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Voor Emmy

Zijn het pluimen of bladeren
die ontsnappen uit je binnenste hartkamer
of is het de gloed van de kleur van kloppend bloed
hunkerend naar de stilte van rimpelloos

Als haar handen vloeibaar worden
krijgt de piano vleugels op het doek
Een boom verbijt haar vergezicht
In de diepte luisteren wortels verrukt
naar de zachte braille van haar bestaan
Tuinen hangen van de wolken
omlaag, omhoog groeien vreemde bloemen
uit een ingebeelde notenbalk.

Guido Vermeulen
14 november 2011

Muziek bij de video: Claude Debussy

maandag 28 mei 2012

I continue to remember certain dreams


On a wall someone has painted I, then a red heart, and beyond that MY BROTHOU.
The artist invites passengers to paint their own messages.
So with a brush and yellow paint I write on the wall I LOVE CHICKEN SOUP.
Excellent, the artist comments and he adds,you should go to Africa to avoid you will die as a stupid white male.

Are you Rosie Winterspoon, I ask him. The name popped just in my head.
No, I am Debora Lakecarer, is his answer.
Okay, thanks Debbie.
Give Rose a kiss from me.
So in the park I kiss a rose and starts bleeding.

463 my blood cells tell me, count to 463 and then you will be in Africa.

I am in a country where people speak Douala.
MUSANGO is the name of my favorite fish in Douala and means peace.
Once I made a painting of the fish Musango for Adamandia Kapsalis in the USA.
She proposed a fish project.

I am standing before a big building painted in yellow and a cripple beggar at the door invites me in.
How many rooms has the building, I ask him?
Nyie Nted Mewon La.
That’s not Douala, I comment (how do I know this?!)
No I speak Ewondo and that means 463,
Of course, everything makes sense that way.

I enter the block and travel from room to room, all rooms are painted in yellow. There are hardly any windows, so it is quite dark. The paint replaces in a way the light.
I see all kinds of people in different situations: families, men alone, women alone, children alone, sick people, dying people even from what looks like starvation or illness or both.
I start getting scared and claustrophobic and want to find my way out again but the more doors I open, the more rooms I encounter with even worse situations than the ones I already witnessed.
I start crying in silence. Tears drop on the earth.

In the next room I meet a woman. She is long and tall, wears a great multi colored dress but to my shock she has an extremely tiny head, as if was shrinken on her body.
What do you want? she asks me gently.
I have lost my way and want to leave this place.
Oh no problem, but first you have to drink some ti or mao with me and my husband.
I shall not offend the laws of hospitality, so I accept. I know that ti is tea and Mao means palm wine.

Her husband greets me. He is a small man but with enormous hands and a very pointed face, almost like a fox. He has an awful nose that ends in a huge knob.
We drink together. Can I ask you an annoying question my new African friends ask me.
Of course.
You are so ugly, you have a mutilated and deformed body. Did you have an accident or were you born this way?
I am perplex, my body is normal but not according to their point of view.
I am born like this.
Oh poor man, you should consult a witch doctor here or otherwise seek help from a plastic surgeon.
I prefer a local marabou.
They smile in comprehension.
 Now how do I get out?
Oh, you know the answer already, they tell me.
Of course, stupid me, I count to 463 and am back and awake in Brussels.

Guido Vermeulen
May 2012

Postcard YELLOW by Rod Summers, The Netherlands

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