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A world dominated by magic and unenforceable growth

Fuck fake could be my turn of phrase again and again were I more into graffiti, but in the absence thereof let’s call it my aphorism of choice this week, excusez les mots, as they are fed by the striking exposure of a widely loved Dutch television presenter who turns out to be a bullying asshole, surprise surprise (did we not all see this coming from miles afar?) but it’s also designated by an email conversation about a past that I cherish but then again rapidly repel, as one does when gossip is involved and one still doesn’t feel quite comfortable with that particular involvement, explain away, Mr. Right.

A lot of the pronounced friction I personally feel regarding this dubious mandate when dealing with issues like belonging, humbleness, subordination, presence, are just that: words to grasp for if one has to apprehensively defend oneself, including ones actions or lack thereof. 

This is the stuff that Les Pierres’ thaumaturgy has taught me from the get go, from getting reacquainted with that force that does not stop for anything or anyone – did we really murder out this wasp’s colony? No, not yet, but we keep trying because they keep coming, one by one, invigorating our precious Mec, who yearns all and every chase – true life is forever about what’s out there, hankering, enticing, casting its spells and its blessings, concocting something to throw us off our feet for the sake of just that, or so is seems, a guzzling game, no, more than that, much more profound than that.

The days of me mastering all that beauty that molds our domain into being actually ours are over once again, with Winter moving in ever so slowly (raspberries all the way up til December, are you f-ing serious?) and numerous memories of sweet reconnections still abidingly lingering. 

This cannot be but payback for my hefty hubris, I know, time to admit defeat and acknowledge the superior forces now at work in our undivided reality. One look around the mess I used to call my veggie garden should suffice and refute the circular idea of individual manufacturability, yet all I see is a new season on the horizon, just a sigh away, to manipulate and to sturdy stipulate with my so called ‘expertness’.

To be hell bent on keeping things real in a world dominated by magic and unenforceable growth everywhere you look, where even dogs can and do fly yet all I can append is being committed to try, one could call my prerogative just as one could usher it my malediction by staging it this way.

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