Dreams create desire

What's the most intense desire you've ever experienced? And what caused it?

I often experience the most intense desire after absurd dreams, which I barely remember. Some flashes, if lucky, but the desire they inflict can persist for a week easily.

And it always feels weird. In a way, it's not even necessarily easily identifiably linked to the dream, just a lust for a friend, a partner, fame, money, or whatever else you can imagine. 

If you'd ask me, I'd say that I don't generally want these (kinds of) things, but still, apparently, dreaming about having them makes me, in some way, crave them;

That begs the question: are these not just passions that I otherwise try to hide from myself? What's the point in wanting something you "can't" have anyway?

Cubism

Eggs

When's the last time you've thought about breathing, or how to walk, or any of the hundreds of household items you've seen every day since basically the start of your life?

Well, I hadn't thought about eggs -- chicken eggs specifically, in a while. It fluctuates, though generally, eggs are, and have been, a big part of my diet. They're pretty good. 

One day, during easter, while talking with my almost 2-year-old nephew, he pointed at an egg and accurately said: 'egg,' which I agreed to -- then I understood that I had to make art about eggs. 

Because even though their competition is fierce, eggs have some of the best marketability out there in terms of appearance.

Helping start a car

Imagine all the people you walk past you don't hear because of your headphones, a task only challenging for those who don't use them (much), but please try.

For me, they're not a tool for isolation, however, it's a nice additional perk. Still, when I hear a stranger asking for attention, I anxiously give it to them.

This one time, a guy in his 'parked' car at the side of a street in Den Bosch told me that because the car hadn't moved in months, the battery died, and he asked me if I could help push start it.

I didn't have anything better to do, so skeptically, I helped him. Together, we revived the car, and while honking, he drove away.

Another person that I'll likely never come across, and even if I did, I wouldn't hear or see.

Few clouds

I get tired of making art about my sisters, but when making art about the sky, it's too easy to inject them into whatever other narrative I'm working on.

Sometimes, I merely want to look at the sky and appreciate its beauty -- so there's no meaning here. If you're looking for it, please move on. 

A sky full of clouds is often as impressive as an empty one: not very. 

Preferably, around 20% of the sky is clouded, but the perspective may be captivating as long as 20% of the blue sky is noticeable.

And while looking at such a sky, I feel at ease with life. I'm not sure whether I'm still anxious. Probably, but it's not the type of thing I remember. I am sure I  feel like I'm floating along the clouds, and I'm inconsequentially small and irrelevant, which I actually am, of course, but now that realization comforts me.

Waiting for the call

I feel anxious about whether I'm actually anxious or not, and I'm not even sure about the authenticity of that feeling.

I've always experienced anxiety, but the feeling used to be predictable. Recently (it's already been more than half a year), it has become part of my regular experience -- making art about being hungry might have me feeling off.

It took me a while to talk to my GP. It took us longer to figure out it probably wasn't physical, which led to me getting referred to a mental health clinic, which is taking even longer to call back.

They told me I'd be on the waiting list for 72 days. When I had waited those days, and they hadn't called me, I assumed they didn't count weekends and vacations. When even accounting for that, the days had passed without a call; I became anxious about whether I did something wrong. 

I know I should call them to confirm, but I'm sure I've become very fond of waiting for the call. Maybe I am actually anxious, but it's just another hobby to fill my empty time.

On being Zen

Depending on who reads this, you may not know I'm Zen. I've always been and will be for the rest of (my) time. That isn't a comment on my state of mind, which often is either quite Zen or the exact opposite; 

It's part of the first names my parents gave me.

I'm not sure if I've ever hated it, but I've grown to like it a lot. Who doesn't like being unique in something? Even though it's not something I've had to put any effort into, it still feels good.

It's not always clear to me what it means to be Zen. Actually, it's only rare that it's not, but even then, I'm always sure I'm more authentically Zen than most gurus who might claim they are. 

Not that it matters.

Art my parents hate

The title of this art piece is a lie, but it's more accurate than most real stories you love, which are either filled with falsities or cherry-picked -- this is what you want.

So, the title of this art piece is the truth.

My mom (in friendly words) keeps telling me about how she doesn't like my recent poems. What she means, and where she is correct, is that they are not great at communicating my ideas. 

It's the same reason I struggle to read poetry; it just doesn't resonate. But still, I'll keep creating poems that I likely wouldn't enjoy had I not made them.

Until I find a way to change them, and by then, she'll have forgotten that she was a big reason behind the change. 

My dad doesn't even hate my poems; he doesn't care for them at all. They mean nothing to him.

Success wouldn't mean making my mom, who studied the English language at some university, like my poems. I'm sure I could make her care. 

No, real success means making even my father, who surely influenced my indifference to language, care.

Henri Matisse

Always changing house

I've only ever lived in three buildings. The first one, because of me, we had to leave within the first year of my existence, and the second one I spent most of my life in, about 21 years. 

And that one building was many more houses than most people live in during their entire lives, to my great annoyance. And probably to my parents their great annoyance too; I don't believe they had much control.

Anytime I woke up, I had to relearn the layout -- I often had to clear out the dishwasher, and there wasn't a day where I didn't need to ask where something needed to go (and they'd always complain about having to explain the 'logical' layout).

I remember one early morning waking up and still finding my mom moving closets in the living room. I told my dad she was up early, and he replied that she hadn't slept yet, which probably indicated a stressful period, but I was too young to understand.

The weirdest part is that somehow, my apartment seems to be struggling with similar issues, though suspiciously now, I do always know where everything is.

Innate hero complex

I'm talking to an art collector and explaining my art in a museum. I keep saying these cool-sounding, fascinating sentences. Any question they ask me, I somehow know the perfect response to -- they're amazed by my cleverness.

I turn the corner, and an ordinary (for Den bosch) yet beautiful building that I've looked at a thousand times before but for the first time see appears and slips me out of any other thought I might've had, in this case, what I think is a daydream.

I don't KNOW if it's a daydream, but unlike other thoughts, in all of them, I'm in scenarios where I'm a hero of some kind. It's hard to talk about because it's embarrassing and not something you remember. 

So I'll let your imagination fill in the blanks; it's either grandiose fantasies, what I should say to my colleagues or family when I see them again, or what I should've said in the past.

Hustling hobo's courage

Den Bosch doesn't have much of a homelessness problem. They exist, and some are consistently on specific corners to beg, but most of those aren't even homeless.

I love walking, and the city is a beautiful place to explore (though the same buildings can only amaze so many times.) Although it's a little bit away, many of my walks include it.

This one guy has asked me many times to either give him some money or to help him buy weed from a coffeeshop (though I'm not (anymore), probably because I look like the type of guy to smoke.)

Another time, I saw two of them stand on top of one another to climb over the (open) fence of the Sint-jan. They asked if I could lend them a hand; I couldn't've acted more ignorant of the situation. 

But whatever you think of them, and I don't personally care to demean or belittle them, their courage to interact with people who want little to do with them is commendable. 

However much they are outcasts, in many ways, they're more socially inclined than at least me and probably numerous others.

Slave to impulses

Whenever I've got any semblance of a good idea, which often is just something to complain about, I've got a tendency to express it multiple times in a short period. 

So, this is just another piece complaining about being hungry but then disguised by something more abstract to not bore you or me with a stale story (and to appear more intelligent).

Impulses drive everything you've ever done and ever will do. Which I don't think is much of a problem most of the time, but some of those impulses will be for things you know you shouldn't do. 

You may give in, suffering the consequences you knew would exist, then later complain about those, or you can, and will often, not.

Maybe you'll try very hard never to submit, you'll get none of the drawbacks and none of the dopamine, and now you're bored; is this even a life worth living?

And once again, you'll go back to a hedonistic lifestyle that'll at least keep you entertained while you're capable of it: this is happiness.

Seeing yourself waiting

The topic of this art piece is a boring situation. Few people get excited by having to wait. I certainly don't care much for it, but I'll try to convince you why you should.

If you're waiting and look around, you will notice something interesting, at least if you allow yourself to be entertained by the otherwise unremarkable.

This piece specifically was about waiting for the train. Nowadays, I don't take the train often, but I recently wanted to go to the office, so I had to. 

Next to the countless people, which already makes paid attention worth it (nothing else to spend it on either), I also noticed an old lady carrying four bikes, the bluest tomatoes, rain without clouds, a dog walking his human, and a flying train, all just within the one trip.

But the most intriguing thing I've ever noticed was myself on a different platform. As you may expect, I was waiting, and to my concern, I looked bored, like I wished I would be anywhere else (but I couldn't). Seeing myself in that state made me incredibly disappointed.

Hunger

If you analyze my life (and are a little weird), it could appear like, since the age of 14, I keep gaining weight, just so that I can lose it again, so that I can gain it again, on repeat. 

Since moving out, I had to relearn how to feed myself, including, for some reason, that you can't keep food in the fridge for that long and that I can't handle having snacks around as I'll never stop eating them.

Recently, I've been trying to lose weight again. Even when I eat whatever I want, I'm always hungry, so it's rough.

Unrelated, I've also been trying to get better at selling my art, which is difficult because when I'm free from my job, I don't want to spend it on another instead of working on my art. 

In that sense, ironically, because I'm not "hungry" enough, it's hard to get better at selling my art, though this is as much a privilege.

But some days, I daydream about my hunger for food overtaking my ability to reason so that I'll start eating my art. I'm sure that'll make it sell.

Boy in skirt

Vaguely, I remember a boy in a skirt at one point, lying on a couch, sleeping, sucking his thumb. I don't and can't know if it's true, but lying there, he looks so unbothered by it all, just living his life exactly how he wants, at least as far as a child can do whatever he wants.

My parents try to make me believe that I used to be that boy, but I know that can't be true. I've never been so chill, not even while I'm sleeping, or at least it's hard to imagine.

I also couldn't imagine wanting to wear a skirt, but my parents tell me it's true. There's really no issue here. I don't want to wear skirts anymore, if I did, I would. 

Except that I'm scared that they took that decision from me and that I wouldn't want to, even if I tried, and if I did want to, I wouldn't do it.

But it's easier to not think about it and to do what I enjoy. It's not like I'm that normal anyway.

Locked out

Then I arrived "home" without even a keyfob in my possession. They took that away from me, too. I should've just rang the doorbell of one of my neighbors.

It took about an hour for another resident to walk by, and from the moment I noticed them, I somehow sensed they would be using a different door. Instead of following them, I decided I'd rather wait some more.

Only thirty minutes later, someone from the correct door arrived. I mustered up the courage to follow them, and when they were about to open the door, their keyfob didn't work -- the door, not my keyfob, was broken this whole time. 

We exchanged some quick words, but I couldn't handle the internal awkwardness and decided to move to the other door.

Nobody else would arrive for two hours, so I finally rang a doorbell. When I pulled the front door, I noticed that someone had put a screw in the door so anyone could open it. Who knows for how long this had been the case?

Of course, I learned a lot from the situation -- mainly that I should buy a ladder so I could climb onto the first floor when necessary.

Pablo Picasso

The keymaker

The apartment building I moved to has an electronic lock that needs a keyfob to open. I only received one, a fact that irritated me the day I moved in, but the rent is cheap, so it's hard to complain.

One day, when I came home from a walk, the front door didn't open anymore, so I went to another that didn't open either. 

I've never felt so vulnerable. Of course, I assumed that my keyfob was the problem, and anxiously I called a keymaker to replace it, who told me I had to come over, which I did.

Surrounded by many large keys, the keymaker skeptically asked me what was in front of my apartment building. I assumed to figure out whether I lived there, and nervously, I thought and, after a minute, crying, I said I didn't know.

The keymaker, now confused, asked me why I was crying, to which I again responded I didn't know before the keymaker told me they ordered my key and I could go. So humiliated, I walked back home to a locked apartment complex.

Endless hair

If you're struggling with your hair, I've got some tips. I'm qualified because I've got the longest and most beautiful hair in my city (being selectively blind.)

My hair is actually endlessly long. 

It started because whenever I came back from the barber, I wasn't happier with how I looked, so I stopped having it get cut --  and it grew.

I wasn't concerned with how long it got until one weekend someone pulled on the end of my hair, and when I turned around, I couldn't see them, so I spent the rest of the weekend trying to find the person, but I could not, because I could not find the end of my hair, as it doesn't exist. 

I guess that upset me enough that I forgot all about the tips I had. But here's one that is helpful: don't let it get this far.

#654 Endless hair

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