn’t mean you should have to be concerned about an ever so spontaneous friendship, but yet you feel all those insecure thoughts creep in your head after the first few minutes of being disappointed. The tiny world you're living in is big. Tiny in the sense of friendships and relationships with equally minded companions in the struggle that entail these economic dark days, big as in the distance you need to travel on the vibrating Portugese roads that are meandering through the valleys, to meet on each others hilltop. Usually your worries are unfounded, mostly the state of the fuel gauge shows to be the decisive reason. It happens more often lately; our traveling range is curtailed by the budget that's left for holy traveling fluid.

Social media, as Facebook and Google+, are a welcoming additions to communicate, however aren't suitable to replace that kitchen table conversations. Even the private messenger applications that come with these and scroll up from the bottom of a laptop screen will never be able to replace a chat over coffee or tea and remain misty words without the nonverbal expressions while stirring a spoon in a cup. The thumbs up, or worse, the lack thereof, while posting a message or picture, appears to be of the highest importance and the rate at which reactions are placed a measure of mutual friendship. The simple life that we live is partly out of conviction and, without beating about the bush, also the result of unconscious decisions in the past. There's no financial room, nor the need to possess, smartphones, tablets, smartwatches and all these other modern day devices, but sometimes it feels like being infected by some communicative blindness in the world of app's.

When being at home there's an old-fashioned phone, connected to an 20th century landline, registered in the phone-book and it's number for anybody to be found who still knows how to use it. When we're not “in”, you'll have to try to connect again later. We are not very important persons, so there isn't a secretary taking messages or a computer voice to inform you on our whereabouts. Sometimes we'll have our, 10 Euro, pre-paid, camera-less, wifi-less, mobile phone with us for emergencies when being on the road. There's no point in using it at home for all obvious reasons. The fact that there's a whole world of communications out there in an other dimension, far away hidden in the megabits of possibilities only accessible by applications on privacy ripping devices, gives you a sense of freedom.  A forced, but gladly excepted, freedom not being able to use them as well as a kind of guilty feeling for not being a part of the modern 24 hour, minute to minute, religion of communications that most seemed to have embraced and some preach as a not to deny and disown achievement of evolution.

It all seems to be about time consuming “app's”, implacable reaction testing ways of communication, where you will be judged on immediate sympathy and enthusiasm with which you are responding. It could take days to receive a letter, for some even an insurmountable waste of time and mental gymnastics to write some well thought out words on a piece of paper. No, it doesn't mean we're living without the opportunities of modern life, e-mail replaced letters, envelopes and post stamps, some social media and services as Skype replaced expensive long-distance phone calls, YouTube and Vimeo gave us a way to share our creativity with the world and a IP-address changing “app” even let's us watch TV from all over the world. It's not that we're not informed, it just takes more than a few seconds. Sure, we won't see our friends messages and pictures about the newly bought bra, the under cooked egg splashing on the floor during their breakfast or the awesome haircut they shared on Instagram, unless they clicked on that button; “We'll share your message with all other social media and meanwhile steel all personal information from your smartphone”. Think about what you have in there: email addresses and phone numbers from your contacts; calendar appointments; personal photos; and, of greatest concern, personal financial information saved on your bank account app and shopping apps. On top of that, the smartphone can continually track your location to build a detailed profile of your recent and current whereabouts. Without your knowledge, the developers of these apps, your wireless provider and your handset manufacturer can sell this information to other firms, like advertisers, insurers or even places you’re applying for a job. The only non aggressive “app's” out there seem to be the Association of Professional Piercers, the Associação de Professores de Português, Art in Public Places, Air Parcel Post, Anti-Poverty Program and in our case the one most listened to; the Alan Parson's Project.

Now I don't expect that somebody on the other side of the valley repeats my morse-code djembe drumming, so it will echo into the rest of the world. It's great to have the possibilities of sharing your happiness, concerns and, hell yes, even sell your products by the means of Facebook groups, commercial sites, YouTube and these magnificent opportunities that are out there on the world wide web. It can't however replace that firm handshake on selling your handcrafted product, or these three, left, right, left, Dutch kisses on the cheek when meeting up, or that provocative wink during a to close encounter or the comforting embrace during tough times.

There's no need for admonishing people for thinking large while living small, it's those big dreams that make little progress happen. However, there's nothing wrong to let time just pass you by standing on the sidelines of the technical ingenuity and live the simple life with all it's natural beauty. It's is not a requirement or condition of a close friendship to copy the drum roll that sounds from the other side of the valley and continue to guide the rhythm on to the rest of the world. All that is expected of you as a good friend is that you are there to help repair the skin of the drum as it breaks down.  There's no “app” for that.

The unidentifiable beauty of accepting village life.

“But look at these people in Africa who hardly have anything to eat, or compare yourself with a member of a minority in that, so called, land of the free. You have nothing to complain about!” And yes, it's the truth, there are always people who's lives are more painful, poorer or under threat then yours. But does that take away the unfairness you have to live with on a daily bases, does that vindicate all the moral flattening of the, whilom carefully build up societies of Western Europe in which equal chances for all and supporting measures for the ones that can't provide themselves with daily based needs? When is the first mayor of a big city going to hunt down all the homeless and drive them in to a closed area of town, like the 13.000 chance less people in Los Angelos, living in tents on designated sidewalks, so that politicians, bankers and their powerful lobby sponsors won't be confronted with the outcome of their greed. Of course it's not about us, it's them, those refugees living in inhumane conditions, those mental ill youngsters, prowling thru garbage bins to find anything of use to make some form of shelter, just because politicians decided it's to expensive to keep them in institutions, provide them with the treatment they so desperately need. The Dutch prime minister calls it the “participatory society”, meaning everybody just takes care of themselves, if you can't, you'll have to rely on family and friends and if you don't have anybody to help and support you, you must be a failure, so society shouldn’t waste any energy and financial means on you, in short, you're fucked.

“Isn't it beautiful?” While squeezing herself laterally thru the caravan door, some over weighted tourist got all exited by seeing one of our elderly neighbours coming out of the woods with a big pile of branches on her head. Donna Annabelle lives in a little cottage just up a steep hill, unreachable by car, but with a magnificent view on the Castelo do Bode reservoir, because ones up on a time her parents where driven up the hill when the valley was floated. Deep underneath that clear water lay her memories as a young child and, according to some divers, the house in wich she was born is still standing. “Oh it's so lovely, it looks so French, romantic with those vintage blue shutters and the ivy overgrowing the cottage, you must be a lucky lady!” Donna Annabella doesn't understand a word she's saying. While her husband checks out the damage on the caravan, which he scratched while driving thru the small street with overhanging olive tree branches, she rambles on about the idea of moving to Portugal and live the good live, just like this old lady does in a beautiful scenery between almond and orange trees and a little cottage full of vintage, country style furniture. In the worst form of simple, only single word, Portuguese, I try to explain what she's so enthusiastic about to my neighbour. No, with vintage she doesn't mean being to poor to repair and paint the shutters, and she doesn't understand that the ivy is holding the roof together, Donna Annabella still thinks that foreigners are a strange bunch of people. Who, in their right mind, would want to live the life of a 91 year old woman, who's depending on the crop that's on her little plot of land, the nice lady from the church that helps her with the everlasting paperwork and has to go in to the woods every second day to gather some firewood to cook and have a bit of warmth during the cold nights. The only thing you might be jealous about is her health and strength, she easily carries 30 or 40 kilo's of branches on her head and walks around with it like it doesn't take any effort.

Instead of trying to understand what Donna Annabella is complaining about, the woman goes on about their plans. They must have taken a wrong turn because they ended up at the waterfront although there wasn't a sign that the road was a dead end, and how could they have known that the road would turn in to a sandy trail if there are no warning signs. The campsite they were looking for is just a few kilometers away, but a little devil in my mind made me forget. I went on with loading up my wheel barrel with an old washing machine that one of my neighbours had placed next to the bin. Yes, that's a way of saying; “It's broken, I want to get rid of it, but maybe somebody can use it”. The outside of such a device makes a good tool cabinet and the stainless steel drum a nice barbecue or fire pit, so of course I'm taking it in to the workshop to surgical decompose it and store the parts I think are useful. Hoping that the couple in their Audi A8, that's towing the Dethleffs CaraLiner, will get lost in their own dreams, I push the heavy wheel barrel up the hill. When I look down I see her walking next to the monstrous rut cabin on wheels, trying to bend the olive branches way from the crispy white surface. In the end, I'm sure, they will find the campsite and will meet up with the real estate agent who will show them some romantic village cottages in the beautiful vicinity of Central Portugal.

Unlike in the metropolitan places of the world, the poor are not separated from the more fortunate in  the little villages. There are no Bronx like getto's, no fenced and guarded luxury area's for the rich and famous, there's as easily an old ruin next to a 6 bathroom villa as there's a donkey cart next to the ultramodern diesel powered log splitter. There's a unidentifiable beauty in understanding the everyday life at the rural countrysides that comes with the acceptance of financial poverty, which of course is something else than living a poor life, and taking the fact that others do better for granted. Occasionally Donna Annabella even has to much salad or tomato's at her with lovingly and compassionately manicured garden. She'll put a basket on her head and shares, whatever she can, with her neighbours. Wealth doesn't live in your wallet but in your heart. No, she doesn't except any help regarding firewood or anything else for that matter, but when we put a box of sheets and blankets next to the bin it was collected within a few minutes, something you don't talk about, period. So when a fat lady sings about the appeal of a “French, derelict, vintage style”, not wanting to see what's really going on, she should move to Beverly Hills, where they keep the poor separated from the financially successful ones. If she think's that an income at the level of a third grade kid's pocket allowance is sufficient to live “the good life” it's time to reset her social clock.

We, well most of us, immigrants who came to live among or neighbours in this beautiful country are doing fine. For some the learning curve turns more spirals than others and the first encounters with the bureaucracy aren't always encouraging, however it hardly comes to a point where your neighbours aren't friendly. Most times they keep friendly even if some try to change cultural and historical customs. Never forget they were there first, and that's where my first impression on the fat lady went wrong, if you over sensitive for the smell that the neighbours pork obviously produces, and you're annoyed every morning when the farmer starts his tractor at 6 o'clock, when you complain at the first day, that your luxury apartment on wheels found its place on a rural spot, about the smoke from the pile of olive branches that's greying your laundry, when a barking dog is a reason to lose your temper at a conversation about it, you're not ment to live in the countryside, certainly not the one in Portugal. Yes, I did meet the couple again, trying to get their fully loaded, watertank topped-up, caravan up a steep hill to get from a campsite. The complains above had already surfaced just by spending a few days on the outskirts of a village. I hope they had a safe journey home and come to the right conclusion.....

I am, deal with it.

I am the childless son
of an only son who I never really got to know
because at the age of ten, I became the last.

What I wanted yesterday is forgotten.
What I want today is irrelevant.
Tomorrow I want something else anyway.

I am a free man
next to a righteous women who I really know
because from that first moment we became one.

Gratefully living in the shining of her being.
Thinking behind the blinding curtains of my brain.
Surrounded by chaos in the darkness of my worried mind.

I am the prisoner
of my own pretended fear
for all undeserved bright moments and good feelings.

A stranger among strangers, a friend among friends.
The inspirator among young ones, a dreamer among the responsible old.
A good listener among the hurt, the sarcastic one among those complaining.

I fit in with the non fittable ones, trying to fix the unfixable.
Turning with the windmills in my mind, fighting the battle with the future.
Aware of unseen dimensions, denying rational but unfair boundaries.

I am a part of all, a piece of the broken,
taken apart and being reassembled, lost hope and found it back.
A nightmare survivor.
A daydream believer.
I am responsible for all.
I am not responsible for all.
I am, deal with it.

Wasting time...

I'm wasting my time, at least that's what I'm thinking. When I'm fixing the old car, so it will pass the yearly inspection. When I'm cutting firewood, when I'm looking at the supermarket leaflets to find the cheapest offers. When I'm painting the house, knowing I'll have to do it again next year. When I'm saving money, knowing it will be spend on some tool that inevitably will break. When I'm scrolling thru the internet, sitting behind a laptop all day. When I'm daydreaming about all the goals I could set, knowing none will come true. When I'm trying to quit smoking, knowing someday I'll die anyway. When I'm trying to eat healthy, knowing I can't afford anything else than the cheapest food. When I'm making some wooden artwork, knowing nobody will buy it. When I'm writing a poem, knowing it won't change the world. I'm wasting time, being depressed, being angry at the people who are killing our planet. I'm wasting time looking at all the alternative blogs, wasting time hearing the manipulated news. My whole life seems to be a chain gang of wasting time.

But wait. I'm just wasting my time. Living in a holiday destination, enjoying the sun. I am, so there is a me. An individual trying to survive in a world full of faraway dangers, lots of assholes, corrupt bankers and politicians, stupid laws and rules, stressful dreams of success, crowded subways, people claiming they are Paris while they've never been there, Nazi slogan shouting racists, extreme religious terrorists, Israelis still claiming to be the chosen ones, greedy companies taking churches to court for putting solar panels on their roof, border closing right-wing liberals defending freedom, millions of camera's following people's moves, smartphone hacking gouvernment agencies, innocent children killing remote controlled bombs, logo making graphic designers after every hurtful event and wannabee Clint Eastwood cops.

I'm wasting time, trying to make some sense of it all. The only real question I have to ask myself is; “Am I going to pay that bill or am I going to buy food?”
“Am I going to help my close by friends and neighbours or am I the one that needs help?”
“Am I going to by medicines for our 18 year old dog or am I going to buy medicines for myself?”
“Am I going to pay for a doctor's advise or will I endure the pain?”

Wasting time doesn't seem much to lose, but it's my time, and one of the few last things I'm able to waste. That put's life in perspective.....

Your own little prison

An uncomfortable thought to know the future doesn't depend on who ever we vote for during elections, but whether we're strong and brave enough to get rid of the heartless, selfish, corrupt elite in power. Revolutions only start when there's nothing to lose anymore, but we all have so many things to hold on. I'm glad I didn't put future slaves on the planet, because that's what the newborns will be in an inevitable darkness. You can try to defend your own little paradise, disavow the suffer from others, barricade your gate to keep the begging needy out, defend your cultural icons and be surefooted about your so called liberty. In the end you'll find yourself in a prison, hypothesize freedom in a prison you've build yourself.

On hostile grounds

Did my best to make it happen,
lost all the hours by being me.
Said Yes to all the shout-outs,
emptied my pockets, gave away the key.

Old friends just being grateful,
different leaves, but we're from the same tree.
No hurt, no pain, no suffer divides us,
on love, respect and privacy we agree

Taking a gamble to look further,
beyond the roots of old friends.
Walking into a new orchard,
uncertain where freedom ends.

Being open, being bounteous,
trying to grow on new grounds.
Trying to hear the word friendship,
just not knowing how it sounds.

The old trees on the land,
move different in the wind.
Cloudy, mystique messages,
spreading the feeling I have sinned.

Planted shallow into infertile soil,
reaching out to the sun.
Taking their shadow for granted,
grasping out to be part of their fun.

It takes a lifetime of learning,
finding a way to enjoy the fruits.
It takes a lot of swallowing pride,
before the first root shoots.

Old achievements don't count,
there's a new chain-gang blues to sing.
I will do all, and all for free,
but not for nothing.

Between Dawn and Dusk

The white sparkling grass,
frozen during a moonlightness night,
scorned the warmth offered by
the early Sunday morning sun.

Coulored beams like shiny brass,
awakening the world with daylight,
scaring away the life threatening cold
with a clarifying and natural vision.

At noon the fields are green at last,
revealing a temporary beautiful sight,
the fight between dawn and dusk discloses
planet Earth's manic depression.

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.

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.