from the underground

journals bruts


alchémies du verbe


this is a laboratory space of artistic experiment and sensitory gratification, where all kind of adventurous menus are being concocted and served by craftsmen with a sharpened sense of taste and courage but most of all:

“avec un certain gaieté d’esprit.”


This is the place for scribblings that were taken away – almost kidnapped – from the writers. Texts that were taken from the top of their drawers. Only to land on top of our desks, hic et nunc, here at cinema-redux. 

This is a lyricist lounge for the venerable art of the willfully per-verse.

Please be welcome, serve yourself. Feel free to consume all you want or all you can. Please endulge in the ferocity, character and originality of the verses that have been kidnapped for the sole purpose of being at your disposal. Please do not withhold yourself. Feel free to do as you please or as you dare to be displeased. Feel free to be as much sub-verted and per-versed as you like with all the venerable fluidum that Redux managed to bottle for you right at the fountain true origin. The fresh flow from the underground!

Hangover Hotel - Lydia Lunch

Each person is a fathomless Ocean – Each soul is a drifting rocket aiming for the center of our inner space –   Each body is a marvellous starship stuck on the ground

The Vorticist Manifesto

Hallo dear Du!

“Old Possums Katzenbuch”, sent to me as a white and chlorine free birthday package floating on the surface of that green and lustrous mountain-river that cuts right through Scuol, provides me with tremendous joy. Very English, civilized, witty, with a tender balance of psychocatty wisdom and lyrical virtuosity. But it remains the eye of an observer at distance. The consecutive portraits of our feline goddesses make me smile or sometimes even roar with laughter, but after all the manieristic bravoura I start to yearn for a less distant and more spiritual, specific and in depth approach. Anyway, many thanks for this enchanting present, oh sister high up in the Alps.

High up at this very instant also are my cats Kyra and Djambas, looking down on the terrace from the roof where (during the day) they are watching the birds on top of the buildings nearby. The place where I usually write, is at the front end of my first floor – in a bright space with glass ceiling bordering on the wooden construction of my library (with rails and moveable staircase)  – which is at the back of my house bordering on a tiny interior terrace with a Persian fresco of painted tiles picturing Simurgh – the mythical “thousand-bird” that eats elifants and has the size of thirty birds – Persians call it the king of birds.

As a devoted cat-soul, I cannot help but cherishing a fascination for those age-old species with feathers and wings and beaks that inhibit the trees and skies. Simurgh is a bit like the Egyptian Phoenix – a symbol of the devouring force of (limitless) Time. It is a very colourful artwork made by an artist called Said, in which reassuring presence I tend to find comfort and inspiration while writing. For long, my favorite bird was an owl. L’hibou de la nuit. But the experience of the storks in Rumania flying over the freshly harvested fields just outside Suceava, that Saturday Aug.16th around noon, with their sharply preying eyes looking down on us humans lost in the agricultural landscape at the bronze monument of a Bucovinan war-hero and writer, sent also shivers through my bones. These birds were looking our little group of humans straight in the eye, and while circling calmly above us, I was forced to meditate on the silent but relentless meaning of their dark and icecold, sharply focused gaze. Who are we, clothed primates, loud and arrogant parvenus, compared to these feathered heirs of the Jurassic age? Their species was circling the earth and its skies hundreds of thousands, if not millions of years, before us troglodytes dared to crawl out of our caves.

In The Human Stain by Philip Roth, a book I read this week with intense fascination, there is this tamed crow named Prince. Everything that is touched by human beings is marked for life. Prince cannot return to his bird`s world, the likes of him would kill him, because he carries the Human Stain. He smells human. In the Nordic mythology the crow symbolizes wisdom. Odin always carried two crows on this shoulder that told him what was going on in the world. In Alessandro Baricco`s Silk the protagonist Hervé Joncour discovers mighty aviaries that lodge a wide variety of beautiful, precious birds. Wonderful crazy things. He remembers to have read that Asian men rewarded their lovers by giving them selected birds instead of jewellery or flowers.
If some day you experience something overwhelming, if you discover beauty, you open the doors and watch them fly. One day Hervé Joncour watches a spectacular scene:
„So he finally watched, unexpectedly, how the sky above the house was
patterned by the flight of hunderds of birds, birds that were hurled off
the earth, astonished birds of every kind, singing and clamouring,
firework of wings and cloud of colours and tones that flew into the sky.”
While leading since four weeks quite a rigorous life of disciplin and sobriety, awkwardly enough I feel much more detached from the earthly grid than I am used to. The sharpness and clarity of mind are somehow counterbalanced by a strange dizziness that sets in during the day. My early morning routine of swimming-sessions in the art nouveau swimmingpool around the corner at the Vossenplein in the Marolles, unfortunately left me with an infection of the Eustachius-tube. At the cause of my allergia lies the excessive usage of chloride as a means of disinfectant – a habit the Belgians are stubbornly sticking to regarding sanity in their public pools. The space between ears and nose has been filling up with thick green slime – until I reach the point of disturbed equilibrium, nausea and partial deafness. I was treated for this allergia for the first time already when I was ten years old, in a hospital in Nijmegen. Now it is a matter of putting things to the test. I hope that I can stay tough and swim through the ordeal until a point of resistance is being reached. If not, it will bereave me of a huge pleasure and stimulating morning habit.

The infection has practically left me without any sense of smell or taste – and this for three weeks already. I find it quite ironic, just now that I have converted myself to the Spartan way of life of health and sports, the deprivation of my primary senses is so drastic that it sometimes feels as if I have drifted away into a bufferzone. With one foot standing on the shore of life, it feels as if my other foot is placed in a shady, static realm of perception without feeling. The fresh, raw and sobered out Serge is feeling muted and sedated. Is this a revenge for something I have done wrong in the past? And is it perhaps more than just a case of coincidence and irony? Could it be symbolic or a symptom of a very basic form of condition humaine: the inability to master all the forces that determine our (well)being and shape our fate? Or is it nothing more than a cosmic balancing act. Just another example of the rule that all sweet things remind us of the bitter ones too. The principle of love and strive, as Empedocles called it. It is on the kozmic drums of all contesting forces, according to Empedocles, that the rhythmus of existence finds its origin. .

Tweespalt, we call this phenomenon in Dutch. A word that cuts right through language itself. (Zweispalt – does this word exist in German?) Empedocles: “At one time they [the elements] grew to be alone from being many, and at another they grew apart again to be many from being one. Double is the generation of mortal things, double their passing away: one is born and destroyed by the congregation of everything, the other is nurtured and flies apart as they grow apart again. And these never cease their continual change, now coming by Love all into one, now again all being carried apart by the hatred of Strife. Thus insofar as they have learned to become one from many and again become many as the one grows apart, to that extent they come into being and have no lasting life; but insofar as they never cease their continual change, to that extent they exist forever, unmoving in a circle. […]” (Simplicius, Commentary on Physics, 31.30)

After my work in the music-studio of Dichters Dansen Niet yesterday, Vahur and I went into the city for some fresh air & energy. We found the early autumn freshness we were looking for on the wet streets of Brussels, and after midnite in a sleazy bar for Arab people called `Oriental’, a sort of dungeon of Alibaba where very strange looking, bizarre and busy but friendly Arab people were drinking, doing business and dancing. Boy, did they dance, rattle and roll! The best dancer in the ring was remarkably enough the fattest guy present, around thirty years of age, about hundred thirty kilo’s, and wile dancing he knew how to make every inch of meat in his body move and look elegant, like a sublime heavy weight accrobat who was losing weight while flying lightly, gently above the floor. Every move he made, was symmetrical to the one made by his female counterpart that invited him to dance. In the bar, two huge and quite disgusting insects (cockroaches) were observing us close to the mirror where we sat, and neither Vahur nor me took the effort to splash and kill them… A man with a split-face (long and narrow, a bit like a horse) invited us to dance. We felt like vikings among an indian ritual.

When we got outside, a star was shining in the south-western sky, as bright and colourful as I have ever seen. In fact, the star even reminded me a bit of a Rosetta in a French cathedral – however tinier its scale of course – cut out in the stained glass of a dark and crimson night. Excited, we reached our home on the hill near Sablon. From here, we observed the star more thoroughly with powerful Zeiss-binoculars. The mystery remained. Was this Venus, the famous morning star? Another planet upon which some uncommonly strong moon- or solar rays reflected? Was this a super-nova, or perhaps even one or more (a cluster) of exploding stars before sucking themselves into nothingness? It was surely not a trip, no hallucination, no lysergic vision that caused the occurance of it. When I look out of the window at this very moment, she is still there. Guarding. Shining. Burning. Disappearing? Who knows…

This is where I will call it a day (as late as it is already). Longing to have a thorough rest upstairs. Passing on to the peaceful panorama on the inside of my mind.

From Brussels, instead of chocolates, I send you my most kindred brotherly regards.


—– Original Message —–

From: swantje lichtenstein

To: ‘Serge van Duijnhoven’

Sent: Monday, September 15, 2008 10:13 PM

Subject: AW: Of cats birds insects and Empedocles

dear serge,

thanks for your nightly after-arabian-dancefloor-email.

I am writing an vortex cycle right now.

and thanks for your thoughts. very inspiring.

hope your inner ears are getting better.

BUT (the contesting signal !! ACHTUNG!!)

only two senses are missing. or three.

but isn’t it all about seeing and touching?

most of the time.

I don’t believe in revenge.

BUT in manifestos, one of ezra pound and his friends.

you started with the copy-paste-thing, therefore:

The Vorticist Manifesto

1. Beyond Action and Reaction we would establish ourselves.

2. We start from opposite statements of a chosen world. Set up violent structure of adolescent clearness between two extremes.

3. We discharge ourselves on both sides.

4. We fight first on one side, then on the other, but always for the SAME cause, which is neither side or both sides and ours.

5. Mercenaries were always the best troops.

6. We are primitive Mercenaries in the Modern World.

7. Our Cause is NO-MAN’S.

8. We set Humour at Humour’s throat. Stir up Civil War among peaceful apes.

9. We only want Humour if it has fought like Tragedy.

10. We only want Tragedy if it can clench its side-muscles like hands on its belly, and bring to the surface a laugh like a bomb.

are we vorticists then. maybe? !

did your cats caught the birds?

or the dragons? or your demons?

missing mine (my cat! I took the demons with me!!)

it is getting cold in nairs. the snow is close by.

I am afraid to go back to reality in two weeks

and stiched a poem.

good night. but maybe you are just awake.

all the best from the marmots here

and me,


Harry Smith - painting sixties

Remembering a discussion I had

some time ago with sister Swantje Lichtenstein in Duesseldorf
Am listening again – by shere accident I thought – to one of my old magnetic tapes from the nineties. Sticking my ear and mind into that magnificent piece of literary audio-junk called Dead City Radio by/with William S. Burroughs. One of my favorite albums ever. My dear friend and poet Christian Loidl – today is his Todestag, so I now realize this fact is not so accidental after all – introduced me to this wizzard for the first time in 1995 in his flat in Vienna, Vereinsgasse. Where he – today seven years ago – flew out of the window after having taken an overdose of a rare Siberian mushroom.

“Dead City Radio” is a true gem of cut up poetry put to music in a most sensitive and workable way.
Question: “What are we here for?”
Answer: “We’re all here to go…”
The old magician gives readings from a variety of sources including “Naked Lunch”, “Interzone”, and “The Western Lands”. He invokes his vision in the name of Pan, god of panic; Ah Pook, the destroyer; and even Jesu the Christ. “Invoke” is the proper word, for this is a work of magic – be it black or white. Burroughs is weaving a vision. He wants us to peek through the chinks and see the monsters that lie behind the machinery of control – behind the great shining lies and the bounds of the Prometheus called Homo Sapiens. His objective is no less than a basic disruption of reality itself.
Please try to see the video belonging to the Ah Pook The Destroyer prayer – about (cosmic?) control – you will love it I am sure:

“Question: Who really gave their order?”
“Answer: Control. The ugly American. The instrument of control.”
“Question: If control’s control is absolute, why does Control need to control?”
“Answer: control needs time.”
“Question: is control controlled by our need to control?”
“Answer: Yes.”
“Why does control need humans, as you call them?”
“Wait… wait! Time, or landing. Death needs Time, like a junky needs junk.”
“And what does Death need Time for?”
“The answer is so simple. Death needs Time for what it kills to grow in. For Ah Pook’s sake.”
“Death needs Time for what it kills to grow in. For Ah Pook’s sweet sake? You stupid vulgar greedy ugly American death-sucker!”

Zjivili to brother Chris out there in the realm of Ah Pook’s universe of Time.


Please try to see the video belonging to the Ah Pook The Destroyer prayer – about vain human longings for cosmic control in the reigning Realm of Ah Pook the Destroyer:

The old magician with the incomparable creeky voice, gives and sometimes sings his ultimately grim and bitter spiritual readings from a variety of sources including “Naked Lunch”, “Interzone”, and “The Western Lands”. He invokes his vision in the name of Pan, god of panic; Ah Pook, the destroyer; and even Jesu the Christ. “Invoke” is the proper word, for this is a work of magic – be it black or white. Burroughs is weaving a vision. He wants us to peek through the chinks and see the monsters that lie behind the machinery of control – behind the great shining lies and the bounds of the Prometheus called Homo Sapiens. His objective is no less than a basic disruption of reality itself. If – somehow – humans would be prepared to rid themselves of their condition humaine for the benefit of a cosmic one, this would not necessarily make our universe a warmer and more pleasant place to find our destiny. Which is? To perish, and melt back into the pot that is permanently boiling on the stove of Ah-Pooks kitchen. What else to do but to cling on to the planetary lifeboats that were assigned to us by some cruel captain who likes to have it rough amidst the violent torrents of Time. If we want to get rid of the many biological boundaries and burdens of our human condition, we shall have to prepare for completely new ways of travelling. We shall have to be prepared to embark on a trans-dimensional voyage through unknown psysical realms, with the velocity of a gravitationless soul. What are we here for? We are here to go! We are here to go on a trip – peeking through tiny holes in the fence that marks the limit of our universe. We have to dive and dig deep, travel far and persist in our uncompromising destiny. So that finally we can find a way of opening up the protecting clamshell in which – at its very origin – our relentlessly self-sufficient galaxy was laid to grow. Like an oyster or a mussle, feeding upon the weak and salty glaze of its atomic fluidum.

Harry Smith - earth abstractions




Brussels, 21.06.2010

Dearest Eva,

thank you so much for the precious gift  Lies Dich(t) by Nazar Hončar that you were kind enough to send me.

It provides me with such a joy reading his multi-layered, playful and witty witchcraft poetry. Sometimes I have to laugh so hard I have to gasp for air, and somewhere in this air there always seems to be from very nearby a warm and resonating echo of Christian’s voice, spirit and hickup. The book is full of wondrous  findings, lyrical Zaubersprueche, and grapholigcal forms from an aextra-gravital origin, versatile spirits melted into playfulness and laughter.

Christian came to me and Arlette in a very strong vision last December, managed to amuse us with the teachings of slapping one hand clap, roaring laughter, and many many wisdoms that descended upon us in a way we could not understand or know ourselves. In this vision he taught us – quite in a similar way in which Chris refound his kepple-hat in Vienna by going back in time and dimension in a shamanistic procedure – where and how I could retreive my lost cat Djambas. After having investigated several possibilities or scenario’s it was as if Chris enriched our company and lead us the way to a quite different possibility – all the time standing on the threshold of the door between the sleeping room and the hallway in Arlet’s appartment. Standing on that threshold he pointed to the upside and advised me to experience the advantages of “falling thruogh the roof of one’s own consciousness” – and after having made that clear responded to my opening question of the session (where and how can I find Djambas back? Is she still alive? Is she in need of my help?) by guiding me to the backdoor of Arlet’s groundfloor flat – that borders on a courtyard for several houses in a way quite similar to the courtyard in the Vereinsgasse. No problem, the message was. If you really want to know where Djambas is, you have to go into the courtyard. I was willing and curious to find out and opened the door, but Arlette struggled to keep me inside – because I was naked and it was freezing outside and there was snow and she started to cry and even though I was already with my feet in the snow I felt a great calm coming over me and followed Arlette back inside where once again we were halted at the threshold of the (back)door – and somehow the lesson came to us that we as individuals on a metaphorical level do find ourselves at any given moment during our earthly existence on a crossroad of songlines and timelines – standing on a threshold so to speak – from which we can choose to go either way. Forward, backward, up, down. The important thing though, is that we must feel free making our choise, and that there is no NECESSITY to follow either way cause all options are possible. I did not HAVE to go into the courtyard, although I perfectly COULD if I wanted to. This insight, very profoundly, that came to Arlette and myself simultaniously, felt as if a great burden had fallen off of my and her shoulders. Somehow we were both stuck in our conviction – each in our own and different way – that in order to achieve greater wisdom and (in my case) possibly also get closer again to the company of deceased friends such as Chris and Joris or Nazar or at least join them or understand what happened – there would be no other possibiilty than to join them in a time past this one through passing on and (as Arlette felt it in a more buddhist or taoist way of levitation and “onthechting” disattachment) leave this world with all its burdens and bounds behind us. In my case these thoughts had been explored in depth in my album Klipdrift and writings in the essay called No More Chains. Since the consequence of this conviction was the feeling that this life already had lead me to the maximum I could achieve conc. knowledge, wisdom and experience,  and that all truly new discoveries and achievements lay beyond, I probably had made myself believe that life in se had grown old and weary. And that my existence would in any case be pretty much reduced to a biding of time – not much different from the ways in which prisoners are counting days in jail. Hence – I think – my excessive tendencies to escapadic substances like alcohol. To make the passage of time seemingly to go faster and to ease the pain and dread of this ongoing incarceration through oblivion and numbing of the senses. At this very instance however, at the height of our session, somehow the grim dark force of Ah-Pook that was pulling me so strongly towards a long and bitter wounding in slomotion and destruction of the self, seemed to have lost its magnetism for my soul and mind. The catagorical way in which I had been directing myself towards a switching off of the light, lost its inescapable attraction. A huge and fresh lust for life filled my lungs and brain in a way that fresh air fills the blood when one steps out of a hot cellar crammed with people – where it had become impossible to breath from lack of air and oxygene. The choice to go into that courtyard of reshuffling cosmic chemistry – by always wanting to push the ctrl alt delete and reset buttons – became one of possibility instead of necessity. Suddenly the meaning of “no more chains” became much broader. A profound feeling came to me that there still were very precious and important things to dicsover and achieve in this life. And that the future of my life could be perhaps as much of a fullfilling adventure as the path into the darkness or – if you wish – that courtyard covered in December snow where the spirits were dancing their whirly shuffles in the dark.

This insight and feeling of relief and refound hunger for existence, instantly provided me with a sense of sincere gratitude. I thanked Chris by writing some personal note in my Moleskine – to find out – on top of all this – that my handwriting had changed quite substantially. And that my way of writing had become much more clear and easily legible, less puzzled and messy and small.

Two days later, I left Amsterdam in order to be present at the funeral of the father of Joris de Bolle – another Joris indeed who, ever since our first encounter in the fall of 2004,  happens to be my dearest friend in Brussels (and beyond). I had written a poem for Joris’ father, that I was going to read in the church of Tervuren where Lode de Bolle’s funeral mess would be held. I arrived on Tuesday evening in my house in the Kandelaarsstraat dans les marolles, and went to bed early in order to be fresh and get up early for the funeral on Wednesday morning. It was that night, from 29th of December leading into 30th of December, that I woke up in the middle of my dreams by the repetitive meawing of (I immediately recognized her) my cat Djambas for whose survival – after ten cold days and no sign of life during any search quest I had held in the entire neighboorhood – I did not dare to prey anymore. Of course I thought I was dreaming, when I heard her scream, but instead of continuing my dream I woke up and rushed downstairs, opened the door, and indeed: there she was. Djambas. Bemeagred but alife and well, no wounds or limping legs etc.. She quickly tippled up the stairs to the kitchen and ate three bags of catfood as proof of her exhaustion. Then, she satisfyingly installed herself on my bed, curled up on top of my belly and covered me warmly with her buzzing company.

Djambas had spent her ten days sabbatical in the confinement of the empty house across my front door – a house that ever since I installed myself in the Kandelaarsstraat in 2003 has never been lived in. I do not know why. It looks as if it is not completely finished construction wise. Behind the house lies a little courtyard or empty space that is filled with rubble and wood and junk, and that is covered out of sight by a n improvised metal screen on which quite a sympathetic portrait is painted in green of the Tigra Lady – the astout Belgian sixties-model with the tiger cap that can be found on every Tigra cigaret flipbox and that has regained popularity in circles of vintage lovers. From my bedroom window, I can overlook the metal screen, and look into the courtyard. It was there that Djambas had been having multiple and almost non stop rendez-vous with most of the male cats of the neighboorhood that are roaming the streets freely during day or night.  I saw some of the male cats waiting for her in the courtyard. After ten days of catfornication, Djambas had obviously reached her point of sexual saturation and had met the limits of her physical possibilities. Normally, she cannot do for more than a few hours without fresh food. She is very demanding, talks a lot in catlanguage in order to send you her commands that demand gratification. She knows how to open doors by jumping on top of the leverage and pusing it down with her weight. I always presumed her to be a bit backward because of her utter solipsistic and somewhat autistic behavior. But since her escapade last December and her recurrence both during the vision in which Chris helped me finding her back and in the reality of my life, I look at her quite differently. And, as Arlette would remark rightly so after Djambas’ magical resurrection, the princess herself really behaved differently than she did before. She had gained confidence, acted much less stressfull (no more biting of the tail), and seemed in all ways possible to have become a much wiser and mature catlady than the permanently scared nervous little durak she had been before. She had become a different cat in the same catskin.

Even though I expected her to be pregnant after the sexual orgy of ten days, Djambas has not become so. She is not sterilized, so I presume she is infertile. However, her sexual and hormonic drives are (and have remained) huge to the point of a bewildering excess.

I still look at the courtyard from my bedroom window quite a lot, to ponder on the metaphorical meanings that the story of refinding lost Djambas and Chris showing me the way to the courtyard certainly have. It is fascinating. And I do have to tell you – I hope you will not scorn me for this – that the shamanic session of Arlette and me that December evening, had been invoked with the help of some little seeds that I found in the appartment of Chris on the day that I spent writing and reading and listening to his music in his flat in the Vereinsgasse. Woodrose is the name of these seeds. Hawaiian woodrose.

Remember the story that I recalled for Chris’ Todestag Memorial, last time in Kafka, taken from a letter in 1999 Chris had written me, in which he – in anticipation of my book We call them Roses that was due to come out that fall and for which presentation Chris would come to Amsterdam with Helmut the musician – accounted of his experience that he once saw a rose breathe in the Praterpark? I gave you a copy of the letter, didn’t I? It all seems so magnificently meaningful and beautifully connected in a spiritual way. Perhaps I have a tendency to overinterpret this a bit by the shere force of my enthusiasm. Arlette warns for this tendency sometimes. But without wanting to pretend an understanding of all these connections, the sensibility for noticing them provides me with a much broader and deeper aptness for spiritual growth that I seemed to lack before. What do we know of it all? Not much. Nothing for sure. And true as this may be, it really seemed as if Chris – in a purvasive way – wanted to make something clear to me. Something important, meaningful, even useful. And that he was crafting, in his peculiar ways, repetitive efforts to shed a bit of his light into the darker corners of my mind.

I remember that after having returned, you and i, from the memorial in Kafka (after midnight Wednesday night) I watched a bit of television from the bed in the living room you and your mother had spread out for me. In order to ease out the excitement of the night, to help me reach the calmth and numbness that I needed before being delivered into the arms of Morpheus. It happened that there was only one interesting movie that struck my attention at that late hour: The Name of the Rose – with Sean Connery – based on the book of Umberto Eco. I had to smile and thought about Chris’ letter and the poem I read a few hours earlier in his memory. Could not help but to see it as some kind of wink or witty greeting from – yeah from who knows where. All the more so, because it was only the day thereafter that I stumbled on those tiny seeds in Chris’ appartment. Somehow all these hints seemed to point into the same direction (roses) and radiated the word as a symbol of significance. And even though it may sound pompous, it is indeniable that by following the hints all the way to the content of the cupboard in the Vereinsgasse, I have in some ways been able to find and see, and eventually even break open, the door that leads towards a deeper, truer and, eventually, a better self. A passage that, for some reason or other, was blocked for many years.

The list of things that I have gained already, simply by having access to this door, is impressive: An appetite for life as such, a clearer vision, a sharp sense of direction, a deepened love for  Arlette with whom I shared this whole experience. And, luckily, the insight of the vision did not bleaken or disappear in the days that followed our session. All relevant scenes and images of our experience still comes to us, both to Arlette and me, in a christal clear way. Some of these insights could and should, in my case, hopefully result in a more profound and personal way of writing. A style of expression that is much more precise, more simple, sharper, concise and above all: closer to my (current) soul.

With the lust for life has also come a new sense of devotion and ability to concentrate. I finished my novel that I had been working on for such a long time. I am full of plans and good spirit, and have not felt as fit in many years. Ready to proceed in a refreshed and vital mood, curious to find out what’s still to come along the path of our earthly presence – whatever may become of it and wherever the coordinates may lay of our destiny. Nothing is final. “Auch die Vollendung kennt kein Ende”, I scribbled in my Moleskine during our session. It is all part of an ongoing process. Incessant. Sans issue.

Also very remarkable is that I have stopped dreaming incessantly of scenes in which I fall endlessly  from great heights, rocks, mountaintops, ski-slopes into the water or on the land etc. Nightmares I could not get rid of and that kept chasing me for many years ever since the car accident I had with Joris Abeling on February 16th 1998. The session of the woodrose, to which I was directed by the gently guiding hand of Chris and you (I had never heard of the seeds before), must have cured me also in this peculiar case. Perhaps that with my regained Lust for Life, and the eased out option of “to be or not to be”, some ghastly ammunition has been made inactive in the powderkeg of my mind. It feels as if some kind of mist, that clouded my brain, has cleared the runway. As if the swamp from which so many chimaeres originated that kept harassing me for years in my recurring dream of a free fall towards death, has effectively been drained.

I would like to write a story about the experience I described above, but do not know yet in which form to  put it. I would like to call the account “Curiosity kills the cat”. As a working title.

Please light a sandle wood stick for Chris, the next time you are in his appartment. I would be very grateful if you did. I hope in December I can come again, with Arlette perhaps, to do such thing commonly and to look out of the window through which Chris decided to break through towards the realm beyond. In a way, for Chis to have ended down there – in the thin blanket of snow covering the frozen ground from which he passed on – seems to be quite a suitable or at least understandable way for our dear dear friend to proceed, precisely because it was a consequence of his immanent curiosity that was so much his characterological trademark and in which he was so much different from most other people who are afraid to discover strange, new, other things or people than the one they know already. Curiosity kills the cat – indeed. But it is much more subtle than the blunt Ah-Pook-like tendency to give up or destruct that I felt close to be a prey of for quite a few years. Wizzards are they, who are able and wanting to bear the consequence of their adventurous and limitless mind to the very end. I never believed in such things as an afterlife, or of guiding spirits such as Giacomo Casanova tended to believe in (when the opportunity made it profitable to do so), but the many clear visions and healing insights that have been purveyed to me in recent times, provide me with wisdoms that until recently I mentally held myself unfit for. Not mature or open enough, too sceptical and saturated. In any way I cannot deny that I feel very happy to have been granted a chance to open up the door within myself that was locked up for so long – and that finds itself quite opposite to the one I focused on as the one and only realistic way out of the misery. I am grateful for Chris that he helped me open that inner door by breaking the lock,  and providing me gently with a light so that I could begin to give my life a new start and to proceed with fresh energy on a journey that will – even with the many hardships that lie certainly ahead as in any perishable life –  at least make it possible to add value to it all. To go on with regained fervour and finish the game in style.  On a different level. Ripened. With a higher sense of self-esteem and a better understanding of the fact, why it is that in this universe, in the beginning as well as in the end, life in general  deserves respect instead of loathing. “The readiness is all”, Hamlet stated at the end of his last act. And now I see it was quite pretentious and poor, to think I deemed myself experienced and saturated enough to have reached such readiness in any way.

Here lies a task.

Warm embrace and thankful hug from,


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