The shrink is waiting for you.

His chesterfield chair is brown, his glasses round, his hair shoulder length with streaks of grey peaking through here and there.  He wears corduroy slacks and a v-neck sweater. There’s a carpet and a sofa and two high windows facing the shrink. His heavy wooden desk is behind him. He never uses it, his secretary does his paperwork. He’s not the type of guy to smoke a Cuban cigar with his feet on his desk, he’d rather have a chat with his secretary, always ending with a wink at his loyal assistant and occasionally a little visit to the storage room where they make what is called “love”, which is only partly true in this case. In, out, easy. She is fascinated by him.  Her mom knows about it and doesn’t approve, but secretly wants to hear every  detail about the affair. She regrets her own decisions.

You walk in and without hardly even saying anything, you pore your heart out. You cry your pain away,  you weren’t exactly sure why you needed this, but you feel yourself again. More light, more free, less afraid. You feel like doing something crazy.  In, out, easy.

The shrink understands the over estimation of speech. He sees not saying anything often says much more. And so he sits, he listens, he sees, he speaks a few words and keeps it simple. His education might be of help, but he knows that when it comes down to really knowing, he knows little, so he knows much. What patients tell him that has no real value goes one ear in and out the other, easy.

The shrink has a hobby where he writes down the most ridiculous sentence coming out of  the patients mouth, after every session. His favorites so far is: “I’m in love with my mom and wear her bra’s a night and that’s the reason why I haven’t moved out at the age of 43.” Another classic: “I actually have no idea why I’m here , I shouln’d be here, I am totally healthy!! It’s just..” And then they cry.

After work, he drives his Volvo to the car wash. There he watches the soap clean his car. “Till it’s dirty again.” He thinks to himself. And so it goes.  Neil Young is playing a tune, the car wash is calming. Decisions are being made for him.

In, out, easy

She’s sitting on the kitchen counter. There is little left to be done in the house, except for a tiny pile of dishes. The cake-form is waiting in the sink to be scrubbed clean and has a fork which the cakedough has been mixed with and a knife which the cake has been cut with soaking in the form. A ray of evening sun touches the water that reaches up to the edges of the cake-form. This makes her think the water must be warm, or maybe luke-warm. It probably is an illusion. With her ears dancing along little waves of Billie Holiday, she looks over to the white wall that covers the wall behind the couch. More sunlight is dancing against the wall. The streaks of shadow that devides the poster of sunlight looks inquiet and busy, it makes her feel peaceful. like skinny legs tap dancing on a distance stage. She recons it must be windy outside.

Beetroot is what she’s going to eat to tonight, yes beetroot. The root of a beet. They should have named it  sweetroot. Even bleedroot would have been a better name. It colors everything it touches purple-redish, even your pee. The Italian name for beetroot is barbabietole.

The record stopped playing, she snaps out of it. Out of what? Seeing what’s there and nothing more? Should she finish unpacking the laundry she just picked up? She walks over to the record player and, after a second of considering flipping it over or not, she plays the same side again. It’s great and leaves her without desire to change any sound that’s around.  Sitting down on the couch, the window accros the room is her new frame of sight. The evening sun is triggering her eyes to close, open, close, half-open, squinting, depending on the movement of the wind touching the branches of the trees outside. The more light, the dirtier the windows, the more light the more she sees, the more light, the more confronting it is. Every desicion she now makes is good. She might even play a little guitar. Kristen Farr is her name, an angel with an instrument. 

Have no fear, for a smile from ear to ear

Oven singing to you:

Hey little girl is your cookingspirit home

Did your faith in your love for homemade leave all alone

I got a bad desire

Oooh i’m on fire

Tell me now baby is that microwave good to you

Can it do to you the things that I do

I can take you higher

Oooh i’m on fire

Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife

Baby edgy and dull

And cut a six inch gingerbreadman

Through the middle of my cookiedough

At night I wake up with dreams of home made bread

and a freight train running

Through the middle of my head -

Only you can cool my desire

Oooh i’m on fire …

Once upon a time there was a Big bang

Our galaxy was created and the birds sang

Some say it all was formed by an energy named God

Who was so awesome he created it all with just a nod

Now Einstein, Darwin and Santa find that a little odd

So for now we stick to the Big bang to what we all applaud

Molecules joined forces and to elements they sprang

Nature, animals and people all lived in yin and yang

Caterpillars spun webs and emerged into butterflies

They were perfect in creation and decorated the skies

But people became greedy and started to drain recourses

Like Coca cola created Santa Claus to join their capitalist forces

The spirit of Santa should be the one that endorses

While the selfishness behind it will hold their horses

Caterpillars spinning silk to dress our bodies as allies

God bless everyone who believes that’s wise

Sasha, William, little Tallulah, Jules, Daniel and Benthe; all stunning

Madison and Eveline, girls just wanna have fun

Movemoveflooowww!

Let the love grow

Those cheeks glow

Movemoveflooowww, see no trouble!

Goodluck will double

Stay in your wonder bubble

Movemoveflooowww!

Let the love grow

Those cheeks glow