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An old cover I made of the poem "Caged Bird" by Maya Angelou

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UPDATE! I have run out of copies. However, they are still available to order at ABC!  Two copies are also still available at bookshop van Rossum. If you don’t live in the Netherlands send me an ask and we’ll figure something out :)

It exists! I now have give or take 60 physical copies of Before I’m Twenty sitting in boxes in my living room. About 40 of those have already been reserved and some are going into sale in bookshops, so there aren’t that many left that you can order! If you want a copy, this is how it works:

I can ship a copy to just about everywhere, but the shipping cost will be added onto the price of the book. Shipping within Holland is €3,40. International shipping is €6,10. 

The book costs €17,50. There is no negotiating the price, unfortunately.

I can autograph it for you if you like, just say that you would like me to do it.

If you want to order a book, send me a message and I will explain how to pay. As soon as I’ve received your payment I will mail your copy to you.

Once again, I can’t stress this enough, a

huge, 

huge,

HUGE

THANK YOU

to everyone who has supported me during the making of this book and for all the positive response I’ve gotten on it so far. You are all amazing. xxx

[ledashwood]

A revised version of one of my poems has been published in the second edition of DAWG review! It's also choc-a-bloc full of other wonderful things, so go on and have a browse!  I also performed the poem from this publication last week and will post a video of it soon!

[ledashwood]

It exists! I now have give or take 60 physical copies of Before I'm Twenty sitting in boxes in my living room. About 40 of those have already been reserved and some are going into sale in bookshops, so there aren't that many left that you can order! If you want a copy, this is how it works:

I can ship a copy to just about everywhere, but the shipping cost will be added onto the price of the book. Shipping within Holland is €3,40. International shipping is €6,10. 

The book costs €17,50. There is no negotiating the price, unfortunately.

I can autograph it for you if you like, just say that you would like me to do it.

If you want to order a book, send me a message and I will explain how to pay. As soon as I've received your payment I will mail your copy to you.

Once again, I can't stress this enough, a

huge, 

huge,

HUGE

THANK YOU

to everyone who has supported me during the making of this book and for all the positive response I've gotten on it so far. You are all amazing. xxx

[ledashwood]

Het allereerste gedicht dat ik ooit schreef

Ik vond gisteren een oud notitieboekje, tijdens het doorbladeren van verhalen die ik vroeger schreef, waarin 1 gedichtje stond. Het enige gedichtje wat ik ooit in het Nederlands schreef, en tot een half jaar geleden het enige gedichtje wat ik ooit schreef. Het dateert vermoedelijk van tussen mijn 14 en 16 jaar. Als ik fiets zijn mijn trappers zwaarder en mijn tas weegt een kilo meer mijn hart voelt zich alleen want nu ben jij er niet meer Ik ben omringd door mensen die mij allemaal heel dierbaar zijn maar er is er nu eentje minder en dat eentje dat ben jij Altijd zul je bij me blijven ook al kan ik je niet meer zien in mijn hart draag ik je bij me dan kan ik je nog horen, misschien

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Exciting News!

Yes, more exciting news! After I finish writing a short introduction, Before I'm Twenty will be finished and off to the printing press! I've had a few messages from people who want a copy and I'm trying to estimate how many I should print, so if you want a copy, please let me know! The cost will vary depending on how many books I'm printing, a rough estimate is 10 euros but it might be slightly more or less, can't pinpoint anything there until I've decided on the amount of copies. I'll be compiling a list of pre-orders on Sunday. Thanks for every like and reblog and sweet message, they all mean a lot to me! 

x

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Ka-Dunk

The train rages through a scream high as if a killer’s victim hollow as though reversed piercing as a first earring

It’s peculiar how a train journey of ten minutes is the equivalent of two hours walking

Just think of how much we miss now that everything is flying In the train I can’t see the first buds peeking through soil I can’t see people smiling at warmth I can’t hear the rustle of spring wind

Every tree is a forest Every blade is a field Every person is their race

Speed starts to antonym distinction careful When we get off the train eventually the amount of detail is almost blinding

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"Before I'm Twenty" progress

The first thirty-seven pages have been edited! The book will have a total of between 8 and 10 full page black and white images by different artists to accompany some of the poetry. It contains two co-written poems, twenty-three of my own poems, and potentially eight lyrics to songs I have made. The price will be somewhere between €10 and €15, depending on the final amount of pages and the amount of books that are printed. If all goes to plan the book will be available to order with me directly (provided you pay for posting) and will be available in two book shops (to be announced later). I hope to be able to post more information in about a week!

x

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THANK YOU!

Many many many thanks to funest for creating the background for this blog! :) It's wonderful!!

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Last time I uploaded a poem with me reading it you seemed to like it, so here’s another one.  Y

On the dark was a light gleaming in the sun mirroring, becoming bright an envelope that had been torn bearing a notion I’d rather not have known I recognised that thin black line, that rectangle shouting “THE END” The end of the line, the end of someone’s time Even though I didn’t want to,  I still looked Even though I didn’t know the name, my soul still shook I’ve been to more funerals than weddings,  seen more coffins than babies, don’t know what baptism’s like but I know what they put the dead in I’ve seen them in dark, soft earth,  I’ve seen them in a wall,  I’ve seen them in my dreams at night when I thought I was to blame for it all. Bodies, I admit, to me are quite new See coffins I’ve seen plenty of, but of those inside I’ve seen only a few. Or maybe really only one not a pleasant one at that he had bruises and cuts on one side of his head as he’d decided himself that he’d rather be dead. It was strange to me, a quirky concept in my mind This boy had been clever and honest and kind I had known him since I was about five Sometimes we said “hi”. I guess I feel I owe him an apology,  like I should have done more,  like he might have needed me, I feel like he must have felt lonely. Looking back means looking for signs Things I should have seen or known things that could have given him more time. I thought him my friend but I’ll admit  to him I was a shitty one When he died we hadn’t seen each other for maybe a year, when he changed schools and I was too busy trying to fit in, to give him a ring and say “Hey stranger,  Are you still alive?” Ouch. He’s not alive now and even though I know somewhere inside that that’s not my fault, I will also know inside that it’s true that I could have done more. And I know that I’ll never be able to go to him anymore and say “sorry I wasn’t there for you, sorry I didn’t have your back” Somewhere inside I wish I could go back but then I think: what if it didn’t change anything? What if this was what he wanted and  there isn’t one damn thing I could do to prevent it from happening? Give or take ten years of memory poured over my cheek as I walked past that particular coffin and through that particular door. The smell of your dog, also gone now, almost still pungent in my nostrils. A flash of a birthday, your voice when it was  still shrill. A speech you gave which no one understood no one was that good at technology yet, in those days. I thought you’d see so much more of the world I thought you’d go far. I guess you did. Every time I see an envelope with four of those thin black lines I think of you And no matter who died this time, the one thing that replays in my mind, is I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

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My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.

Anais Nin (via writingquotes)

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Julie's Caesar

Oh Julie's Caesar he was such a cold man Thought he was the world and Was bound to rule the sea and land Never realized he was so arrogant

Like an emperor he thought the world was Rome He thought he could seize the throne He thought he could do it all on his own Thought he would never feel alone Oh Julie's Caesar he was quite a prick Easy to say when you look back on it Shame it wasn't earlier when realization hit Maybe then she wouldn't have felt as shit

Now Julie was the sweetest girl The was a jewel she was a pearl Looked up to him he was her world Such a little fool such a foolish girl Julie Julie Julie's Caesar He was such a lady teaser He kisses and tells he loves and leaves ya The bastard that was Julie's Caesar The bastard that was Julie's Caesar

Julie hoped to love forever Thought they'd always be together Even if he wasn't on the square Said she loved him more than ever Said she loved him more than ever

Julie, Julie, pretty foolish Bloke's been banging the whole school-ish Wake up lass stop thinking prudish 'Cause he sure isn't and you look stupid

Julie Julie Julie's Caesar He was such a lady teaser He kisses and tells he loves and leaves ya The bastard that was Julie's Caesar The bastard that was Julie's Caesar 

These are lyrics to my song Julie's Caesar which will be posted on my soundcloud soon.

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Worth a Dime

for F You cycle away and my breath has left me You have to leave but I want you to stay All the times I said I love you They didn't even come close to what I wanted to say

In the morning In the evening In the middle of the day In the hours we're together And the hours you're away That's when I love you That's when I think about you It's all the time And without you I wouldn't be worth a dime

It started out as fun and games I thought it might always stay that way I'd never thought I'd really say That I'd do anything for you to stay You turned me into one of those girls You became the center of my very world I can't keep up and I'm making mistakes But strangely I still prefer it  this way Time is ticking past and I'm losing count Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months A year has gone by and we're still here And I still want to pull you closer to me

In the evening And the morning And the middle of the day Even when we're not together  Also when you're not away That's when I want you That's when I long for you  And without you I wouldn't be worth a dime

It started out as fun and games But I'm really glad it didn't stay that way In fact I feel proud to say That by your side I'll always stay I hope you feel the same way too 'Cause I'm head over heels in love with you I can't turn back but that's perfectly fine I'm already yours and consider you mine Time is ticking past but I'm not keeping count Days will turn into weeks and weeks'll turn into months I hope years'll go by and you'll still be here So I can pull you near and whisper in your ear Until I die will you please stay mine Because honey without you I wouldn't be worth a dime

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I began to realize how important it was to be an enthusiast in life. If you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it and above all become passionate about it. Lukewarm is no good.

Roald Dahl (via ontelbaar)

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The Quay

A youth rounds the upcoming corner of the street, several others follow him at a snails pace. They cross the road leisurely and swagger down to the embankment. I watch them, fascinated by their behaviour, which strangely enough reminds both of Brooklyn’s mafia and a gaggle of geese. The first boy, his face the least covered by angry acne and his stride the proudest and most at ease, stepping lightly on brand new white sneakers, with his hands in his pockets and his gaze set to challenge, appears the oldest of the group. The two that follow straight behind him might be his brothers, their faces and clothing bearing similarities even though they are clearly not as comfortable as the boy they follow. The last two lads only seem to be connected to the rest because they are treading on their heels. Their sneakers are scuffed, the seams coming undone, causing the sole to deflect from the fabric with every step. They pull up their jeans every other step, their hands so used to the movement that they don’t even seem to notice the action. Perhaps the bulging pockets of their jeans, sticking out at weird angles, are the cause of the trousers’ perpetual sagging. As I walk by, the two hooded pups visibly contract into themselves, burying their hands in their pockets and kneading what is in there. A strong smell wanders up my nose. I wonder what will happen if I ask them what it is. These paragraphs are written in different styles as a matter of experiment. If any of these receive positive feedback then I'll make them into a story. Let me know if you like any of them!

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The Pardoner's Pardon

An essay on the Pardoner's Tale by Geoffrey Chaucer Written by L.E.Dashwood

And I assoile him by the auctoritee

Which that by bulle ygraunted was to me.

By this gaude have I wonne, yeer by yeer,

An hundred mark sith I was pardoner (99-102, Chaucer).

It might seem hard to believe, but these two juxtaposed sentences are spoken by the same person: the Pardoner in Chaucer’s Pardoner’s Tale. What is the reasoning behind this character’s bizarre changes of heart and speech? The Pardoner’s Tale can be split into different parts that reflect different character traits of the Pardoner: the prologue, the Pardoner’s introduction, his sermon, his tale and (part of) the epilogue. By using a framed ‘story-within-story’ structure, Chaucer not only reveals important characteristics of the Pardoner, but also of life itself.

“Thus I can preche again that same vice / Which that I use, and that is avarice.” (139-140, Chaucer), or in other words: “Radix malorum est cupiditas” (138, Chaucer) - avarice is the root of all evil. It is with this statement that the Pardoner introduces his main theme and the story he is about to tell. He informs his audience of the type of sermons he gives in church and meanwhile continuously puts himself down. This is somewhat unexpected, and at first glance doesn’t seem very wise. One would think that the Pardoner might be able to sell some relics to his audience, or to take it a step further: one might hope that the Pardoner actually believed that he was helping people. Both these options seem to be eliminated in the prologue alone. As professor Norman Harrington has written, it seems in the prologue that “[b]ehind the confident tone and the self assurance of his pose, there is the suggestion of tensions and uncertainties. He simply insists too much, is too eager to speak badly of himself.” (197) Whether the Pardoner does this purely out of uncertainty is something that remains unclear until the end of the tale, as it is also very possible to argue, as assistant professor Charles Mitchell does, that: 

[t]he Pardoner is able to fool the sinful because the sinful first 

fool themselves [...] That is to say, the fact that he drops his 

pretence this time would be Chaucer’s way of indicating that 

ultimately there has been no pretence on the Pardoner’s part (437-438).

After dropping all pretences and exposing himself to be a charlatan, the Pardoner then continues on to hold a sermon for his audience like one he holds in church. Not only does this seem strange to do in the situation he is in - asked to tell a story to his company in a pub, it is especially strange following the self-derogatory introduction he has just recounted. This sermon is, of all parts of The Pardoner’s Tale, definitely the one that has most to do with performance: it is the Pardoner’s sales pitch and it is a story he is good at telling. Apart from the sermon serving as an introduction to his main narrative, held for entertainment purposes, it is also possible to see this sermon as a recovery technique on the Pardoner’s part, to rebuild some credibility or confidence and make sure he holds his audience’s attention. It has been remarked upon already by Leo McNamara that        “[s]uspicion, aversion, and contempt [...] are markedly present in the general attitude of the pilgrims towards the Pardoner” (602) throughout the entire Canterbury Tales, so it is not difficult to imagine that the Pardoner might revert to a familiar way of narrating before starting his main story to boost his own confidence. He doesn’t seem to hold his sermon for his present audience either, but rather for himself, or an imaginary audience of church-goers, as he has to redirect his attention to the travel party - “But sires, no wol I telle forth my tale” (372, Chaucer) - before he begins his tale. 

It must at least be briefly remarked upon that the sins the Pardoner lays stress on in both his sermon and his tale refer not only to his very first introduction - radix malorum est cupiditas - but also to things that the Pardoner himself indulges in: “‘But first’, quod he, ‘here at this ale-stake / I wol bothe drinke and eten of a cake’”(33-34, Chaucer). This can be interpreted with reference to the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, who wrote: 

The despairing man who is unconscious of being in 

despair is, in comparison with him who is conscious 

of it, merely a negative step further from the truth and 

from salvation (177-178).

- meaning that the Pardoner might very well be aware of his own avarice and is thus, at least morally, above the rest of the pilgrimage party. Even through this explanation, however, the Pardoner’s behaviour and choice of tale seem contradictory and it is no wonder that Harrington mentions in his article that “one hears students complain that the Pardoner is as baffling and intractable as life itself.” (198). “This, of course,” he says, “is precisely Chaucer’s point.” (idem). When looking at the ending of The Pardoner’s Tale, it can be concluded that this statement is true.

As the Pardoner comes to the end of his tale, he seems again to have wandered off into addressing an imaginary audience - “Cometh up, ye wives, offreth of youre wolle!” (622, Chaucer) - but then recaptures himself, wraps up his tale, and proceeds to offer absolution to his real-life audience in return for money, promising them: “I wol you nat deceive” (630, Chaucer) and continuing, in the epilogue, to produce relics from his bag: the same relics of which he has guaranteed them the falseness at the very beginning of his tale. It seems that for each twist of character in The Pardoner’s Tale there is an explanation: uncertainty on the Pardoner’s part, when he talks himself down and convinces all listeners of the swindle and all-round worthlessness of his job and relics. Acting, when he performs one of his sermons for the pilgrims, whether to boost his own confidence, or instil some fear into his listener’s hearts. Self-knowledge, clever rhetoric and a case of great morale in the recognition of his own sin, during almost the entirety of his speech. Dreaminess, in the wondering off and addressing other audiences than the one that is actually listening to him. Then, finally, either the revelation that all of this was a great sales-pitch or perhaps a touch of haughtiness that contradicts his bashful outset, at the offering of false relics to the pilgrims. But what all these elements have in common is confusion and contradiction. Just like Chaucer links between the different tales in the Canterbury Tales, he links different traits or emotions together in The Pardoner’s Tale as well. “[V]arious kinds of experience are brought together and allowed to qualify and correct one another” (189), Harrington writes. In small context, Chaucer shows us that a man’s character isn’t just confident or uncertain, morally just or unjust, properly or ill prepared, or simply: good or bad. In a bigger context, taking the Pardoner as a reflection of life, Chaucer shows us that life itself is all these things as well.

The Pardoner forms a profoundly rounded character, who continues to baffle the readers and and does, in relation to the plot, seemingly incomprehensible things. In this way, Chaucer shows us through this character a view - perhaps his own view - on life: it is fickle, incomprehensible and ever-evolving. Harrington writes: “Life, Chaucer seems to be reminding us, is infinitely more complicated and baffling than most representations of it in art” (199). Except, perhaps, for the Pardoner.

Works Cited

Chaucer, Geoffrey. “The Pardoner’s Prologue And Tale.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Volume 1. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. Crawfordsville: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2012. 310-325. Print.

Harrington, Norman T. “Experience, Art, And The Framing Of The Canterbury Tales” The Chaucer Review 10.3 (1976) : 187-200. Print.

Kierkegaard, Søren. The Sickness unto Death New York: Garden City, 1954. Print.

McNamara, Leo. “The Astonishing Performance of Chaucer’s Pardoner,” PMASL 46 (1961) : 602.

Mitchell, Charles. “The Moral Superiority of Chaucer’s Pardoner” College English 27.6 (1966) : 437- 444. Print.

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The Station

The cadence of the wagon was jerky, as if the tracks underneath it had been constructed unevenly. I focused on the screen of my laptop, trying to stay oblivious to the dark canvas that was the window. The darkness outside was so vast, so black, that it pressed into the train, reducing the world to this compartment.

I lurched forward. The train screeched to a sudden halt with a shriek as deafening to the ears as direct contact with the sun was blinding to the eyes. I scrambled up, fumbling for all my belongings, cramming them into my bag and hurling myself into the inky night. The air itself was like coal, every molecule feeling ashy and the air I breathed in heavy and grimy, drying out my throat. I blinked, feeling my breath start to hitch and the rhythm of my heartbeat slowly accelerating. Squinting, looking for any kind of illumination, I discovered a door.

The station was deserted. The cadet plaster peeled off the walls, the seemingly antediluvian terracotta crackling under my shoes as I stepped into the hub of the hall. The blinking light of ill-operating fluorescents flashed over my form and cast distorted shadows onto the ground. The domed hall echoed the whir of vending machines like a huge whispering gallery. Still the rush of kenophobia I experienced was not eased by the hum. I dialled Anna’s number, counting the times the phone rang to calm my deranged heartbeat.

‘Welcome,’ suddenly ghosted against my neck. These paragraphs are written in different styles as a matter of experiment. If any of these receive positive feedback then I'll make them into a story. Let me know if you like any of them!