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Mijn eerste interview sinds lang. Over schoonheid, weemoed en dingen die voorbij gaan.

Interview met Tom Zwitser. Klik voor de beelden.

Ik heb jarenlang iedere studio vermeden. En alle uitnodigingen afgeslagen. Zowel radio, internet talkshow als televisie. Na enkele black-outs en heftige hyperventilatie aanvallen op live radio, durfde ik eenvoudig niet meer. En bovendien had ik niet iets toe te voegen, dat twitter ontsteeg. Iedereen kent de gevleugelde uitspraak over “opinions en assholes”. En van beiden zijn er meer dan genoeg in medialand Nederland.

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Je kunt geen Triumph des Willens maken met een komodovaraan.

Ik keek er niet van op dat de film van Kaag, via het Filmfonds, is gefinancierd met ons belastinggeld. De Duivel fêteert zichzelf nu eenmaal graag op onze kosten.

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Ook zo’n zin in ijsberenbiefstuk? Luister naar de Delingpod!

Een kort verhaal vandaag. Meer een uitgebreide tip. Want ik moest een bus met mooie meiden naar de Efteling brengen en zo weer ophalen. En dat gaat even voor. 

Kennen jullie de podcast van James Delingpole. 

De Delingpod?

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Wie met de duivel discussieert verspreidt zijn evangelie.

De olifantendans van het onvruchtbare gelijk moet doorbroken worden.

Een miertje ziet een lekker blauw kruimeltje en sleept het mee naar het nest, waar het de hele gemeenschap vergiftigt. De dood wordt binnengebracht door vertrouwde werkers, die iedereen, met ieder lekker brokje, nietsvermoedende een stukje zieker maken. Tot iedereen in het nest tot stof is uitgedroogd.

Dit werkt precies zo met “nieuws en discussie” op sociale media.

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Ontwaakt verworpenen der Aarde! Luister naar Thierry Baudet.

Enkele dagen geleden hield Thierry Baudet een vlammend betoog in de kamer. 

Het ging over de slavernij waarin dit volk zich, als ezels met oogkleppen, toe laten leiden, als in een tergend trage veewagon naar Auschwitz.  

“Cosel Hauptbahnhof. Alle aussteigen.” 

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Mijn dichtbundel is uit. Ze heet Olga.

Ik denk dat je geen dichter kunt worden. 

Dat je het nooit of altijd was. 

Dat je het ontdekt, als gekkigheid verdringt of veronachtzaamt 

of uitgraaft en oppoetst met een zachte wollen doek.

Ik heb het omarmd en alle kwetsbaarheid voor spot en hoon aanvaard.

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Eerst kwamen ze voor de Christenen.

πανοπλίαν τοῦ Θεοῦ, panoplian tou Theou.

Eerst kwamen ze voor de Christenen.

Ik begon de Bijbel te lezen. 

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Hoera! We hebben een banner!

Een banner op een site? Gaap. 

Een banner op je eigen site? Hmmm.

Een banner op je eigen site die net online is? Ok dan.

Een banner voor je eigen klant, op je eigen site, die net online is? Props.

Een banner voor je eigen klant, op je eigen site, die net online is, met je zelf bedachte campagne? Win!

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Respect each other’s hell. But know there is no exclusivity to suffering.

“Keep out!”, Georgina Verbaan, a Dutch micro celeb, curtly replied, when controversial Dutch politician Geert Wilders commemorated brilliant Jazz singer Amy Winehouse in a tweet.

In that one aggressive message she appropriated things that should be universal. Compassion, commemoration and comfort.

A person, shunned by the self proclaimed elite,  should have no feelings. Let alone show compassion. A bogeyman should not show he can mourn a tragic fate, that he too likes music. Certainly if his taste overlaps with that of people like Georgina Verbaan, the good people, the anointed.

Monsters should remain monsters.

The rejected should not smile at children, not enjoy the scent of flowers or music. That’s for the good people.

Good people with good feelings.

In commemorating Amy Winehouse, Wilders tarnishes Georgina’s memories and excellent taste.

And distorts her binary vision, in which she represents Heaven and the other one Hell. The inhuman. The subhuman. The Untermensch.

“To commemorate.”

What does that actually mean “to commemorate”?

For me, commemoration is nothing more than “actively reviving memories”. Again and again bringing to life what should never be forgotten. So that evil is kept at bay, less likely to be repeated. And If so, certainly not by me.

Every single day I commemorate the hell that lies closest to my heart. It is my duty to the hundred thousand Dutch Jews who, in a few years’ time, were send to their destruction. Painfully efficient and virtually without any civil resistance. Transported to the biomass factories of Treblinka and Sobibor.

Neighbours, playmates, co-workers, toddlers, babies, pretty girls, grannies.

The Netherlands, my country, my people, they stood by and looked away. Good people.

It was my good people that took away their houses, their art and possessions.

My good people sold them their yellow stars and train tickets to the camps. My good civil servants stamped their Ausweiss with a J, handed them over to the SD for a few Rijksdaalders. 

Good people who were very able to strip other people of all that is human, without much ado. Good people, like Georgina Verbaan.

“Die Menschlichkeit gehort das Herrenvolk.”

I commemorate every day, through study and contemplation, out of respect and shame, but also so that I may recognise the telltale roadsigns that lead to iron-clad soles on trampled blood-soaked paths.

I commemorate every day. And thus, I can see that we have started to walk, not identical but similar paths once again.

Once again innocent groups of people are dismissed as pathogens, spreaders of disease. Once again we are being pitted against each other by screaming headlines in newspapers, and foaming politicians and talking heads on TV. Once again, groups of innocent people are being denied access to swimming pools and theatres, restaurants and beach chairs. Again there’s that hateful Ausweiss, now with a J that looks like a snowstorm. Once again, in Switzerland, people talk about a star to wear, now evolved to a sticker.

Once again, no mercy for small children and old people.

Even now there is the dehumanising, the sneering. Even now there are the false jokes, which are only funny until they become a bitter reality.

Once again many Dutch bow their heads in the slightest bit of headwind.

Once again cynical bastards capitalise on polarisation and hatred, in a time when love, brotherhood and mutual forgiveness are invaluable.

Once again there are concentration camps.

And still there are those who demand not to compare the then to the now!

Usually accompanied by horrible ad hominems and heart felt curses.

I don’t agree with those people.

To compare is to gauge.

To compare is to measure.

Comparing is learning.

To compare is to follow the tracks and see beyond to where they lead.

But comparing is different from equating.

I will never equate the hell of the Shoah to the mad hellscape being built at this moment; it is clear to me that this path to medical apartheid will end in a completely different hell than the one built 80 years ago. 

Just as the icy hell of the Gulag was very different from the putrid inferno of Rwanda; far different to the hell of the witch hunts.

It is beyond rude that some people, out of impotence and blind frustration, misuse the Star of David to show their concern about what is happening to them right now.

That yellow star is sacred. It is a symbol of a hell that is not ours. A symbol we are not entitled to.

But in turn, others must recognize, that there is no exclusivity to immeasurable suffering.

And that a hell doesn’t necessarily have to take the same shape or form to be horrific.

Mark Twain spoke true words when he said. History never repeats itself, but she always rhymes.

And in the rhyme that lies under many notes, one can unerringly see what is about to go down at the end of the song.

Let’s hope the road to this new hell, meets its dead end soon.

Until then, I will continue to commemorate and compare, as if my life and everything I love depend on it.

They are coming for your children.

The human flock has a blind spot for evil. The sharp edge of a butcher’s knife, most of us can’t bear to see. When a force presents itself as too diabolical, a spiritual poison kicks in that paralyses us and pushes many of us to condone pure evil to the bitter end.

The masses voluntarily choose to put on their thick leather blinders, which are not torn off until the iron concentration camp gate has been passed.

The wasp injects us, unsuspecting caterpillars, with her eggs, after which her larvae eat away our fatty tissue and entrails, slowly but surely, until only a chitin shell remains of us, which is blown away in the wind.

During the Second World War, half of Amsterdam clapped and cheered when the Nazi occupiers in their Krupp Protzes, BMWs and Horches rolled triumphantly over the Damrak and the Rokin. Showered in Dutch flowers.

It could not become that bad, now could it?

About a hundred thousand deported Jews later, our own hunger winter began.

Now the Fourth Reich is being rolled out, we see exactly the same pattern evolving amongst the masses.

The New World Order and their contemporary “Heil Hitler” now gleefully called “Build Back Better” are being dismissed as a fantasy, a conspiracy theory of the mad, while speeches and writings, in which the perfidious plans of the new Herrenvolk, are openly discussed in minute detail pile up far into the blue sky and the first concentration camps are operational, yet again.

“You will own nothing and you will be happy.” You? That’s us, now.

Once again, dissidents are made fun of and demonised, by the masses, while dictatorship is rolled out covering our God given freedoms and rights under a thick tapestry of decrees, propaganda and ordinances.
Hans and Sophie Scholl would yet again be delivered into the hands of the authorities by the good citizens. Cleaned up neatly.

These sheep still make up the vast majority, even in full vision or impending doom. The decent ones, who almost gleefully hop into the slaughterhouse truck, the umpteenth poison syringe that would “give them back their freedom”, still dangling from their wooly legs.
Speeding away towards the soothing tranquility of the inky void.

The remaining herd, left behind, still allowed to nibble on dry pollen for a while, destitute, but happy in a mist of happy drugs and “vaccines”.

Now the Devil always tends to overplay her hand.
Hubris is one of her weakest points. Fortunately she does not read Sun Tzu.

And in that fatal flaw, lies my last hope for a collective awakening. A possible ending to the silence of the lambs.

Because I’m curious how mom and dad react, now that Beelzebub’s lacquered claws openly reach out to their little lambs. The apples of their eyes. Their precious darlings.

And I’m not even talking about the jab, that so many parents still except as a safe prevention for a disease that never killed any healthy person under 30. Even after the almost deadly event that hit the Danish soccer player mid field and scores of myocarditis cases in young boys.

I’m talking about The San Francisco Gay Men Choir. Grown up blokes, who in eerily honey sweet singing voices, explain to us exactly what they intend to do with our children.

They’re coming to get them.

Like Adolf Hitler once did with the Jews, these guys make no secret of their intentions. Even though they don’t wear black or Feldgrau, but cheerful rainbow colors.
Even though they don’t look evil and shout orders but sing sweet songs. It’s the same devil’s spawn.

“We are coming for them. We are coming for your children.”

The link could not be embedded. They clearly don’t want us to talk about this. But take a look anyway.

Would mommy and daddy sheep finally wake up from their summer slumber?

Or are they too lame to even stand in defense of their lambs?

Hora ruit, tempus fluit.

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