Weblog - monteny.net - My Past

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 13:28:00 -0500

Listen, he said
you will go trough
the tunnel here,
when we push
this needle,
you will feel
a bit warm

I was lying there
flat on my back,
staring at the ceiling
trying not to think
and then I started
to move backwards

inside this machine
something began tumbling
like a washing machine
gone completely wild
and a metalic voice said
no breathing please
so I did, and then
the same voice told me
to breath again
and it all seemed
very foolish

but then the warmth came,
it started in my brain,
I started glowing
all through my body
and I thought WOW
these guys gave me
some fucking XTC,
it all came back

in a flash there was
that absolute feeling
of total peace,
I closed my eyes,
the fluorescent
green chicken wire
of pure MDMA
wrapping my world
into a total bliss
and the white flashes
of the purest white
you've ever seen
on an early morning
were there again

wel, it didn't last
30 seconds later
the glow was gone
and so were
my memories
of the early '90s

Was it OK?
the guy asked me
and I gave him
my broadest smile,
well, you should be
he said, that morphine
sticker will keep
your pain under control

so I thought:
well the cancer
might be bad
but the free drugs
take the edge away
just as they did
so many years ago

In my world
nothing ever
realy changes

No Knowledge

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 13:54:00 -0400

First thing I remembered
Is that my parents
Always seemed to know

And then I noticed
That the butcher seemed to know
And the street sweepers

The cashier, longing for Sunday
The fishermen, the builders
They al seemed to know

And then there were policemen
The politicians, the judges
They certainly seemed to know

The priests, the vicars and rabbis
The mullah and the Buddhist monks
They must be in the know

But me, after fifty years of searching
I can’t even formulate
The right question

See, that’s about all
That I know

Donna and Fanny

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 13:32:00 -0400

Donna and Fanny looked so beautiful
So happy on this, their wedding day
And everybody was there, their family
Their friends, their colleges from work

How far have we come in such short time
From vicious and cruel discrimination
Over outcries of moral decadence
To physical attacks by homophobes

Thank goodness, society is moving on
Giving all people the right to love
However weird it might seem for some
A marriage is a contract between people

No matter what their gender is

The deep love for each other is real
And so is their right to live together
In a binding legal sense, giving protection
Just as to any other wedded couple

I know some people still see this
As problematic, a schism in society
But just think about it for a while
Doesn’t everybody deserves the joy

Of marriage

The Kid

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 13:35:00 -0500

By the time we arrived at the shelter
The ruction was already in progress
Someone was shouting and swearing
Something about the amount he had
To pay to get his lost and found dog
back home

I sat myself on a bench, leaned back
And followed the developing events
The man in a rage was about thirty
And from his ranting it was easy to
Imagine that he never finished high
school

But he had his little boy with him
A nice and by the sounds of it
Bright, 8 year old, terrified at the
Explosion of anger and violence
Seeing his father trying to assault
The staff

They locked the man and his son
Inside the inner gate of the shelter
Well, that didn't do much good
As the fence was only 1meter 80
High, good enough for dogs, not for
A madman

So the guy quickly jumped the fence
And tried to attack the manager
Once more, who retreated behind
The main gate, which he closed
There was razor sharp iron on top
So that was that

Now there was some pulling and
Jerking through the vertical stiles
By which time the manager had
This maniac under control, until
The guy reached under his coat like
He had a piece

Which he had not, we are talking
Flanders here, even so the manager
Let loose, while through all the swearing
And verbal abuse, this tiny kid kept on
Pleading for his dad to be sensible and listen
To reason

The cops drove in and manhandled
Our lunatic into their police cruiser
And that finished the noise, but for
The voice of that terrified child, pleading
Not to beat his daddy up or send him
To jail

Naturally, that wasn't going to happen
But how is a panic-stricken kid to know that
I felt so sorry for this brave and smart tyke
What chances would he get in life, living
With someone who thinks he's still fighting
In the schoolyard

Anyway, I stood up from my bench, went in
And adopted "Toornie". I'm quite sure that
This animal will have more love around him
Than this 8 year old will have for the next
Couple of years. And somehow, I thought,
That's just not fair

Help the Aged (for Fractalinda)

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 13:37:00 -0500

Hi Linda, this one's for you. It is one of my favorite pics i took when visiting the elderly home. It's from christmas 2003, and it's Linda and my late Irish Wolfhound "Urchin". Urchin was always so tender, taking the food from these frail old hands. The dear old lady just loved Urchin... Normaly I never publish pictures from our visits, but i decided to make an exception for you. Maybe it's an initiative that could be repeated where you help the aged? The results from bringing calm and gentle dogs in contact with old people can be quite surprising. We had people who didn't respond to anything anymore, but the moment we put their hands on those warm, furry animals, you could see their fingers starting to react.

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 13:23:00 -0500

Got out of my bath
At 5 this afternoon
While police sirens
Invaded my street

Next there was a loud bang
I looked out of my bathroom window
Saw a car crashed into my neighbors
front door, two young kids trying to escape

I watched the police officers jump them
Forcing their faces to the ground
Handcuffs followed after a small struggle

(for my American friends, no guns were pulled,
It’s a funny coincidence, but since Belgium has
One of the most harshest gun laws in the world
Our police have to use their firearms very seldom)

Now until a few years ago, I would have shot
Into my pants, ran outside and join the fun
But after a year of struggling with cancer
My bathroom window view seemed comfortable enough

I looked at the driver, a tall, slender 20 something
Looking surprised that his joyride was over as soon as that
I felt a kind of pity, a kid trying to beat life
By nicking a car, a ride to freedom, to escape boredom

In a white Honda

I was still quite naked, rubbing myself dry
While in the street this minor drama went on
Soon the K9 unit arrived, barking mad police officers
With a license to get a bite of the action.

I’d seen enough, put on some clothes
Disappeared into my computer room

My favorite football team had just lost
My favorite cyclist ended 4th in his race
I didn’t have any of this weeks lottery numbers
And apparently, in Afghanistan 80 people died
Another suicide act while watching a dogfight

It wasn’t going to be a glorious day
Again

THE INCIDENT (1979)

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 13:24:00 -0500

The calm is complete. Not a noise to break the silence. Sixty people in space. In a space. It's like nobody dares to breath. Breathlessly waiting for the sign. The signal we long for. Without fear, without fright, cold sweat, without feelings, without brains, conditioned. Trained as an attack dog. To succeed. And succeed we will! Without mercy, without quarter, without feeling, without brains, emotionless and brutal. The rawness of the group. A chain of comrades, unbreakable, solidarity, prepared to go the whole way, if need be, over people. Bodies. If necessary. My brain is burning. My heart rate is rising. It almost suffocates me. Still, no fear. But the pressure is mounting. Sixty pressure cookers waiting for relieve.

Go! Go! Go! The gate of the barn bursts open. This barn I had began to hate during the night. Because I had to wait. In that damned barn. Which was making me crazy. But now! Sunlight roaring inside. Halve blinded now, but trained, no problems. We storm outside. Our target is 800 meters away. 800 meters with the danger of an early detection. By the pigs, the servants of the state. The butchers. The butchers for money. Are there any other? Our boots are noisy. First like the rumbling of a thunder but after 50 meters in a steady cadence. Like a drum roll, unstoppable. Frightening for a few surprised spectators. Sixty helmed warriors, wearing camouflage jackets, iron bars in hand, hate in our eyes. We keep at it, our lungs pumping, sweat like pearls on our cheeks. Our brains empty. Which is necessary. We will need our brains later. Not now. First we have to make the objective. Another 200 meters in a rigid, hard, fast rhythm. But we have to make it. We make it!!

City hall. Symbol of everything we despise, spit on, curse, hate. Iron bars are flashing. The sound of breaking glass. Pulverized under our boots. We kick in the front door. It gives itself with the heavy sound of wood being ripped apart. Inside. Typewriters are smashed against the walls. Tables turned on their head. Cabinets utterly destroyed. After a minute all rooms look like a disaster area. Hit by a destructive force. Collective anger focused on dead materials. Hoping for live adversaries. Up the stairs. There we find four rooms. 5 by 5 meters, 6 by 6. It couldn't be more. Again the windows are destroyed. We place cupboards and metal cabinets before the gaping holes. Everybody is calmer now. A lot of tension melted away. I feel free now. The only thing left is to barricade the staircase. We sprinkle the stairs with dossiers and any official papers we can find. Then we pour water, beer, champagne and brown soap over it. Until the whole stairway is one wet, slippery, slimy, dirty mini mountain. Bring on the pigs now. We're going to give them a warm welcome. The iron bars are steady in our hands. Hands without sweat, without moist. Cool hands now. Hands who know what will come next. Who know what to do.

They arrive. With lots of noise, helmed heads in monotonous blue. In blue armored cars, blue water cannons, blue uniforms. Like a blue tidal wave. The incarnation of civilian authority. The defenders of the weaklings, those who shiver when they are stopped by their random controls. Here they are, with their orders, ultimatums, demands. With their terror, backed up by dead letters in dead books. Written by corrupt bastards seeking protection from the people. To enforce their arbitrary laws with the unbridled use of force. But damned, not with us. We are no sheep. I am no sheep. We will fight, and lose, and pay for it. We know that. I know that. But we are ready to give ourselves. Rather one day wolf, than a hundred years of living as a sheep.

Distorted shouting through a megaphone. Another ultimatum. Five more minutes. Then the blue oppressors will get into action. Against us. Against punks, trade unionists, gays, negro's, against the right wing, the left wing, against the yellow, the green, the red, the Jews. It doesn't matter. They are paid by those who hold power. They don't care.
Four minutes. Surrender? Never! Not without a fight. We have to stand our ground for at least another halve an hour. Until the other militants, in their thousands, will have penetrated the no-go area. Until then we have to keep fighting. Keep the blue shock troops here. Keep them busy.
Another two minutes. Everyone is quiet. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable. Everyone is determined. I squat with my back against a wall. I close my eyes. I try to count the seconds. Prepare myself for the worst. And more. But without fright, without angst, not scared. Open and in peace with myself. What we are doing is necessary. At this moment. Nothing will change that.

Treblinka, Auschwitz, gas chambers! No comparison. But it fits. That's how it feels. Everywhere there is gas, tear gas. In those four small rooms. Yet there is no panic. Despite the incoming grenades. Through the windows. Through the cupboards. Through the tilingâ��s on the roof. Chalk comes crashing from the ceiling, as the projectiles land on the floor of the attic. I can hardly see my comrades. The rooms are filled with a sickening white-yellowish smoke. It cuts of your breathing. Crushes the lungs. Our eyes are red from tears, a strangling sensation in our throat. Four, five, six grenades per room. This is hell. We'll have to get out of here. Or suffocate. There is no alternative. In the corridor, by the stairs we fight like madmen. Every policeman is kicked back to the bottom of the stairs. Their gas masks make it more difficult for them to move freely, to attack. They look like alien monsters, cold tiny eyes behind steamy glass. There's blood everywhere, cursing, shouting, complete chaos, battlefield, war.

We escape through a window. A jump to relative safety. The flat roof of the refectory. A jump two meters down, two meters to the side. No problem, we are prepared for this. Here we go, one after the other, at a steady tempo. The first ones to land are dispersing fast. Defending the weak points. Where the enemy could get up to the roof. Only thirty people left in the last defended room. We have evacuated the corridor and the stairs. The police is crawling upstairs. Now they begin to break down the door, which we defend with ever fewer people. Rifle butts, bludgeons, beating, hitting, battering, wounding, hands, legs, feet, chests, arms. Now it's my turn. I have to go. The jump through the window. Without thinking, hesitation. I land on the roof, before I'm aware of making the jump. Everyone in the room gets away. Even Bert. As the last one. As the leader. Making his jump, while bludgeons miss him by a whisker. Angry, frustrated, the police begin to shout. "Come back up here"... Scornful laughter is our response. "You come down here! Come and get us, heroes!"

The situation hasn't improved much for us. The police has now occupied the building and have surrounded the roof of the refectory. We're stuck. With little possibility to escape. Which is forbidden anyway. By Bert. No massive break-out in one direction. We'll have to stay here as long as humanly possible. Until we get the sign of the civilian spectators, that the other militants have broken through the cordon of police and are now in Flanders. The police is acutely aware of that. Their troops are needed on different points along the border. They are hard pressed. So they have to get rid of us. As fast as possible. More violence is in the air.

Again it's raining tear gas grenades. But this time we're not such an easy target. The roof is about 20 meters long by 5 meters wide. They fire at us from the two long sides. But the greatest part of the grenades fly over our heads, landing between jumpy blue men on the other sides. The whole complex of the town hall is now hidden under an enormous gas cloud. Slowly a timid wind tears holes in the gas curtain. Like figures appearing out of a heavy mist, one by one my comrades appear again. We're still on the roof. This attack didn't succeed as well. A few meters lower, the police is still there, this time with blood red eyes. They don't look much healthier, or in better shape than us. They are probably asking themselves what will come next. So do we!

From a distance orders are shouted. Sounds echoing between the walls, we can't understand a thing they're saying. Then we watch in amazement what is going on down there. New tear gas grenades are mounted on their rifles. We hear the clicks when the guns are put ready for use. They take aim. Straight into our group. "Damned, they are going to shoot at us" someone yells. A rather obvious remark. Or maybe not. We try to disperse, making ourselves as little as possible. Which doesn't work on such a mall roof. Everywhere where they see little groups together, they take aim and fire directly at us. At our unprotected bodies.

I see a girl who had somehow lost her helmet and give her mine. It seems a silly thing to do. We might as well be naked. Here it comes. I see the grenades coming straight at us. Unable to avoid them. I feel a terrifying blow to the side of my head. Fall on my knees. The skin around my skull starts to swell. I touch my head, look at my hands. No blood. A lucky escape. Optimism. When the smoke clears again, we all feel very proud of ourselves. We are all still there, nobody fled. We are still in control of the town hall.

But where are the other militants. It's high time they make their breakthrough. Because we know what will come next. Rubber bullets. Without any doubt. Still, nobody is ready to leave this roof, to surrender. Then! Cheering from the group of spectators, inhabitants of this little village. The other demonstrators are coming down from the hills. It's done. We can finally get down from this damned roof. Strange. Nobody seems relieved, happy. We just stare at each other. I see some people shaking each others hand. "Right, boys. Let's get down." It's Bert's voice. We obey immediately. One by one we jump off the roof. Where some of the police vent their frustration at us. Some more futile violence. We don't complain and get into a three men formation. To be led away. Seeing this, the police commander almost explodes with rage. "You WILL break ranks" he shouts "You will not march away from here like that!" No one reacts. Nobody moves. So they pull us from the formation, one by one. Lead us away. As individuals. As individuals from a tight group. Unbroken.

Epilogue

There were always young people who reacted as I did.
There will always be new kids
who act, like I acted.
And me, being older
will stare at them in disbelief
and I will understand
that as long as there is youth
there will be war.
Because
what was certain yesterday
a true belief
is now a faint memory
an incident...

Jackpot

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Tue, 06 Nov 2007 13:22:00 -0500

There used to be this bar next door
It collected four different owners
One fatal stabbing incident
And three deaths from a gas leakage
In the cellar, in barely ten years time

Onetime in the early eighties
A new owner opened those doors again
Hoping to make a living, drinking
And chit-chatting with the clients

Passing it on the first day
I noticed this Bingo machine
Standing near the window
All shiny and glittering with
Multi-colored lights

I went in, ordered a beer
Introduced myself as his neighbor
Held some small talk
And checked out the Bingo machine.

Now a professional Bingo device
Looks a bit like a pinball machine
Except it has no flippers
Only twenty-five numbered holes
Where you try to get the metal balls in
And you don’t play for fun
It’s a gambling device

If you know how to play this game
Some serious money can be made
You just have to wait long enough
For other players to get the conditions
Right to get the big jackpot into reach

So, for the next two weeks
I would enter the bar
Had one or two beers
And studied the development
Of the odds towards winning the big one

Finally, I sensed my opportunity
Went home, took out a 1000 franks
Got back, ordered some lemonade
And started manipulating those balls

I was alone with the owner
Who watched as I got closer
Still closer towards the jackpot.
And after more than two hours
Of strategic playing, I made the top score.

Now the machine had to pay me 25.000 franks
The owner phoned the distributor
Who arrived with 25 crisp 1000 franks banknotes
Nicely tucked away in a brown envelope

I paid for my three lemonades, went home
And when Linda arrived from work
I drove her to Bruges, to an exclusive boutique
Where I handed her the brown envelop
And told her to go wild on a shopping spree

She bought a gorgeous green coat
A fitting long skirt and two blouses, a jersey
Which she finished of with a fine belt and shawl
She looked amazing, even more beautiful, full of grace

Me, I felt honored to walk besides such a looker
In my bleached blue jeans and stained white T-shirt
I could actually hear passers by thinking
What is a girl doing with a low-life like him
Surely she could do MUCH better …

Well, I never visited the bar again
There was nothing of interest there anymore
For me, I emptied the bank, and that was that.

You see, I’m not a gambler
But when opportunity arrives
I grab it with both hands
And then run like hell

That feeling of giving my girl, my wife
Such a glorious afternoon, will stay with me forever
The smile on her face, will last me a lifetime
A moment of pure, unrestrained bliss.

As for the owner of the bar,
Some months later
His wife left him for a costumer
Maybe one with a larger dick
Maybe one with a fatter wallet.

But to see Linda walking the streets
Heads turning, now that made
Those few hours of work
Worthwhile

There Is Only One Direction and Nothing Else Besides

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Wed, 18 Jul 2007 02:54:30 -0400

I'm walking down a well used path, death before me, birth behind. There is no need to fight, nor to surrender, there is only one direction and nothing else besides.

But it's those moments. Always those moments. I filled them in desperation. I filled them with sex, i filled them with politics, with violence, with drugs, with art, i work in a shelter, protecting animals from an uncaring world, i used to be a hells angels prospect, i go and visit elderly people to alleviate their loneliness, i was an extreme-right militant, fighting police and communists, i am an old hippy turned punk when nobody knew who the sex pistols were, i got beaten up on drunken weekends and on a good day i would kick some ass myself. I write poetry and i hate poets, i publish my work on the web and i'm amazed people like it, i was kicked out of school when i was 17 and went back to art academy's for six full years when i was 29, i write down words and i'm amazed at what I'm saying, I would love a world at peace, but i get angry and agressive when i see injustice, i have a wife and I had girlfriends and I have one friend, and dogs, the only creatures who understand that i'm mad and who don't give a shite because i love them more than i love myself. And always those moments, as Richard Ashcroft put it "I'm a million different people from one day to the next..."
And djeezz, some people admire me and my work, I wish i could say the same for just one second.

This path, descending to it's final destination, and all i left behind was chaos and a vague promise of something more.

London 1977

nospam@example.com (Dirk Monteny) — Sun, 15 Jul 2007 00:46:32 -0400

This photo was published in a dutch music magazine. It's me and Linda in Kings Road, London back in may of 1977, the early days of Punk rock. The article and all the other photos of the punk crowd were about the "Mont de Marsan" punk festival in France. Well, I wasn't there, which was a shame, I could have met Ian Curtis. Damned ... (well The Damned actualy played at the festival). Anyway, it was more proof to me that you can't believe everything you read and see in the papers. I realy don't know the name of the photographer, I would love to give credit to him. I just remember him asking us to pose for this pic. Well, we're 30 years on and I still look back at those turbulent months with the satisfaction that we were there and had TONS of fun.