Art about the Sint Jan cathedral in Den Bosch ('s-Hertogenbosch)

Sint Jan

The Netherlands is a small country, which allows me to say that I live in a big city about the small city I live in.

If I wanted to.

In this big/small city, there's a famous ancient building called the Sint Jan. I've had memories of it for as long as I can remember. Because of my disinterest, I still don't understand much about the building. Still, I used to not understand anything, only knowing it was beautiful.

Even though the building looks grand, being inside makes it seem even taller. If I didn't know any better (and I definitely don't), I'd assume it was. 

Someone should measure someday.

The building somewhat scares me, which is hard to explain: to me, it doesn't seem to be decorated; it's elegant, though everyone keeps talking about its impressive statues & decorations.

This is annoying because I have to pretend I see them as well, meaning I have to figure out pretentious ways to express my appreciation. It's scary because the building is supposed to be some kind of holy. 

I guess I'm going to hell.

Stolen Ice Cream

There's this girl who keeps showing up at my apartment. I'm not sure how she does it, but she keeps convincing me to let her in; she practically lives here now.

And some time ago, she convinced me to go to a theme park with her.

Which might not sound crazy to you -- but I hate theme parks. Maybe hate is a strong word, but I can entertain myself very well, so I would never choose to spend the money. 

But again, somehow, she figured out a way to manipulate me. When we arrived, I felt stupid as I feared every attraction. And you can guess it; she convinced me to join her in taking the rides anyway.

I don't know what it is.

After we finished the whole park, she asked if I wanted to get some ice cream. Nausously, I told her I was watching my weight but that she could get some herself.

So she got some ice cream. 

But she didn't even touch it much: she force-fed me until most of it was gone. Then she told me she was too full to finish the rest and that I had to finish it.

And so I did -- all she said she wanted was one last spoonful, with which she scooped all the ice cream until the only thing I had left was confusion about how I got into this situation in the first place.

Wish I learned something from this situation.

Drunk lady

How often do you act like you're a good person? This painting is about a day I did twice, or at least as far as I can remember, which I probably would as I generally remember any time I do something good for somebody (because I'm not a good person.)

The first good thing was picking up my girlfriend from the train station to walk home together (She thinks I do it for her, but I only do it because I like spending time with her.)

Anyway, while we were walking back, I was trying to be romantic (to manipulate her into liking me so she'll keep helping me clean) when I slipped and stumbled.

(Which made her rudely laugh uncontrollably.)

When I tried to recover from my failure, she noticed a drunken lady who had fallen from her bike. We rushed to help her. I couldn't but help -- so that's what I did.

She must've been Thai, as they started to talk in some foreign language, presumably gossiping. And she won't admit to what they were talking about. That's what I get for (pretending to be) good. Huh.

Well dressed homeless

Waking up in a bed that isn't yours, for whatever reason, to me at least, is a little disorienting. Even if I've been doing it daily for what feels like my whole life, it never gets easier.

Though, this morning, when I awoke, I felt something special. I'm not a spiritual person at all, but the brain can make you many feelings that evoke sympathy to any religious zealot.

And because it's 'just' a feeling, there's no way to rationalize it. So I went on with my day and put on my suit. The first mirror I found, I spent an hour looking in, after another of cleaning myself first.

Looking my (regular) best, I went to my favorite work spot and sat down to start. And as usual, people walked by, disregarding my desperate pleas.

Some greet me, others smile, but none give me what I want -- which shouldn't be surprising, yet the feeling present during my first hours made me expect change -- maybe I am more spiritual than I'd like to believe.

When I felt like giving up (my hope, not the job), I saw someone who made me feel weird again. The way he walked at me made me sense this was the day I'd finally get what I deserved.

He slowly walked, seemingly to me, and when he was within touching range, he waved and gave me 500 euros.

Which made me cry like I had never before. I felt like a little boy again. He said it wasn't a problem and I should use it wisely. I responded: thanks, I guess.

As he walked away, I understood we were both more disappointed than we had been in years: because we didn't get the praise we had anticipated, he for the money they could easily miss, and me for the stunning suit I had again put on.

Learning to wait

Anticipating something good is often almost as pleasing as the thing itself. Add in uncertainties about whether you'll receive anything and what you'll receive, and you've got significant parts of most addictions described.

But if the wait is too uncertain or prolonged, it can be one of the most agonizing experiences. It's better than waiting for something nasty, but it's close. 

For some reason, my girlfriend keeps telling me I have to learn to wait for something good. Though she lives in Belgium, and we only get to see each other on the weekend and have to wait to see each other frequently, I'm not sure what exactly she means.

Challenging questions can only be interesting for so long, and after a while, I lost interest. So, instead of starting a fight with my girlfriend, I have just been practicing to wait for something good to happen. 

Something too easy for me.

To challenge myself, I'm now trying to learn to wait for nothing. I've removed everything from my apartment that could give me any distractions: my computer, paint, books, and instruments.

Now, I happily wait in my chair for nothing to happen -- until I can't anymore.

Lost in translation (2)

This painting is about a girl who, like most people, was born in a world where she didn't understand the people around her but slowly learned.

Nothing is fascinating about that. It is very intriguing, actually, just not extraordinary at all.

But then, one day, (not so) out of nowhere (after taking a magical flying machine to the other side of the world), she lost the ability to communicate.

For months, she lived confused until she met me, a long-legged man who didn't understand much -- except that she was colorful.

And I wanted to capture that as quickly as I could. To better understand it and to make sure I would never lose it.

However, without saying anything, when I showed her the painting, she left me. I'm unsure what she meant by that. Perhaps seeing herself be understood scared her away, or maybe she was just offended by my portrayal of her.

That's all.

Lost in translation (1)

While walking through the beautiful Den Bosch, I frequently wonder about all the genius ideas people that pass me by are having. They don't know me, so they'd never tell me, and if they did, there's a big chance I wouldn't get it.

It's hard to explain interesting ideas sometimes. 

I knew this genius in high school, who could've solved many of the world's problems had he been motivated to (instead of solving obscure ones).

However, whenever he tried to explain his thoughts, his words came out in a language nobody else could understand. 

Maybe you don't understand how I knew he was a genius, but sometimes you know from the moment you see somebody. Yes, he could not communicate well through language, but the beautiful way he solved problems showed me enough.

Nobody else could see it. They all called him an idiot because he could not bring his mind to words. Thinking about him still makes me sad, and the worst part? To a lesser extent, this is true for everybody.

Bruges Is Dead

What's the craziest thing you've ever done for someone close to you? I like to see myself as very rational. I've got emotions, of course, but I don't drastically act on them much.

But when my girlfriend asked me to go on a small vacation to Bruges, I couldn't help but say yes. I know—very crazy stuff.

My girlfriend is pretty crazy as well. That's why I like her as much as I do. There's one thing, however, in which she is typical; she likes tourist cities.

And Bruges, the city she took me to, is one of those. It also, for large parts, has been stuck in time, seeming to only still exist to give people the feeling of being in such an old world.

That sounds cute. But nobody lived there. The only reason (that part of) the city exists is for theater -- this made me sad.

Life means change, and the most beautiful thing about a city is seeing how the great collection of humans keeps changing everything. Eventually, it could become hard to recognize the origins, but that's life.

Disabling my lights

At some point in my life, I decided I liked drinking coffee. I don't remember when that happened, and there are many things like it. 

I also developed a hatred for ads at some point, perhaps because I don't particularly appreciate feeling like the easily manipulated sucker I am. But I know that the right ad still manages to entice me occasionally.

For example, I bought these expensive Philips Hue light bulbs. Who knows why? I barely use the features they provide. It's overkill, but controlling my lamps from an app is pleasant. I suppose.

Somehow, these expensive lights keep turning off in a way that requires the manual light switch instead of the app to turn them back on.

When I was a young boy, probably until I was 20 years old, I was scared of monsters in my parents' house. But when I moved into my apartment, where I thought no monster ever could come and which was way smaller, I stopped being scared.

It took me months to figure out what was turning off my lights. To do so, I had decided to sit in the corner of my living room, dressed as a painting, with the lights on, and to wait and see when they would turn off.

And then it happened. The door opened, and my girlfriend, who I now realize might be a monster too, came in, used the light switch to turn off my lights, and walked away again.

I couldn't believe it. I still can't.

Cutting an onion

I'm reasonably intelligent (the cleverest person I've ever been), so today, I'll grace you with a story about the most important lesson I learned. 

Here is how I learned why you should never sincerely try to help anyone with anything:

My girlfriend told me she was a horrible cook -- she worked as an au pair and told me that her host children always cried when they ate her food.

On our first date, she wanted to cook dinner together, and because I knew she was terrible, I thought I'd give her some tips. 

Well, that was a mistake. We started by cutting the vegetables we would be using in the dish. While my girlfriend listened intently, I explained easy ways to cut them.

I felt exemplary & clever, like the genius I am, until she started laughing maniacally, like some weird cartoon villain. For some reason, she only pretended to be a poor cook but had trained for years.

Not only did this make me feel like one of the dumbest people on the earth, but now I struggled to trust anyone else.

And that's how I learned why you should never trust or help anyone, even yourself.

Living in garbage

If you're at home right now, I want you to do something for me (if you aren't, you might try as well); look around you, and what do you see? I'm trying to understand if the stuff around you is useful. Or does it just sit there without any acknowledgment?

Because of laziness or perceived meaning, if you've owned something for long enough, it becomes nearly impossible to throw away. But I know better: it's garbage if I haven't and won't use it in ages.

My parents (but my mom especially) have large amounts of garbage. It's so bad they have rooms dedicated to all of it.

My mom has invented whole systems for organizing her garbage so that she can keep them more efficiently. For a lot of it, their only usage is getting re-organized.

That's one way to keep them useful.

But I think that's a waste of time. Instead of inventing these systems, I use the time to make more garbage. A big part of my life is committed to making this garbage that I barely look at. It's even all over my walls.

It's so bad that I've convinced myself that making said garbage is the meaning of (my) life. At least it's better than not having any meaning, woohoo.

Frustrated psychologist

Being in a, at worst near constant & and at best frequent, state of anxiety is just a hobby of mine.

But due to circumstances I'm too ashamed to admit, my family and girlfriend hosted an intervention, ugh, consistently ruining my fun.

So, a while ago, I started going to therapy. I guess to learn how to relieve some of that anxiety -- but I'm not an optimist, so understanding myself better is a more realistic goal.

The fact I don't understand myself much sometimes makes me worry that I can't communicate my feelings very well.

Occasionally, I'm nervous that my psychologist will get frustrated with me as I'm unclear about what's in my mind (because I don't know). And periodically, I'm anxious that her frustration could make her scream at me. 

I've decided to act like nothing is wrong anymore: the best way to solve all my problems.

To take a picture

For those who don't know, there's a small & magical city called Efteling in the Netherlands. It's mostly for children -- when you get old enough, all that mystical stuff is much less endearing.

So my girlfriend, who's slightly childish sometimes (and an alien, so unfamiliar with the city,) wanted to visit to see what all the fuzz was about.

I enjoy the idea of spending time with her, so I did to validate that imagination: we went and had a lot of fun. 

She wanted me to go on all these supernatural rides that made me incredibly nauseous; I did anyway to make her happy, but because I complained about my nausea, she called me a loser.

Very rude & annoying, though I wouldn't expect anything else from someone I like enough to spend time with. 

She likes to take pictures. It always makes me very happy seeing her focus on getting a good shot, much happier than seeing the perspectives she's capturing themselves.

At one point, she asked if I wanted to get coffee (and then, of course, bought a muffin & hot chocolate for herself as well), and when we were sitting, she made a picture.

I wanted to capture her taking that picture, but was too late. I asked her to take another one so I could still. Nothing about her picture, mine, or this painting portrays much reality. It's all staged or interpreted, but everyone likes living in fairy tales. So it's okay.

Some people are born wise, and you're probably not one of them. Though maybe, if you're lucky, you've met or even known someone who was. 

These kinds of people seem to come out of the womb with knowledge from outside, which is easy to understand but hard to figure out while being more truthful than anything others ever think of.

My toddler nephew sometimes seems to be like that. I'm not sure if he's genius or even intelligent, and he may lose his wisdom with age, but for now, the guy seems to speak truth into life.

While playing in the backyard, we talked about life a little bit -- like young men sometimes do -- I asked him a question that wasn't important enough to remember.

But I could never forget his answer: "Ja!" He loudly exclaimed, which helped me make sense of so much of what once had seemed unrelated.

Then he put his toy car in an impossibly tall tree and asked me to add another vehicle. But I was too busy thinking to play around, and before I knew it, he also had grown too old to play. What a shame.

It's okay sweetie

Normal people are scary for the same reasons monsters are: because they don't exist. When someone is strange, it will feel like at least you know what's wrong with them, instead of the fake normal ones for whom you'll have to figure it out.

Anyway, these scary people like going on vacations, yuck. Staying home is easy and great. I've felt more love while looking at the same old bland buildings than I have while looking at great world wonders.

But when my parents (some of the weirdest people I know) rented a small house in Delft and asked if I wanted to stay with them for a few days, (I'm trying to work on my anxiety -- part of the reason why I love home so much), I did something radical and said yes.

It was nice seeing them for longer than I had been (it's hard to see people you don't live with.) And, ever since becoming an adult, playing with my toddler nephew is the most fun I'm still allowed to have.

Though cute that he is, he's also a real troublemaker, so there wasn't a night where he didn't wake everyone up by screaming.

There must have been (fake) monsters in his dreams. Fair enough, they are scary sometimes, but even more frightening than that should be the real ones in his life. 

He'll understand that someday. Then he'll wish to return to the ones in his dreams, but it'll be too late, not that he ever really could.

Far from home

This Thai lady is lying on my couch -- don't worry about how she got there; it's a story I'll reveal some other time. 

I had told her she would look great as a painting, which she struggled to believe, only making her more beautiful.

She allowed me to sketch her anyway, and because I didn't know when I'd get such an opportunity again, I took full advantage, stealing her soul and capturing it on my canvas.

Well, that was probably my biggest mistake ever.

Don't get me wrong, the painting is excellent, but now I have this soulless body in my apartment who's NOT pleased with me.

Apparently, stealing one's soul is frowned upon -- maybe THAT is something they should teach you in school (though perhaps they did, and I wasn't paying attention.)

I would appreciate any ideas about rectifying this situation without destroying my painting or upsetting her more than she already is. I like her a lot, and I'm not ready to depart from my painting yet.

Weird Girl

I'm one of those people with weird parents; when people look at me, I feel them (annoyingly, correctly) assume so.

But they're the good kind of weird, I promise. Their friends, the few they had, often turned out to be the bad kind. Many weird people are; the weirdness starts as fun, but when further explored, it quietly becomes evident that they're kinda dysfunctional. Weird people are somewhat of a gamble.

A lot of normal people, the older they get, see themself become more and more like their parents. Well, let me tell you, as a weird guy, this is also true for us. 

Like my parents, I prefer having few friends, and the ones I choose to spend time with are primarily weird. 

If you don't end up like your parents, you'll end up pretending to be their opposite. Hopefully, convincingly enough to one day trick yourself into forgetting it was an act.

Anyway, so this painting is about my new best friend, who's rather weird.

Now I get most people might call a lot of otherwise normal people weird because of a few things they do out-of-the-ordinary -- that's not the case here.

Are you wondering what makes her weird? I get that, but that's not what this painting is about.

#683 Weird Girl

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