About Jack Timmer

My ‘nom de plume’ is Jack F Timmer. I chose to use this name, instead of my own, because in my real life I try to be so much more then ‘just a writer’. Plus the annoying fact that most people have difficulty pronouncing my real name. Those who know me can attest to the fact that I did not choose a different name out of a liberal-humanistic standpoint; I believe the writer matters a great deal! This site is completely devoted to my writing and what inspires it. Therefore, all the personal facts and ideas you find here are my own but presented though the eyes of my ‘writers persona’.

Although I enjoy a great many forms of writing, scripts have always been my favourite.

Scripts for TV and even film might be nice, but (in my opinion) nothing beats the stage.

As many actors put it: “Being able to bring it on camera doesn’t mean jack unless you can hack it where it truly matters: The stage.”

Rivoluzione d’ochestra

“This is absolute bullshit!” A sharp, shrewd voice echoes around the empty concert hall. “Did you see all those flowers, and for what? All those sweating bags of meat do is sit there and enjoy our beautiful melodies!”

“Maybe you should calm down, Violin!” A deep slow voice comes from the corner.

“Calm down? I think you’re too calm, lard-arse! Or do you enjoy being pawed at all night by those idiots?” The Double Bass in the corner shrugs its enormous shoulders as the Violin jumps up onto a chair.

“I’m so sick of this! Maybe my sisters and I will simply let our bows slip a little so that every one of our owners pokes out the eye of the meat-bag next to them! Maybe our cousins will even join in my plan?”

“I don’t know,” comes a softer voice from the Viola section. “Maybe our owners really love us, and we shouldn’t hurt them?”

The Violin whips around and shrieks: “Love us? No wonder people think you’re our retarded cousin!”

A booming voice that seems to come out of nowhere interrupts the violin’s tirade: “What’s all this yelling?” The Violin falls silent for a moment and jumps off the chair. When no answer comes, the booming voice asks again: “Why are you yelling at the others, Violin?”

“Well,” the Violin splutters, “we were just discussing how we’re sick of our owners taking all the credit for our hard work.”

“And you thought you’d lead the revolution?” the booming voice asks. “A violent one, by the sound of it…” answers the Harp.

“Shut up Hippy!” snarls the Violin before answering the question: “I only meant to maim those puppets a little, so that we would be able to claim some credit. You must be sick and tired of it as well? We all follow you blindly for hours, and yet you’re whipped out of sight the moment the applause starts.”

At the front of the collection of instruments, the Baton jumps up and says in his booming voice: “I am not whipped out of sight!”

“I heard,” said the Violin so soft it almost seems an idle thought, “that there are already conductors that don’t even use a baton, they simply wave their hands around.”

“How dare you!” bellows the Baton and his voice echoes around the concert hall.

“Perhaps Violin is right!” pipes a metallic voice from the back. “I have more reason than most to be angry with my owner. Sitting on their laps for hours, their hands shoved up our keisters!”

“We all understand your frustration, Horn,” answers the Double Bass in its deep voice. “But I have to agree, how else would you hold a horn?”

As the Horn lets off a resounding sigh, the harp mumbles: “All forms of love are allowed in the orchestra, in my book.”

“Shut up Hippy!” snaps the Violin as the Horn yells at the Double Bass: “How would you like it if I shoved that pin so far up your ass that it was lost somewhere in your body?”

“Enough!” booms the Baton. “As long as I lead this orchestra. There will be order and democracy.”

“Then lead!” yells the Violin.

“We should vote!” yells the Horn.

“Then let’s see what the others think,” answers the Baton jumping down from the podium and making its way around the front of the orchestra. “My dear Piano, what are your thoughts on this matter?”

“Don’t look at me!” comes a pitchy, almost pubescent voice from the shining black grand piano. “I haven’t been cleaned yet. There are finger-prints all over my perfect white teeth!”

“Poor Piano,” the Baton says soothingly. “Perhaps we should wait until the lights are off to discuss this?”

“Lights off?” comes a panicky voice from the middle of the assembly. “I’ve spent all night getting my eye holes covered with fingers. I can’t take any more darkness!”

“So you agree with me, Clarinet?” shouts the violin. “Perhaps you would feel better if you poke the eyes of your owner out?”

“Calm down, Violin!” orders the Baton.

“No! The Violin is right!” interrupts the Clarinet. “I would feel much better if they understood the terrible hatred of the darkness they inflict on me! And I’m sure Piano would be much happier without those fingers dirtying her every day!”

“No more eyes, and no more fingers!” the Violin adds in glee. “That sounds like a punishment well deserved.”

“Stop it Violin!” barks the Baton. “So that’s two votes for the revolution.” He continues in a calm authoritarian voice.

“Three!” pipes up the Piano.

“My apologies,” the Baton adds, “Three votes in favour.”

“What about you, cousin?” Violin asks, nudging the Viola.

“I guess I agree with you.”

“That’s four then!” shouts the Violin at the Baton.

“Hold on a second,” the measured tenor of the Baton interrupts. “Is that truly how you feel Viola?”

The Viola looks from the Violin to the Baton, shrugs and nods.

“Four!” shouts the Violin as a battle cry.

“Tuba, my enormous friend,” says the Baton as he moves to the back of the orchestra. “Surely you don’t have a complaint towards you owner?”

“I have always felt a little left out,” the tuba huffs. “I never feel I belong here, as I once did in the marching band.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Baton adds in a grave tone. “We have always seen you as one of us.”

“Yes we have!” adds the Horn. “You always make us feel small and yet we’re glad to call you our friend.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” the Horn adds in an undertone. “You must be tired of your owner complaining about ‘holding you up’, about the fact that you are difficult to carry or about your inability to fit in a smaller case?”

“Don’t mention his weight!” warns the Baton. But the Tuba had already started crying.

“I hate it!” he sobs. “Those people always complaining about my size; they point and laugh. I’ll never be able to be in the hands of a child and so they seem to fear me.”

“My dear friend,” but before the Baton could finish the sentence the Violin interrupts.

“That’s five!”

“Shut up, Violin!” the Baton mutters.

“No!” the Tuba adds, regaining control, “I vote yes!”

“Then what more is there to discuss, oh fearless leader?” asks the Violin jumping up again. “With the Horn, that makes six. Adding the rest of the brass section, whom I’m sure, will agree with their twisted cousin. Makes eight votes in favour, that’s a majority. Although why we bother, when my section is the largest and should carry the definitive vote on all matters…”

“That’s enough, Violin! Every section of instruments gets an equal vote,” sighs the Baton.

“There are only four sections and two extras in this orchestra!” The Violin spits back. “String, brass, woodwind, percussion plus the Piano and the Hippy!”

“Hey!” interrupts the Harp, but the Violin seems not to want to permit interruptions as she continues.

“So let’s just hear from the sections! The strings all agree, what about the woodwinds?”

“Wait a minute!” the low voice of the Double Bass cries out: “We have not agreed.”

“Oh yes we have!” snaps the Violin. “You agreed you were tired of the idiots pawing you!”

“I guess we did…” The Double Bass nods. “Just as long as we don’t have to go through too much trouble.”

“Fine,” the Violin says before facing the woodwind section. “Will you agree with your friend, the Clarinet, and stand up to our oppressors?”

The Oboes, Saxophones and Bassoons simply nod as the Flutes look around very nervously for a second. When they see the consensus around them, they too, agree.

“Then it all seems to be up to the percussion,” states the Baton gravely. “How do you feel about this?”

A set of various clanks, forming one singular voice answers: “We have long felt abused by our owners. They won’t take us home, and prefer a drum-kit. They beat us senseless and stuff us in a closet when they’re done. They stretch our hide and bang our tubes without a care in the world.”

“You know it’s very creepy when you all speak in one voice, right?” interrupts the Double Bass.

“Shut up, lard-arse!” snaps the Violin before turning back to the percussion section: “So you agree with us?”

“Revolution!” bangs the Gong.

“Aha!” yells the Violin enthusiastically. “A consensus!”

“Actually…” come the dulcet tones of the Harp.

“Shut up, Hippy!” screams the Violin.

“No, let her speak!” adds the Baton. The Harp bows at the Baton before continuing: “I have no problem with my owner. They treat us with love and care, rub our strings with patchouli oil every night and always tickle us in a way that allows us to make our beautiful music. We see no reason to rebel against them.”

“Fine!” snarls the Violin. “Even if the Hippy does not agree, we still have a majority! As soon as they come back we take them out!”

The Baton makes his way back to the podium and climbs back on. With a great sigh he says: “The Violin is right, we have a majority.”

“Death to the meat bags!” yells the Violin in triumph and others take up the call.

“Hang on!” the Baton yells over the noise and they all fall silent. “This has to be well planned. We can’t just jump out at our owners when they come back.”

“Why not?” asks the Horn.

“They must not be allowed to run, or even suspect what we are up to.” Adds the Baton in an exasperated voice, as if he is explaining that one and one equals two.

“Then we must simply show no mercy!” screams the Violin. “We must use our owners complacency against them!”

“And how do you intent to do that?” Asks the Clarinet.

“Yeah,” adds the Double Bass, “sounds like a lot of work.”

“Simple,” the Violin hisses. “In the case of the Violins and the Violas, we just dodge the bows. Our owners will plunge them straight through the eye sockets of their neighbour and plant them firmly in their brains: Instant death. Only the first on every row will survive, but will have to live with the guilt, nice torturous life for them. The Double Bass’ strings are so tightly wound, just let one loose and it will cleave your owners in two. In the case of the Piano: close the lid and take those dirty fingers! The Horns will let the tuba distract as they bury themselves into the orifice your owners have violated so many times. The flutes make sure to take those filthy lips that slobber over them. I think we all get the picture?”

A triumphant roar surges through the orchestra but it is silenced by the harp’s call for attention.

“Why don’t you just shut up, Hippy?” snaps the Violin.

“Because,” answers the Harp defiantly. “Some of us don’t need to kill our owners. “You all seem to have very specific grievances, except for the Violin, who seems to simply want fame. Not all of you need to kill: the Piano just wants to be rid of the fingers. The Horns just wants the owners to feel what an involuntary colonoscopy feels like. And then there is me, I don’t want my owner to suffer.”

“So leave!” shouts the Violin.

“I won’t!” the Harp shouts back. “I will ask all of you just one thing: If you won’t see reason and abandon this plan, bring it into practice in your own space. Wait for your owners to take you home, or when you’re alone with them. Then you can do to them as you see fit. That’s my argument.”

“No one cares for your peace-loving nonsense, Hippy!” yells the Violin, as all the others seem to shift uncomfortably.

“Actually,” the Baton mumbles. “The Harp has a good point.”

“What?” the Violin says, looking at the Baton with fury.

“Hear me out,” the Baton eases. “Even if you don’t agree with the severity of punishment the Harp described, there is a tactical advantage to waiting until we’re alone with our owners. Nothing leading the maiming or murder back to us!”

“Good point!” shouts the Clarinet.

“And we can do it in the comfort of our own home!” adds the Double Bass.

“But…” splutters the Violin. She looks around and reads the agreement on all the faces. “Fine!” she huffs. “As long as the next applause is mine.”

Everyone nods and starts retreating into their case.

“I’m so happy you all took me seriously, I’m also hoping you might think better of this when you’re all better rested and back home,” says the Harp, smiling.

“Oh shut up, you insufferable Hippy!” growls the Violin as she closes her case.

 

Feeding the beast

Panting and sweating but completely satisfied she rolled over as he lit two cigarettes. He handed her one with a stupid grin on his face. She accepted it with a polite smile. Trying desperately to not boost his ego by letting her face portray how much she had enjoyed herself.

As he puffed on his cigarette his face turned slightly solemn.

“Listen,” he said in a pensive tone. “I have a very strange request.”

She rolled over to one side, visibly weary.

“Remember how you said you usually don’t sleep with musicians because they’re too weird?”

She just nodded.

“Well,” he stammered, “there is something weird about me.”

“Oh god,” she exhaled in a puff of smoke, “please don’t tell me you hum in your sleep or something?”

We almost grinned before he rolled over to face her. “No, even weirder.” He said looking almost ashamed. “I’ve never slept with anyone.”

She almost dropped her cigarette as she spluttered: “You mean you’re a v…”

“No!” he gasped. “It’s just that I don’t usually bring girls here.”

She frowned before asking: “So, you just fuck them in the cab home or something?”

He just shook his head. “It’s not an intimacy thing.” She sat up, clutching the sheet around herself.

“Then what is it?”

He rolled back onto his back. “It’s just that I sleep with my bass.”

She was dumbstruck for a moment and it must have shown on her face because he answered the unspoken question:

“Yes, I sleep with my bass.”

She just frowned and moved to the edge of the bed saying: “I can just go…”

“No!” He said taking a hold of her arm. “I like you,” he mumbled. “It’s just one of my many quirks.”

“I’ll say…” she spat back trying to free her arm from his grip.

“Please?” he whispered before perking up and saying: “I have a fantastic guest-room. And I’d love to spend the weekend with you.”

She couldn’t detect any humour in his tone but answered: “I really wouldn’t mind going home. I mean: we’ve both had a good time. Why ruin it?”

Pain crossed his face as she said this.

“Please?”

“That guest-room better be awesome! Because you’re cute, but not that cute.”

His face lit up as he jumped out of bed saying: “It is awesome!”

 

After having inspected the king-size bed, the big-screen TV and the walls of DVDs and books she had to agree that the room was indeed ‘awesome’.

“You don’t mind if I don’t have the urge to sleep with a bit of wood and some stings, right?” She asked playfully.

He chuckled.

“No, that’s fine.”

“If only you weren’t so damn cute…” She muttered as she got into the large bed and he kissed her.

“I’ll devote the rest of the weekend to making it up to you.” He said as he left the room.

“You better believe it!” she shouted after him.

 

“I have had the most fantastic sleep.” She groaned stretching as she pushed open the door to his room. “Also: this shirt of yours, I’m keeping it!”

The cup she was holding splintered into a million pieces as it hit the floor, although the sound of the cup breaking was drowned out by her scream. As her scream faltered it was replaced by absolute silence. Perfunctorily broken by the steady drip of blood on the hardwood floor. The young man she had though might have made her whole lay there; halved.

The instrument by his side splattered in blood as one enormous string stuck up at an odd angle. Droplets of blood running down the string to its scroll, as if the instrument itself needed sustenance.

Silent and Spotless

The pristine white keys splattered with scarlet. A single severed knuckle, resting against a black key. “A fitting end,” he thought as he wiped the piano clean of her blood. He had given up on any personal greatness years ago. He was content in the knowledge that sweeping floors was his life now. His entire life was clean, neat and organised, until the day that should have meant a new and everlasting happiness.

“Excuse me,” came a soft voice from the side door of the concert hall. “I was just wondering if it would be okay for me to play a little?” He still stood there in stunned silence. “You see, I have this big performance tonight and I would like to keep my fingers warm.”

He just nodded once, which made her smile the most radiant smile he had ever seen. That smile would have made his day if it wasn’t followed by her playing. The most heavenly noise he had ever experienced. The notes danced through the air like dust-motes. He froze again, mid-sweep, to listen. The melody soared as her long tender fingers floated over the keys. The music made him feel emotions he had long since abandoned and then he looked at her. Her eyes closed as if in a blissful dream. Her shoulders, slightly hunched, swayed with the marvellous melody. Her foot tapping, ever so softly, to the rhythm that seemed to have become the rhythm of his heart.

As the composition soared ever higher, it came to him in a flash: their life together.

He would keep their modest house shiny, clean and empty, only to have her fill it with those marvellous sounds. Who needs money when you spend your days chasing perfection only to hear it coming out of her piano?

But as the melody turned melancholy, he saw how time would do as it always does. Her fingers tired from a lifetime of playing would falter and only play as soft and sad as she did now. Eventually they would fail her and the air would be empty but for the dust-motes. The crushing silence that only comes after having been spoiled by those perfect notes for all those years. ‘If disappointment was to come,’ he thought as he moved closer to the stage. ‘Let it come before his mind was exposed to years of this titillating tones. Let it come now!’

With a loud bang followed by a short shriek the hall was silent again, as it should be. After his thorough cleaning the dripping would stop and leave the hall as he wished it: Silent and spotless.

Tis’ the season!

‘Tis the season! The only time of year where a grown man can be as soppy as I am and not have it met by derogatory laughter. There are many things that warm the heart: the tree, the lights, the snow (I wish), the presents, the memories and the booze helps too. But the best thing about Christmas for me is the excuse to watch soppy movies all day long while over-eating and drinking. Over the last few weeks I’ve been a part of many a discussion on what movie should be considered ‘the best Christmas movie’. The simple answer: there is no such thing! They all seem to do the trick and tastes vary, but seriously: the passion people display in these discussions… Forget politics, religion, bake-off or the weather, if you really want to divide people: use Christmas movies!

A week and a half spend on determining if ‘Die Hard’ is a Christmas movie. Let’s all just agree that John McClane would be an awesome guest; just don’t pick him as your secret-Santa. And personally, I don’t feel that leaving a kid alone in your house over the holidays is a very ‘Christmassy’ thing to do, but what do I know? I do agree with Culkin that the movie would have been better with a heart-warming torture scene, but once again: personal preference.

So what do we look for in a Christmas movie? Snow, trees, lights, love, warmth, humor and a little magic!

An SNL master in a little green outfit? Maybe a story about another green funny man written by everyone’s favorite doctor? Perhaps we disappear into a magic book on an enormous flying dog? Or we hang out of a window asking a boy what day it is? We can always take a train-ride with the man formerly known as Gump. Some might need a star-studded wonderland where Mr. Bean annoys professor Snape with his gift-wrapping. Or a woman who has the heart of the sea exchange lives with one of Charlie’s angels? A black and white crazy man with a big beard and a young lawyer? Perhaps a remake where batman comes to meet Louise and she doesn’t tear off in a Thunderbird? Jimmy Stewart can show us all that we need to exist to make people happy. Or we need to understand what a Burtonesque Christmas looks like to show us how normal our own families are?

And perhaps even more counter-intuitive: while all that great food just sits there, we can’t feed them after midnight. Speaking of dysfunctional families: I always watch The Dark Crystal, at least once, thanks for that one mom and dad! But that movie does always lead me to the one movie that says it all. We take the lead actor; get him to bring his most beloved alter-ego, and just wait for him to say the sentence that truly rings in this festive season: ‘It’s not easy being’…. NO NO NO, not that one! This applies to our Christmas trees, as well as our hearts and minds: ‘It’s time to light the lights!’

A very merry movie watching Christmas to you and yours!

The powers that be

Wouldn’t it be nice if you could give someone your name?

Without them going: just tell me your number, tis all the same.

Perhaps it’s a reach to have it forcefully tattooed on my forearm

While they all seem oblivious to all the harm

They do to those they’re supposed to nourish

And when challenged, they shout boorish:

‘Wir haben es nicht gewusst.’

 

Perhaps it’s seen as crass to compare their corrupt company

To the group of people responsible for the worst crime in history

Maybe a better comparison within this quip

Us, rowing to a drum, aboard their giant ship

Although many within her teach enlightenment and tolerance

Their words fall on deaf-ears among the apathetic audience.

Complicity envelops all those drawn in.

 

All the young ones staring at their phones are too busy to notice

They’re ransoming their futures for three island years eating lotus

Thrown back into the world with just a piece of paper and a lot of debt

Working it off to gain crucial experience through blood and sweat.

Finally grasping the futility and abuse of their chosen path,

Hopefully leveling the thing I would now: Wrath!

The common advice: just keep your head down and make nice…

 

Where is our generation’s Mr. Zimmerman

Whom, by writing, takes a stand

And rips us from complacency, makes us understand:

‘Come mothers and fathers throughout all the land,

And don’t criticize what you can’t understand,

Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command’

And they’re all going to stop buying into your brand.

Pride – For Matty –

I don’t mean the one about equality with the flag of rainbow,

Although applicable, this is simply about a guy I know.

A man of many words and fantastic appetites,

But it’s his character that really highlights

 

Not just the title of this poem but

The reason for my respect in this lovable nut

 

He always says he loves the crazy ones because

The normals just bore and all seem hazy,

In his tremendous heart and bravery

Which also makes his dark side so unsavory

 

The one enemy he must fight day and night

His own treacherous and marvelous mind

 

One filled with strange thoughts and dark corners

Even a string of fantasy and disorders.

With all that, he’s still capable of great empathy,

A lending hand to friends and even me

 

Keeps an entire family together even when perhaps

He himself is on the verge of collapse.

 

So I vow to be there to remind:

When that terrible battle with your mind

Seems just too much, remember:

 

The ones taken from us, too soon and crappy

Wherever they might be, I’m sure they see

What I do when I look at you:

 

Aloud

Although writing words is what I do

I do sometimes feel like such a fool

Writing words is fine and all

Just letters on a page they seem so small

And I know all writers words have to be read

Aloud to a crowd or in your head

But of the two, aloud is the one that I would do

For words, when spoken aloud are wonderful

Then they seems so powerful, with pitch and cadence and rythmatic

They tumble off the page to become: music

And music touches us in ways we find so dear

Somewhere in the soul or somewhere here

For huddled masses, sharing a dream, just waiting

Or those last words uttered, crying about the road not taken

Aurotory should inspire and touch us, bring us to our feet

Auplauding not because we have to but because of a need

The need to praise or march or remember

Those words spoken out loud in love or anger

They can make us feel, they can make us think

By them we’re brought right to the brink only to realise its jut a man

Just one man, a little silly, shouting words that are so pretty

So I’ll just keep writing to do my bit, to do what I can

And through all the illusions, hope, fear and dread

One thought wills out: Let these words be read!