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My writing is  born out of a love of reading. I especially love to read when it rains. Around here it rains a lot. Are you (like me) oogling a person's book collection to see who you're dealing with?

Then here it is, one bookshelf as self portrait:

Never would I invite you to come to my birthday party where tigers are better looking. Where the fat woman's joke goes horribly wrong.  Where the red tulips  are too excitable. Their redness corresponds with my wounds while I long for the white walls only to be found in a room of once's own.  The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; they are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, as he paces in cramped circles, over and over. Only at times, the curtain of the panter's pupils lifts, quietly--. An image enters in, rushes down through the tense stillness of the muscles, then into the heart where it disappears.


The grapes of wrath no longer taste sweet to those who seek the queen of spades at the top of the magic mountain only to find a woman of no importance exchanging her wuthering heights for the lowlands of Mansfield park, so appropriate for the second sex.  Meanwhile, on the waves below the old coastline,  the old man and the sea join .

And then, once more, in the innermost hour of the soul appears der Steppenwolf in almost a Faust-like fashion to bring notes from the underground where dead souls collect the poet's dust.

Is it all much ado about nothing to the conformist serving --or should I say surfing, less than zero? 


If this is a man in his totality and infinity, it must be a man's search for meaning. Beyond good and evil lies the joke, hides our ethics in the metamorphoses that always awaits us on the way to language.

If this isn't, what is...

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