This article is based on this dutch article of Martijn Benders
In the Philips shop, you could buy models that were not yet available on the market. There was an almost sacred atmosphere of progress, blended with the already magical December mood. The D8614 was a magical device that taught me how pressing buttons could be the meaning of life. The reference to lye at the end is, of course, no coincidence. It’s tragic that Martinus would likely have lived if he had been deported by the Nazis. That tragedy hummed silently through my family. There was no room to doubt progress or the card that was conjured up from my father’s thick leather wallet.
I lost my D8614 once during a squatter’s move; I suspect a junkie sold it to score a hit. I still feel a bit guilty about that negligence. I stuffed it away in storage somewhere, and then I forgot about it.
Look at this beauty.
Now, at 54, I still constantly press buttons, now as a home studio sound engineer, although my ears are probably no longer up for the task. Yet, I persevere. I always believe I’m making progress in mastering: people reading this have no idea how many buttons you need to understand to do mastering even somewhat competently. We’re talking tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of buttons, folks.
Buttons, then. My eternal companions. The irony is that the D8614, with its 10-segment LED VU meters, was actually the foundation of my current obsession. You could say that this boombox planted the seeds of a button addiction that no rehab could ever cure.
As a button addict, you can’t derive much joy from a Walkman or a mobile phone. The same goes for AI—ChatGPT has exactly two buttons. Ridiculous!
In the Shamanistic worldview, everything is alive. The difference between this worldview and a Western one lies in the latter’s tendency to claim exclusive rights to life, consciousness, and intelligence, among other things.
I particularly dislike the “decency argument” when it comes to fascism. People who shun fascism solely to appear decent in the eyes of others (or their own) are essentially saying that everyone is a fascist and that a net of etiquette can be thrown over it to cover it up, a proverbial layer of chrome, as if that could somehow restrain it. This is a fundamentally flawed construct from top to bottom. I oppose fascism because I do not believe in superiority. If I were to state that it’s merely a “matter of decency,” I would be using an argument of superiority to suggest that what separates me from a fascist is merely an instruction manual, rather than a substantive argument.
By emphasizing a principled stance—rooted in the intrinsic equality and dignity of all individuals—you completely sidestep this false framework. This natural worldview, the Shamanistic one, is based on the belief that everything is alive and equal.
This is its opposite. It’s blatant racism because it treats Palestinians as second-class citizens. There is no other reason why you would politically deny a court ruling in such a manner.
And if you are no longer allowed to name this kind of superiority complex, well, then you’ve truly ventured onto deranged territory.
Indeed, this is the exact opposite of the Shamanistic worldview. In that worldview, everything and everyone thrives with equal rights. The erasure of identity is central to it, something Christianity distorted into an injunction against “idol worship.” But that idol is precisely the idea that you are somehow a separate identity.
But identifying that theory is quite different from actually living by it.
The latter is a tremendous achievement in a society held together by identity politics. The entire world has turned into an annoying football game. They wage one meaningless war after another. In Ukraine, over a million people have already been killed or maimed, and to what end? Nothing—zero, absolutely nothing. Sure, the arms trade has gotten filthy rich. And that was evident from day one to anyone with three working brain cells, I’m sorry. A phrase comes to mind:
Identity is built on corpses
Even in the tiny corner of poetry, it feels as though you’re forced to participate in a competition where everything revolves around constant self-promotion. The verse has become a banner, the image a slogan. Everything has to scream about you, your pain, your opinion, your identity. But where is the space for the impersonal? For the poem that charts its own course, independent of the poet? Where are the verses that exist to breathe, not to shout? It’s like we’ve forgotten that art is bigger than the artist, that a verse becomes powerful precisely when it transcends its originator.
The toilet-wall poetry that flourishes on Instagram has perfected this process to a T. A haiku about self-love next to a photo of a cappuccino: “Today, I choose myself. / Oat milk deserves warmth too. / You do not matter.” Three thousand likes and the hashtag “blessed” underneath. The poem as a vehicle for branding, the poet as a lifestyle coach, and the content as glorified wallpaper for the empty souls of followers.
But it doesn’t stop at Instagram. Even the literary world seems to revolve around one principle: whoever shouts the loudest gets the biggest sticker. Poems are no longer quests for meaning but open auditions for a TED Talk. “Look at how vulnerable I am in twelve-point Times New Roman.” And then there’s the collection: a bundle of carefully orchestrated traumas, released with a YouTube trailer where the poet, in slow motion, walks along an abandoned beach while whispering about loss.
It feels as though poetry nowadays requires a health care budget. And heaven forbid if you write a poem about a tree without the tree symbolizing your childhood trauma, your gender, or your troubled relationship with lactose. You’ll surely get a one-star review on Goodreads: “Lacked depth, felt unseen.”
Perhaps that’s the core issue: everyone wants to be seen, nobody wants to vanish. But that’s precisely what art sometimes needs. Not a poet front and center, but one who whispers from the wings. No identity, but a space where something greater can resonate. Really, folks: poetry is not a Tinder profile. It doesn’t have to match your mood of the day. And it certainly doesn’t need to end with a hashtag.
Back to my oh-so-alive buttons.
Martinus 17-11-2024
