the future of your skin is in your hands
(i never get tired i don't stand still i keep care of myself)
1 punctuation, l'oreal guy
2 learn to pronounciate l'oreal, you asshole

to l'oreal: don't steal your cheap commercial text from even worse texts. Such as formentioned Al's.

Sometimes, without warning, the future knocks on our door with a precious and painful vision of what might be.
As a result, the earth has a fever. And the fever is rising.

That's what happens when Al Gore receives a Nobel Prize.

More?:
I have a purpose here today. It is a purpose I have tried to serve for many years. I have prayed that God would show me a way to accomplish it.

Yeah Mozes! By taking up time, that's how you're doing it. 22 minutes, chrissakes.

So I set out for a drink with a few friends at the Belga café. Flavien had just ome back from Urbino, having brought some Italian girls with him, and he wanted someone who'd make an effort at speaking anything resembling Italian to them. As you can imagine, it's rather hard for a Frenchman to entertain 4 girls from Urbino in any other language (which serves both the French and the Italians right for their offensively little knowledge about other languages). I figured that situation might become an even so charming mich of malunderstandings, so I headed over to place Flagey subito presto.
SO it was exactly what i suspected it to be, but nonetheless, four yacking girl was a little to much to stand for mor than 3 hours, so at midnight, I headed home. Only to notice, when turning from the place towards my street, that my wallet had gone missing.

The term wallets deserves some broadened explication here. Wallet, in Dennis language means: 40 euros, backcard, credit cards, id card, social security, library, student's and several other cards, driver's license, train and bus card, and so-on.My life, pretty much.

I can remember going back, mobilising the Italians to go out en look for it, for, you see, the café Belga is right near the Ixellles ponds, which means that stloen stuff end up in the water or on the riverbanks, mostly (that is, when you're lucky and you've got yourself a weakened mugger, exhausted by famine and illness, that can't manage to flick the evidence far enough).
With no results. So card stop, and an exhausted night full of dreams of retrieving it in the most stupid of places.

The net morning I wasn't feeling so well. I did set ut for school anyway, and decied to take an alternative route, on the opposite side of the water. I was looking in the gutters when suddenly, I saw, jammed underneath the front tyre of a BMW 4X4, something sleek and black. The wallet!

The retreiving of it envolved the help of 4 buttcracked ouvriers, working at the art nouveau villa right in front of the car, the subsequent going off of the car-alarm, the shouting of the owner, and finally everyone having at good laugh, and me noticing that not a penny was missing.
It had been 4 weeks ever since i walked on that side of the waterbanks.
I've no idea how it got there.
I thank St Denis

goodness

how i hate it all
the fireworks at the Meir in ANtwerp that scare the shit out of me, forcing me to run into the subway passages.
The drunk people and crazy women in tanktops that look as if their nipples might fall off from frostbite any second.
The goals and following disappointments. The hard floors on which you sleep. The love that you only get that one day. And all the rest. How very depressing it all is. This time i'm staying indoors. And going to bed early

No luck ever takes its chance on New Years Eve.

Ah. Back.
With a finished, 12 double page book, all done in one month. Yes, that's école francophone for you in Belgium. 'We would like to see all of you with complete, finished, bound books, due for All Saints.' And we did it. It's amazing, especially considering the fact that never in my life I even got close to really illustrating a story.
Now it's 5 images for La Fiera di Bologna, due 3rd of december. Hurray!

And ah!, I gasped, another marvellous little bubble of delicacy by our dear Oscar, after having read the text. I had to find something to illustrate, in fact, that was what the research was all about. I had come accross The Happy Prince and the other shorter children's stories in Budapest, in a lovely Jugenstil bookshop. However, short as they are, it was hard to pick any of those, because I'd be re-setting the text, and dividing the pages so that images could be put in. When back in Brussels, I found that Waterstone's had a new collection of the Oxford Classic's editions; a rather pleasant series of paperback, always decorated by an art reproduction on the cover. The complete shorter fiction of Wilde caught my eye immediatly. The image showed a girl in a white flower-petterned gown, and log carme-red hair, standing on a beach of some sort, with a spray of hemlock in her left hand.
Later i found, amdidst the poems in prose, a lovely little picturesque text, entitled 'The Doer of Good'.

I have been working on the images for the past two weeks, and the book is due by All Hallows, ou bièn Toussaint. It is becoming an intruiging piece of work, if I may say so myself, because, even though I embarked upon this mission with scenes from Greek pottery and Etruskian frescous in the back of my head, my pens and pencils seem to have a will of their own, forcing me to shape cut-out ivory-coloured collums and wrought motives of leaves and flowers, in between which dance happy figurines, light as the arches paper itself, in delicate lines and lavis.

In short: wether you want it or not, Oscar will bring out the gayness in you, until you're pondering on which button-hole to wear: the crysanthemum or the white orchid.

I was in the classroom when I first met them. I had already had a group of children in the morning, but the afternoon had something special in staal for me. I recognised them immediatly; Renée, the usual teacher had warned me about that twosome. The distinct traces of snot an the lasting expression of non-comprehensible agitation and glee on their faces said enough.
I gave them a large sheet of paper, just to keep them occupied for a while, and to draw their attention away from the do-it-yourself-cabinet, with the pearls and the glitter in it; something they would plunder the moment you left them alone with it.
The drawings were completed within 10 minutes, and they were soon yelling for mee, so I left the other children to their work, and went to take a look. On the paper were, well, knotted black and red lines, seems the best way to describe it. The motorical handicap from which they suffered, had taken over their patience with drawing, and urged them into unreadable, uncontrolled crisscrossing of pencil lines. When i asked the girl with the absent expression in her eyes and the traces of food around her mouth what it was exactly the drawing represented, she answered

a labywinth

for annette, the mock tortoise

It was night-time and a tired slice of moon was mounting the flat-looking sky, faintly illuminating the cemetery. The fox had curled itself around the great tombstone, in order to look somewhat inconspicuous, whilst glaring for easy prey. He had thought thoroughly about this the night before, and had decided that an impression of a decorative clothespiece, left behind by a saddened wife, might just trick the smaller animals into not noticing him.
A good thing was that these smaller prey could not read, for else they would have agreed that he had not picked the best stone for his dramatic impression. The cross was titled ‘Lohengrin’.

It had been slim picking for days now, but the fox was not the kind of type that walked all the way to the farmer’s at the other end of the forest, to molest a few chickens. No, he had some dignity left in him, and had chosen to live the faith that he had been cursed with. Anyway, he should stay near the road and watch the traveller’s, see if anyone suitable passes by. Thinking of his mission, he refocused on the darkness, where he sensed something moving. And indeed, out of the black and into the shad came marching a strange little creature that at first he could not place. It appeared to have four legs, and several bits sticking out on top. It was also black and white. It was also, rather disturbingly, flat. The fox smiled to himself.
“Sir Knight”, he spoke, and his voice rang through the sepultura. “It’s good to see you back. I think you don’t recall me. We met under different circumstances at first. But it seems that faith has recently bestowed a common goal on us.”

The paper knight regarded the fox with and air of utter incomprehensibility. But as far as expressions go for cut-out figurines, this could have meant anything.

Of course, time can not go by without causing you any pain from time to time. So there's emotional pain, depression, maladie, and not to forget: sheer obnoxiousness of casual incidents. These last menacers of every-day life, have strange capabilities. In my case, for instance, they tend to accumulate themselves in short periods, causing some utterly shitty times. Preferably they take place during the fragile moments: late in the evening, before you go to bed, or when you're speeding towards school in the morning.
I'd been working late, making an introduction and title page for Wilde's 'The Doer of Good'. I'd finished a rubbing pattern, and wanted to fix it with an acrylic varnish-spraycan. The cap popped off when i opened the bottle, so i put it back in place. When i pushed it, an unforseen incident occured. I distinctly remember the can making an ominous noise of pressure being built up, when it suddenly startet spraying a strong ray of pungent acrylic mixture , spoiling everything in the room. I managed to avoid certain parts of the room, but did manage to get it all over my bed, after which I ran out of the room and tottered down the staircase.
The next morning i wanted to ride the new old bike to school. It gave in at the nasty uphill part at rue Vilain, the chain got flipped of and jammed the rear weel, causing myself to make a little flight over Brussel's asphaltum.

Dear Mariana
I do not know wether you have an ok-c account, but if so, i hope you see this popping up somewhere.
Anyway, i'd like to see you for a project which i'd like to tell you about. It's a film, in a museum, called 'the contempt'. It would feature myself and Filip, Bram's boyfriend, commenting on works. It's not a parody, the main subject is the manner in which the discussions are held in a trivial manner, with several rather specific, well-phrased mentionings pekking through. It's a display and general critique, (this would be the way also, in which several rather pompous tipical arty mannierisms and modern critic's language would be put) if you wish, on the arrogance and sickening attitude of this part of society. The ugliest side of art are the people behind it, and the absolute inferno would be the ones futherst back-in-line, that eagerly perform their little mating dances to either make this world their own, or preferably, draw attention to them.
Museum yet to be located, but the SMAK in Ghent would be rather perfect. Script's to be written after deciding about location. I am yearning for your suggestions. That is, if you'd like to take part in this. There will be no boundaries to the idea, and i trust you are very capable of making being adamant in the developement of the work, which is something I very much appreciate. I gets things done, one way or another.

ps: could we talk about the sending fee of a copy of the movies we made? Thanks

Dennis