A long time coming
Welcome at my humble abode. A place of song, music and shoddy website work.
But let us not get bogged down in the morass of my associative mind. In the end, it’s paramount that we begin in the first place. At the very least, the first place is a good place to start.
I have been working on this project for the last 37 years. Since I was born, in one way or another. I can barely envision the countless years I sang at my moldy shower curtain. Or the innumerous days I let my neighbours suffer early onset migraine thanks to my idiosyncratic interpretations of ‘music’. Even as a baby and toddler, I succeeded multiple times to bring joy and peace to my parents’ hearth and home, by honing my screeching ‘singing’ voice, making sounds resembling a piccolo-version of a waste disposal.
Even before I had taken up the old rusty, singing gauntlet, my parents themselves had been working hard at the project that is my musical career. Mainly by copulation. They worked hard on the metaphorical fields, metaphorically salivating and sweating, spitting their metaphorical, juicy sputum, busting their literal balls and ovaries – not too much I hope – to get this project, me, up and running.
But hold on to your horses. There is more! Some time before them my grandparents had already put their respective noses to their respective – and yes, metaphorical! – grindstones, slowly and surely removing the metaphorical skin, blood vessels and bone structure from their metaphorical, olfactory orifices, breaking their metaphorical backs on that hard, gut-wrenching and labourious, conjugational endeavour we call sex. And bare in mind – and body – that this was in an older and above all much less hygienic age. Bacteria galore and some primeval disease to one and all! Luckily both parental duos each succeeded in spewing out a helpless example of the species ‘homo sapiens’, that in time would come to grow up into a parent of mine.
However, the buck of the humongous effort that has gone into this project does not stop there. Even a generation before them, my great-grandparents had done something quite similar. And undoubtedly equally revolting when we contemplate the hygienic standards of their much more savage time. Streets were basically places to store the poo. Merde indeed.
Still, it was a more romantic era, so metaphorically speaking, we should presume they had a less mechanical set of grindstones, being forced to whittle away their body parts in this more manual fashion. Which must have played havoc on their bodies but presumably strengthened their physique enormously. At least in the whittling parts – and not the whittled ones.
They must have experienced this strength and vigor as a great and welcome boon to aid them on the dreadful night when, at the yearly, nightly gathering of their village at the summer equinox, the town friar would set the wicker man ablaze, signaling the start of the Solemn Communion of Beastly Lust. At this moment the entire village would rub their bodies in a viscose jus, made from the early – and still sour – produce of the harvest, mixed with bee’s honey and the anal secretions of a shellac beetle, and when sufficiently lubricated, all would participate in a free-for-all bestial orgy, in the hope that the Goddess would bless their village yet again, making fields bountiful and wombs quicken. It is sad to see that we in our modern times have grown poor when it comes to the romance and finesse of those days gone by…
I could go on… but that will have to wait for another time.
And now for real
I am not a fan of long introductions (I say unironically) Unless I’m allowed to go berserk into the weird, idiosyncratic and absurd. If you are into that and have skipped the text above, I will direct you back to the text above. If not and you haven’t read it, good for you! You dodged a bullit, as they say. If not and you did read it. Well… sorry?
You will be able to find the interesting stuff – when I get round to it – on the other pages. This is a maiden voyage of an experimental vessel which is still under construction, so feel free to enjoy the drafty emptiness, the bric-a-brac shifting of content and pages, and the overall feel of charm and sympathy when you think to yourself ‘Websites are easy! I could do this shit myself!’.
Yes, you could! And much, much better than me.
For those of you that don’t get it, this is the intro page to the world of Mood Point. The antechamber as it were. The real stuff can be found when you click on the other pages. All that you’ve done so far is enter through the www-gateway. Having done that, you now find yourself in a smallish, and I hope, not too uninviting digital room.
I try to make it cosy for guests. A little ‘je-ne-sais-quoi’ here, a dabble of ‘pourquoi-il-dît-ça?’ there and to top it all off, a smidgen of ‘son-francais-n’est-pas-si-bon-n’est-ce-pas?’ N’est-ce pas indeed.
But I hope it’s clear by now you are not ment to stay here. This is just the hall. Not the living room. So hand over your jackets, take off your shoes, fix your grin, check the zipper/bra strap and get in already. This is, all in all, just a passing place.
But while you are still here – fumbling with those shoe laces again, are we? – you might already feel like this hallway is giving you something…well… a nice feeling. Should we call it goosebumps? Or maybe it is more a rumbling in the tummy? Whatever it is, it’s sweet, it is weird and ineffably cool. Enjoy that feeling. Hold onto the moment. Why not, right?
Feeling all happy and cool and weird, you might also start to develop wild and fantastic plans to contact me. Perhaps you want to go full Corleone-style and make me an offer I cannot refuse. Or maybe you would prefer to go the groupie-route and ask me if I want to sign your breasts. The answer is always yes. I’ve got a nice assortment of markers especially designed for all my slightly overweight male fans out there, that will put all manner of wicked autographing on your hairy chests.
It’s not fatshaming, Being slightly tubby myself, I like to take care of my fellow tubbies. Especially since you are so far away (teletubbies!) As long as my marker doesn’t get tangled in the breast hair, everything is fine with me.
Then again, you just might want to say ‘hello’. And who knows, I might say ‘hello’ back! It sounds so unlikely, but it just might happen. And that’s nice, isn’t it? It almost makes you want to gruff up your voice and sing ‘What a wonderful world…”.
So why should you wait until you reach the living room if you really, really, really, really want to contact me? (well to tell you the truth, it’s just one click away to find that page, but I get you. That’s all the way on top. That’s a mighty long scroll… Isn’t there like a quick route for contacting you, I hear you ask? There sure is! I made a nice blackish contact button right here, especially for you.
So strike the iron while it’s hot! That’s what I always say. Or pick the apple when it’s ripe! Another good one. Blow the trumpet when it’s brass! Yes sirree! Screw the kitten when it’s loose! OMG! Black the minstrel when he’s racist! And stop the reading when it’s stupid.