Being connected nowadays also means a daily chore of weeding through updates, coupons, unsolicited junk like cute cats I don’t care for, job openings I cruelly can’t or wistfully won’t fulfill – and let us not forget that weird uncle of electronic correspondence: the Act Now Viagra offer. We’re all getting wired to swallow it whole, regurgitate it with our own inimitable twist, or just copy-pasting “What he said” when inspiration is lacking fundamentally.

So let’s talk about something else for a bit. The theory of the multiverse is apparently gaining scientific ground spectacularly fast these days, and I love it. You see, for lack of flying cars and to break the lull of waiting for Skynet, there’s a bunch of awesome nerds out there figuring out that the only way time travel is possible is through parallel realities. And since it is unfathomable that time travel is impossible – simply because it would be unbearably disappointing if it were so – the universe apparently is like a big acoustic guitar with innumerable strings on it, playing intricately detailed chords on a micro level but expanding in a gracefully simple ripple when looked at from above.

The beauty of this theory is that there’s an infinite number of slight variations on the exact same situation – and the next one, and so on. It means anything you can think of exists on some level, meaning that as we speak there is a world where Will Smith still releases rap singles summarising the plots of his latest blockbusters, but also one with a bar serving grilled-cheese martinis to people paying good money for such an experience.

It’s a comforting thought, if you want it to be, and a motivating, exciting one if that’s how you drink your tea.

For those idly whiling away the days of their lives, there’s the liberating thought of some other version of you excelling wherever you fail, taking a chance where you sit and ponder – and with an infinite number of Yous doing things with just a small, inimitable twist of their own, the chances of you being the ultimate version are so slim to none that not even your mother could legitimately require you to bother.

Yet if you’re more inclined to tackle a good challenge, much to motivate can be found in this theory, too. You are one of many highly similar contestants in the Greatest Reality Show Ever – the one that’s known as your life, also known as the only time you can be sure you’ve been given to do meaningful things for those you’re sharing it with.

After the ride is over, nothing’s going to matter quite like it does today. If you look at it that way, you might as well make the most of it, try and be the best You that you can possibly be – and take home the grand prize of a satisfied life and, eventually, dying gracefully.

We live in a time of many options. Too many options, sometimes. Our multiverse must be bursting at the seams nowadays. When we’re always connected, the grand total of things we could be interacting with seems to know no boundaries, and can all too often hit like a sledgehammer, preventing us from doing anything meaningful at all, apart from disseminating more or less literate forms of public masturbation like the prose you’ve just digested.

Still with me? Another you may just have had an epiphany instead.

Go on, disconnect. Take a look outside.

“You want to go back, don’t you?” was the first thing it told me.

I’ll spare you trying to describe what it sounded like. I couldn’t do the sensation justice and would only come across as the kind of person you’d want to shut up unless you’d been there.

“Yes,” I thought – or said; the difference was blurry but the intention so clear. “Yes, I wanna go back.”

“You want to go back to that time. No more, no less… you seem so sure of it, much more so than many.”

And I was. I couldn’t recall a special day, but I recalled a time when things were simpler – a feeling that I felt in a place where I belonged when the world was at my feet, before I’d so callously crossed certain roads so clear to me now.

“I wanna be back there.”
I said it, I felt it.

“There are other options, you know.”

I never considered that, but there it was. Another option.

My head was light, as if I’d just had a good night’s sleep with no drinking, none too many smokes to remind me of them in the morning; a morning with the window open and birds serenading the dawn of a gorgeous day, the touches of a sweet dream fleeting on my fingertips.

“Things will be different then, very much so.”

“Will I still be me, then?”

“As much as ever if you ask me, and nothing like it if you were to compare. These things are not easy to explain in terms you can fully understand.”

“Try me, would you?”

A pause, if I could call it that.

“You won’t know either way of what was to come, but you will have better instinct, child. Intuition. Your gut feeling will be stronger, so to speak.”

“I’m not done, not yet. I know that. And I could’ve done so much better.”

“You still can, if you want. But you won’t know any better or worse no matter what choice you make next.”

I had to let that one sink in – I couldn’t tell you for how long – but I was sure, in the end, that it didn’t matter. At least for me it didn’t. You might have opted for the escape into something else. You might have felt different in your egg, but I had my feelings in mine.

No words formed after that – only a very strong feeling subsided, as well as a mutual understanding. Details fleeted in between, the ones that mattered and made things clear. A strong need persevering, a longing for another shot.

I woke up again and let the real world in.

It all felt comfortably familiar, like I’d been there before.

But if you’d ask me later, you’d tell me who doesn’t feel like that every now and again.

He’d always been told he had only good in his heart, and while he could see where those who described him that way were coming from, he knew that things were never so simple. These folks failed to see into the murkier recesses of his mind, those mental nooks where, when a large-assed shop lady bent all the way over to adjust the precise positioning of her store’s most attractive products, he briefly pondered – just for the sheer sensation of doing so – shoving said ass to make her land flat in the middle of the wares she was being paid to peddle.

Yet, in fairness, how could they have had a clue of the restraint he’d exercised, faced time and again with flocks of football fans unloading from the S-Bahn, claiming as theirs the territory their feet conquered by virtue of volume only, the sweeping mass of them obliterating all consideration of outsiders trespassing grounds they claimed common only for their own? How could they have known of the hatred bottling up inside of him when he kept all those thoughts close to his heart, and his own heart only?

How many one-on-one talks would it have taken to convey that subtle balance between the live-and-let-live attitude he displayed for all to see, and the frustration he tucked away when confronted with those shamelessly asserting a disagreement with the liberties he was trying to propagate?

Ultimately, then, while his gravestone his good heart reflected, he couldn’t help but think how much the medium controlled the message. Perhaps even just a smaller font would have allowed for a little bit of nuance, but it was too little too late, and such thoughts were now circumstantial only.

So as he gazed upon that solid relic of his passing, he pondered not whether sometimes he should have shoved the fat-assed strangers of his lifetime, but that he should have opened up more to those he cared about – how much better it would have been to simply share his thoughts while time was his, and his to share.

Very set in his ways

A bit of a bore

You could tell by his face

He always worked vigorously,

Never spent frivolously

Neither drank nor took drugs

He refrained from debauchery

What most men would yearn for, our man didn’t crave

The common and tawdry he perceived only abstract

Thus a sin or a dozen he could easily waive,

As part of the rules of his life’s daily contract

Rarely letting the good times roll,

He entertained but a solitary vice

Which in the end, would still suffice,

To make him cough up the final toll

To his wit, he’d fashioned a personal deal

To permit himself only magnificent meals

Which, he’d stipulated in this singular clause,

Should all come with ample and succulent sauce

He studied the masters,

From Carême to Escoffier

And mastered all aspects,

From roux to velouté

Rack of lamb or cuts of beef,

It ultimately mattered little

To the pivotal part of his belief,

The food itself played second fiddle

His main motto for a dinner so dreamy,

Was let there be sauce, preferably creamy

And all through his years, that is just how he ate

A sauce connoisseur,

He could only concur,

With a brimful gravy boat next to his plate

But alas, the humble story of our gourmand,

Inescapably, as you are about to learn,

Is fast approaching its unfortunate turn

Twice now, ye readers have been warned

From a wonderful sleep-induced fantasy,

He abruptly woke into terrible agony,

Followed by a single but gut-wrenching yelp

Soon he rushed out, screaming for help

Shaken to his very core,

A-knockin’ he came to his doctor’s door

With pain so deep he couldn’t take any more

And nothing would be as it was once before

His immediate agony the doctor was quick to address,

What ailed our hero was not hard to assess

But while today’s pain the doctor could alleviate,

From his custom, our hero would have to deviate

“I’m terribly sorry sir,

But all my fellows will concur,

That this poor gallbladder o’ yours,

Can no longer handle such copious amounts of creamy sauce.”

The verdict hit hard and was cruel

No wonder then, our hero could not keep it cool

Faced with the very worst of his fears,

He lost his dignity and burst into tears

“Doctor, these tidings you’re giving,

They’ll kill me because,

A life without sauce,

Ain’t no life worth me living!”

“Now mister,” the doctor spoke,

Attempting his sentence somewhat to revoke

“It’s not like you’re doomed

Surely a diet doesn’t warrant such gloom?

Verily there must be more

Other pleasures may come to the fore

Does life not always offer new things to discover?

Have you not a family, a spouse or a lover?”

“Dear doctor, your dreams are a hoax

They only ring true for the commonest of folks

As a young man I knew that the life that I live

Would never have all life should promise to give

I’ve been impotent since birth, so why even bother?”

And thus with sauces a thing of the past

Our hero decided to go out with a blast

Rejecting the years ahead came to him as no loss

He ended up drowning himself in a bath full of sauce

And that’s where our tale sadly comes to an end

Which naught but a deus ex machina could now come to mend

But such a tale this one is not

So please be grateful for the one you got

It’s sure been a while since my last letter, my apologies for that. Truth is I’ve been a little out of it for a while and I’ve neglected my correspondence somewhat, even if there’s been no shortage of topics for us to reflect upon!

You must have had a pretty rough year, what with all those people finally finding the courage to talk about all the dark stuff that took place in so many of your franchises. And yet, perhaps it was also a year of some personal growth, as you retracted your talons ever so slightly concerning the condom. You know Ben, you and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but that gave me a sliver of hope for you yet.

And even quite recently, you urged Pakistan to rethink its views on blasphemy, which is something I soundly agree with. Freedom is a precious good after all, even if it seems freedom means different things to different people.

So don’t colour me shocked, then, when today I found out you’re up to your old tricks again, telling the world that sex and civic education classes clash with the right to religious freedom. I guess you and I disagree on what education should entail. You see, to me proper education means learning about the world in its many different outfits, informing the youth of today of what’s out there – the good, the bad and sometimes the ugly – rather than learning about life through a religiously-tinted lens.

Because here’s my fear when you would get what you want: that many aspects of human society would be left out, if not outright condemned by the bias you continue to propagate. Your views make me ponder what sex and civic education would entail in your book – and which parts you’d self-righteously gloss over.

Pope Benedict and his views

You say that today’s sex and civic education courses “convey a neutral concept of the person and of life, yet in fact reflect an anthropology opposed to faith and to right reason”. Let me turn that around on you and ask if your “true form of sex education” would be so neutral and borne from right reasons?

Would your curriculum address the concept of homosexuality as a natural aspect of our planet’s species and on par with its straight counterpart, or as the road less desirably travelled – biology, and, as a result, the young individual inclined that way be damned?

Would you condemn divorce and protect the sanctity of marriage at all cost, neglecting that people evolve during the journey we call life, and that sometimes sticking together means making each other – and the developing family unit you salute so overwhelmingly – deeply miserable as a result?

Would you seriously veto a young woman’s right not to raise the fruit of a misguided fuck purely for the sake of a life that would be set back right from the beginning? Describe to me, if you will, the person whose benefit that would be for.

Your religion is not the only way of life. Matter-of-factly speaking, one is not born into it. Yours is but one of several views of life, equally valid as other ones, and equally tainted by human perception – even if you deem it better than the rest. If it is strong enough to sustain itself as a worthy way of viewing the world, it will survive all things you might perceive as threats – even if some earthly power tried to forbid it. But I believe that any child deserves to learn that the world is wider in scope than the blinders of you and yours make it out to be.

Religious freedom is an important right indeed, but it must come second to the right to education. Good education to me means receiving the tools to make up one’s own mind, to make a balanced assessment of a variety of views provided, which requires an unobstructed view on the world.

And whether you like it or not, kids in their teens get involved with sex one way or another (this is biological fact, or, if you will, the way God made us) so they deserve to know about things like contraception and the full spectrum of sexuality – as well as the votes in favour and against these concepts entertained by the various members of the human populace.

Schools should not claim one way is morally worse than another (that’s where the parents come in) but they must provide a balanced overview of what’s on the menu in life, thereby creating the necessary living space for the many individuals not necessarily invited to your party.

Until next time Ben, take care of yourself!

P.S. Let me know when you’re done with the toys I left at your place last time. My grandma needs them back by Easter.

I vowed to make a change this year – and where better to look for inspiration than in new experiences? It was time to face the new year looking fresh…

I dug up a voucher for a cosmetic treatment I was given far too long ago, for a basic facial that came thoroughly recommended. I like to think I take pretty good care of my appearance but must admit that most skincare products on my bathroom shelf only find limited use. No wonder, then, that I’d never seen a beauty parlour up close until my New Year’s resolution compelled me to venture inside one.

One of the beauticians pointed me to a chair as she withdrew herself to discuss the validity of my ageing voucher with her superior. I sat down in front of a young woman and an older one, both looking very relaxed and flicking through magazines. Theirs seemed like the best approach for the time being, so I grabbed a GQ magazine and was soon caught up in an interview with John Hamm presenting his 1960s’ Don Draper character as a major cultural influence on men of today. And I wondered – would Don Draper get a facial?

My voucher cleared when they realised it was purchased by a very good customer of yore, and I was soon whisked off into a small room where soothing canvasses and a whopping facial bed awaited. As I lay down among all kinds of foreign equipment I couldn’t help but think of a dentist’s visit, albeit that my mood was one of curiosity rather than dread. Plus, no dentist I ever went to played such esoteric tunes nor had one of those funky colour-changing lamps on display.

Unhip to beauty parlour decorum, I broke the silence and asked the beautician what the procedure would entail, and if she had a lot of guys coming in as well these days; ever more, apparently, with each passing year. ‘Take that, Don Draper!’ I thought, just as she applied a hairnet over my scalp and began rubbing a pleasantly-smelling substance on my face.

As she inspected the state of my skin she made no qualms about also rubbing in the fact that I really should be using more product; bless the German language, hearing her describe my Unreinheiten made me feel rather dirty indeed.

Her appraisal was followed by a gel on my face, steam pouring onto it and some gentle finger work up next – but that was merely the prelude to the battle ahead. She pointed a bright light at my face and began picking and plucking dozens upon dozens of tiny little spots that had somehow always escaped my casual eye. As I was subjected to her seemingly endless squeezing of my many polluted pores, I slowly became aware of the vastness of my face’s surface. I refused to cringe and bit my tongue even as my tear ducts proved a little less cooperative in maintaining my manly composure. I bet you, Don, the ’60s were easier times for a man.

The fog of war eventually lifted and was bidden adieu with a welcome massage and a warm compress. The worst was over, and all that was left to do was to sit through the mask part of the facial. The beautician briefly left the room as the mask finished the job, and as I slowly felt a crust forming on my face I pondered the subliminal messages in the background music, a sultry woman repeating “I love myself” in between gentle drum beats.

A little later the beautician returned and wiped away my mask with another compress and announced it was all over. My first new experience of the year. To make it official, she handed me my first bit of inspiration, a report card geo-tagging the blackheads and moisture deficiencies on the surface of my face – plus a trio of products that could go a long way to remedy them.

So what did I get from today’s experience? I have it on good faith that tomorrow will tell the happy end to this tale, and what happens next is all up to me. I got a few samples and the comforting thought under my belt that new experiences are right around the corner – and that things are only set in stone if I leave them so. With the right attitude – and proper products – even the old can shine like new again.

Songs rival smells for recalling something untouchable yet oh so specific gone by. The Ocean Colour Scene’s song will always bring my early days in Utrecht vividly back to life. The days when I was young, when my brother and his friends were still so very much three years older and I hadn’t caught up yet.

It was the music from their lives and experiences, high school and beyond. Much less than nowadays our interactions were limited – they crashed our parties, we snuck into theirs, and I heard their stories and their songs.

I think theirs was the first poetry I saw in a life not my own – the nostalgia for a life not lived, although back then I was too young to think in those terms. The glimpses I got grew as I moved into their house and took part in their world, and it came to constitute a wider spectrum of things – songs, habits, cities and ideas.

Looking back on those days I can only smile; they were good days, I saw a different world I was allowed into. And as time passed we all grew closer and our shared worlds grew together – or I stopped seeing the difference.

But then you hear certain songs and you’re taken right back to times when; times when the world was an unread book, full of surprises and moments of discovery. Of places played out in tunes and sung in lyrics that I was yearning to experience.

It was their time, and it was mine. And sometimes I go back there, if only for the duration of a song.

For Rob, Sander and Marc.