Under the Dutch Sky
There is little that compares to a sunset under the Dutch sky. Magnificent hues of magenta and light crimson illuminate the clear sky at 10 clock at night and the sheer beauty of it leaves me breathless.
I can see why it inspired so many artists and gave the world the so-called Golden Age of Dutch painting.
But we are a long way from the 1600s and despite the fact that the old towncenter survives almost intact, the Dutch sky no longer inspires the inhabitants underneath it, like it once did.
Its now a magical cascade over an uneven, visually dissonant landscape, with inhabitants that long forsaken their fascination and have pushed their pragmatism to the extreme.
The altered landscape does not compromise any of the beauty and wonder of the Dutch sky. It is still as magical and hypnotizing as ever.
In a moment of realization closer to Dutch pragmatism and far from the mystery of the Dutch sky, the eccentric morbid queen was coming to terms with certain truths about her inner landscapes.
It amazed her that certain things about who she is no longer seemed to be mysterious or incomprehensible as they once were. The uncertainties, the doubt, the fear, all gone, replaced by a keen sense of trusting those bizarre impulses and incessant desires.
If these desires did not express something fundamental about her person, then why are they manifesting themselves the way they do?
Desires are not only mindless preferences, they are an organic manifestation of a deep internal structure, it has its own rationale, one that we might not agree with or understand, but they do, and one step of evolving beyond fixation on desire, is making peace with their presence and accepting that they might signify an absence, or reinforce a presence, or accentuate a lack, or perpetuate an excess, they can do all kinds of things that in many cases lay beyond our control.
And it was at that moment that the eccentric morbid queen made peace with those desires that manifest themselves and the meaning of their fundamental existence.
And in an unglamorous moment, clad in H&M from head to toe, with nothing but almost worthless Egyptian coins in her pocket, and remains of faded brown nail polish on her finger nails, the eccentric morbid queen came face to face with her reality.
The limitations of her attractiveness, the insatiability of her consumerism, the pseudo-seriousness of her intellect, the body-image anxiety, the angst surrounding her future, the deep-seated fear of being judged for all of that.
The constant terror that she might be, in spite of everything she likes to believe, nothing but a phony.
There is nothing genuine or real about her, just like her mass-produced outfit, her depth is just as superficial, and can be easily and endlessly replicated and come across as very visible at its very seams.
She may erect (what an ironic choice of words) all the walls she likes, but in the end she fools no one.
Certainly not the Dutch.
Where what is on the inside is all on the outside, and cheap outfits and visible seams are spotted miles away.
So are fat cheeks, slanted eyes, and 'average' bodies.
You can't mask an H&M outfit with an ethnic retouch, or dress up your 'average' body with intelligent conversation.
The Dutch have little time for conversation, if you don't fit in their time slots, they are not interested.
Next.
Everything is planned, entered into the calendar, even impromptu sex.
It happens Thursday from 8:30 to 11:30.
And if you don't have a visible manifestation of attractiveness, right where they can see it, then they have no interest.
This is worse than Cairo. Because at least in Cairo you get people putting up the appearance of trying to be deep enough to value your 'other qualities' rather than your 'mere physical attributes'.
Here, no.
If you are not a manly man, then no interest, and no time.
The eccentric morbid queen has little beyond her mediocre powers to entertain, and she can not lure or charm, either by money or power.
Don't let the royal title fool you.
If the eccentric morbid queen is a diva, then she is definitely a diva on a dime.
But she tried.
She played all her cards: the ethnic card, the Arab card, the submissive card, the intellectual card, and still to no avail.
She was not a muscular manly man.
She was not a product of post-epidemic obsession with health and masculinity.
She was not the dark, wild Arab.
She is the pale imitation of a white person.
In a world in-between.
And nothing about the beauty of the Dutch sky, or how tall Dutch man are, or how fair their skin or how blond the hair is, will change any of that.
And that is what she has to face.
And not to glorify or exalt or alter or ameliorate, either by fanciful depiction or sentimental writing.
For one reeks of delusion and the other of self-pity.
I can see why it inspired so many artists and gave the world the so-called Golden Age of Dutch painting.
But we are a long way from the 1600s and despite the fact that the old towncenter survives almost intact, the Dutch sky no longer inspires the inhabitants underneath it, like it once did.
Its now a magical cascade over an uneven, visually dissonant landscape, with inhabitants that long forsaken their fascination and have pushed their pragmatism to the extreme.
The altered landscape does not compromise any of the beauty and wonder of the Dutch sky. It is still as magical and hypnotizing as ever.
In a moment of realization closer to Dutch pragmatism and far from the mystery of the Dutch sky, the eccentric morbid queen was coming to terms with certain truths about her inner landscapes.
It amazed her that certain things about who she is no longer seemed to be mysterious or incomprehensible as they once were. The uncertainties, the doubt, the fear, all gone, replaced by a keen sense of trusting those bizarre impulses and incessant desires.
If these desires did not express something fundamental about her person, then why are they manifesting themselves the way they do?
Desires are not only mindless preferences, they are an organic manifestation of a deep internal structure, it has its own rationale, one that we might not agree with or understand, but they do, and one step of evolving beyond fixation on desire, is making peace with their presence and accepting that they might signify an absence, or reinforce a presence, or accentuate a lack, or perpetuate an excess, they can do all kinds of things that in many cases lay beyond our control.
And it was at that moment that the eccentric morbid queen made peace with those desires that manifest themselves and the meaning of their fundamental existence.
And in an unglamorous moment, clad in H&M from head to toe, with nothing but almost worthless Egyptian coins in her pocket, and remains of faded brown nail polish on her finger nails, the eccentric morbid queen came face to face with her reality.
The limitations of her attractiveness, the insatiability of her consumerism, the pseudo-seriousness of her intellect, the body-image anxiety, the angst surrounding her future, the deep-seated fear of being judged for all of that.
The constant terror that she might be, in spite of everything she likes to believe, nothing but a phony.
There is nothing genuine or real about her, just like her mass-produced outfit, her depth is just as superficial, and can be easily and endlessly replicated and come across as very visible at its very seams.
She may erect (what an ironic choice of words) all the walls she likes, but in the end she fools no one.
Certainly not the Dutch.
Where what is on the inside is all on the outside, and cheap outfits and visible seams are spotted miles away.
So are fat cheeks, slanted eyes, and 'average' bodies.
You can't mask an H&M outfit with an ethnic retouch, or dress up your 'average' body with intelligent conversation.
The Dutch have little time for conversation, if you don't fit in their time slots, they are not interested.
Next.
Everything is planned, entered into the calendar, even impromptu sex.
It happens Thursday from 8:30 to 11:30.
And if you don't have a visible manifestation of attractiveness, right where they can see it, then they have no interest.
This is worse than Cairo. Because at least in Cairo you get people putting up the appearance of trying to be deep enough to value your 'other qualities' rather than your 'mere physical attributes'.
Here, no.
If you are not a manly man, then no interest, and no time.
The eccentric morbid queen has little beyond her mediocre powers to entertain, and she can not lure or charm, either by money or power.
Don't let the royal title fool you.
If the eccentric morbid queen is a diva, then she is definitely a diva on a dime.
But she tried.
She played all her cards: the ethnic card, the Arab card, the submissive card, the intellectual card, and still to no avail.
She was not a muscular manly man.
She was not a product of post-epidemic obsession with health and masculinity.
She was not the dark, wild Arab.
She is the pale imitation of a white person.
In a world in-between.
And nothing about the beauty of the Dutch sky, or how tall Dutch man are, or how fair their skin or how blond the hair is, will change any of that.
And that is what she has to face.
And not to glorify or exalt or alter or ameliorate, either by fanciful depiction or sentimental writing.
For one reeks of delusion and the other of self-pity.
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