every night when i go to bed, just before i fall asleep i get ideas. they pop up and i always need to write them down. usually words, sometimes images. i scribble them on a piece of paper and i throw them from my loft bed into the hallway. i do the same when i have images in my dreams that i think i can use.

every morning when i climb out of bed, i collect the pieces of paper in the hallway. sometimes there's a whole pile, sometimes there's just one. some i can't read however hard i try. of some i haven't got a clue what they're about. of some i think: why did i write that down, i would have remembered anyway. sometimes i think: wow, what a great idea! some are just plain stupid. and some, probably about ten percent, turn into actual objects. or films. or photographs.

ampules / laboratory

there's no way to visualise a creative process. but you can pretend, of course.

i guess the reason why people are so intrigued by certain artists is because they can only guess at how that process goes. it's not really in the end product. or it is, but you can't analyse it. the magic part is indefinable.

fly or die

from my father's sketchbook

1974

i was six. he wrote: jenneke says: i can't stop thinking.

the anti-muse song (the cabinet of spirits part II)

i will not be your muse

let you

fill your fountain pen with my spirit

you sucked up when i was asleep

wrote your words from my hands

spinning tales from my hair

your song the shape of my groins

i will

swallow my words speaking backwards

my fluids flowing back to me

my kiss so dry

your tongue pulls back in fear

my lust inhaled

safe in my chest

my nipples, soft

my breath all mine

the sheets not crumpled

pluto back in the sky

i was never there

I'm swinging, my hands tightly holding onto the rings hanging from a tree. I turn, I tumble, try to get my feet in the rings. Which is hard because I'm wearing shoes with wooden soles. I'm a child, but I don't feel like one. But I'm swinging anyway, because that's what children do. The sky turns and the clouds go everywhere. I hang my head back and feel my hair brush my shoulders. I laugh because it feels nice. I prefer hanging here looking at the sky to standing on the ground. I always look either up to the sky or down to search for insects. When I find insects I pick them up to examine them carefully. I prefer this to looking people in the face, or worse, talk to them. I'm always afraid to give the wrong answer when people ask me questions. Besides I'm so dreamy I don't always hear what they say. I try to get into the sky. The sky is now in my head. This is how I like it! Can't it always be like this? No words, just cloud shaped images.

Someone calls my name. I let go of the rings. I feel the ground beneath my feet. I'm back on earth. I shiver. I feel dizzy. I try to keep the sky in my head. It's hard.

I walk up to the big barn next to the tree. I hear music coming from inside. Someone calls my name again.

I enter the barn. The music grows louder. It's a farmer's barn but it's filled with objects. My eyes have a hard time adjusting to the sudden darkness. I haven't been here before. Dim light falls through the small windows. I recognise some of the large objects. They're machines. I walk around. Then I see where the music comes from. Two gigantic black speakers are standing in the middle of the barn. They're the biggest speakers I've ever seen. My father made them. I vaguely discern him and my two brothers by the speakers. I walk up to them. My father shouts: "listen to this!!" and he turns the volume up. I feel the movement of the wind of the sound coming from the speakers right into my stomach. I'm literally blown away.

"WELCOME MY SON!

WELCOME, TO THE MACHINE!"

how much is the ransom

as i see myself

tuning in

well-received?

i miss your voice

la balance entre l'amour et le désespoir

invited

from the floor

to the crack

holy witness

lit your face

was it soft?

i don't know

i'm crawling back

from the crack

to the floor