Ruis

Soms wil ik je niet horen. Soms wil jij me niet horen. Soms versta ik je gewoon niet. En ook dat geldt eveneens in de tegengestelde richting.

De conversatie die ooit zo helder en duidelijk verliep, die ooit zo eenvoudig leek te zijn en geen nood had aan legendes, laat staan aan langdradige, gecompliceerde handleidingen in zes talen, lijkt verdwenen. Ze lijkt te hebben plaats gemaakt voor een opeenstapeling van hardnekkige misverstanden. Misverstanden die meestal onbewust, maar soms - en misschien steeds vaker - heel bewust, heel doelgericht en heel venijnig worden veroorzaakt. De conversatie die ooit zo helder en duidelijk verliep heeft plaats gemaakt voor ruis. Storende, hardnekkige ruis. De soort die je eindeloos op de zenuwen werkt, waar je alleen maar zo snel mogelijk aan wilt ontkomen.

Hoe moet het verder? Je durft je de vraag niet stellen en je durft de gevolgen van het antwoord op die vraag niet onder ogen zien. Maar dat neemt niet weg dat de vraag zichzelf stelt. Dat neemt niet weg dat de vraag zich op een geniepige, sluimerende manier meester maakt van je heel bestaan. Want, laten we duidelijk zijn, het zal verder gaan. Waar, hoe, wanneer en met wie is een heel andere zaak. Net zoals alle onvoorziene gevolgen die zich zullen stellen - en ja, ze zullen zich stellen - een heel andere zaak zijn.

Stel daarom de vraag gewoon. Of wees er op zijn minst heel bewust van. Garanties zijn er niet, maar het is de enige hoop om de ruis te onderdrukken en het signaal terug helder te doen klinken. Zoals het ooit was. De vraag daarentegen ontlopen dreigt je te doen vervallen in een onophoudelijke aaneenschakeling van spelletjes verstoppertje. Het dreig je voortdurend te doen weglopen naar andere werelden waar rust, vrolijkheid en verlossing heersen. Het dreigt je eigen werkelijkheid om te vormen in een continu gezoem van storende, hardnekkige ruis.

Just something to wish for

I wish a day would count 48 hours. To sleep a bit more. But most of all to do all the things I have on my imaginary wish-list. To do what I say I would like to do, but never actually get to do. To discover some abilities I might have, without being sure of actually having them or not.

I wish a day would be a bit longer. With a bit more time to create moments to remember. With a bit more life to it. Who knows I might stop complaining about the fact that life really is - oh how I love clichés - too short. Who knows if my long todo list might get shorter.

I wish I still had the mind of myself as a child. When time was endless. When a day counted the hours you wanted it to count. When an hour was defined according to the guidelines of my own world. Where thighs lasted forever and growing old seemed never to come.

I wish I'll have a lot of time left to finish at least parts of the todo's on my wish-list. I'm working on it. Maybe I should stop looking for new things to put on there and start doing my homework. Maybe not. Maybe we're made to live with our lists. And maybe it's exactly our own personal list to keep us going.

Koning Winter

Het is ongelofelijk hoezeer witte winterdagen kunnen schipperen tussen extreme gevoelens. Ik denk dan aan het mateloos enthousiasme van naar school gaande kinderen, die 's morgens in de vroegte hun stoutste winterlaarzen aantrekken om een poging te ondernemen om tot Koning Winter te worden gekroond. Of aan witte velden met aan de rand de zoveelste sneeuwman, als een trotse verschijning heersend in het egaal gekleurde landschap. Een landschap waar iedereen gelijk is voor de winterwet: mooi of lelijk, dik of dun, rijk of arm, alles en iedereen buigt nederig onder het witte poeder dat eenheid brengt.

Maar ik denk ook aan de zure, koele gezichten op de trein van 8.13 naar Brussel-Centraal. Aan het witte landschap dat ondergedompeld is in een wereld van grijs. Grijs en niets anders, behalve wit. Ik denk aan het weinig gevarieerd kleurenpalet in het aanzicht dat de aangewasemde venstertjes van het treinstel te bieden hebben. Koning Winter kan ook guur en grauw zijn. Hij kan irriteren en frustreren. Hij kan ons doen verlangen naar de natuurlijke warmte van gratis verkrijgbare zonnestralen. Naar een kleurrijk t-shirt of naar de onovertroffen 'coolte' van de meest opvallende zonnebril.

Het zijn uiteindelijk de dingen des levens. De extremen waartussen we dag in, dag uit tussen hollen. De uiteinden van een touw waarvan we hopen aan het juiste eind te mogen trekken. Maar misschien is het niet meer dan een kwestie van genieten. Van pogen tot rust te komen in het aanschijn van deze kleine fractie van Moeder Natuur haar ware macht.

Probeersel nr 32

Het is ondertussen maanden dat ik mezelf - bewust of onbewust - bestook met flarden van op het eerste zicht nietszeggende en willekeurig bij elkaar gebrachte woorden. Woorden die lusteloos ergens in een grijze zone van mijn bestaan ronddwalen, hopend om ontdekt of herontdekt te worden door mijn verstand dat lijkt te sputteren wanneer het erop aankomt om te snuffelen in die massa vetgedrukte letters, die bij momenten verstaanbare woorden vormen en uitzonderlijk zelfs een toevallige zin.

Misschien zweeft er wel stiekem een beetje beterschap in mijn nabijheid. Al vrees ik er eerlijk gezegd voor. Maar wie weet. Tijd geeft de kans tot oefening en oefening baart kunst. Soms zelfs letterlijk. Misschien moet ik dus beginnen bij het eerste wezenlijk bestanddeel van deze stelling en stilaan mijn agenda herorganiseren en prioriteiten herformuleren, om stil te staan bij hetgeen ooit vanzelfsprekend was en vanzelf kwam. Zonder te talmen. Zonder te moeten wachten tot dat sputterend verstand op zoek gaat naar woorden die slechts en simpelweg bijeen gebracht dienden te worden. Zonder verplichting om iets zinnigs en kunstzinnigs uit mijn vingers te moeten toveren. Maar simpelweg voor de vreugde om nietszeggende en toch bewegende gehelen van vetgedrukte letters uit te vinden voor dat miniscule deeltje van deze wereld dat er op één of andere manier een boodschap aan heeft of zou kunnen hebben. Ook al zijn dat mijn zorgen niet. Ook al is dat eerder een resultaat dan een beweegreden geweest. Maar kom, laten we ook eerlijk zijn: erkenning streelt de ziel en herkenning zorgt ervoor dat de rode lippenstift haar impressies op de wang achterlaat.

Post-materialistic view on work

It's a working day. But it doesn't particularly feel like one. I have a big meeting coming up this afternoon. But there is no stress. No stress at all. I feel completely confident. Confident that everything will work out just fine, that everything will be alright.

Maybe it's the sun, the sunglasses laying next to my laptop and the yellow t-shirt I'm wearing right now. Maybe things will change as soon as I'll change into my 'meeting-outfit'. As soon as the phone will start ringing again and my inbox will start getting stuffed with problematic e-mails again. Maybe. But just not right now. Now is the time to realize the nice side of life, even during a working day. To realize things could be different if you want and everything is about the way you look at things. We don't do that very often. All the contrary. We never do that. But starting from today I will. At least I'll try to. If only the sun would be shining every day. For me, that would be already a big help and an even bigger step forward.

What about a trip to Bucharest?

A black, new and shiny bmw m6 is waiting for the light to turn green. A dito mercedes impatiently waits just behind it. Both drivers look not older than 25, wear big shiny sunglasses and are obviously not in the need of taking an extra mortgage to keep their cars spotless and running.

No, this is not a Monte Carlo boulevard. No view over the sea and a port stuffed with extra sized yachts. All the contrary: looking over the way too shiny roofs of the cars a weird contrast pops up. It's a big building. Smoky black. Bombed. Or at least looking as if it just got bombed. Big holes in the walls, no windows. Only a huge amount of pain stored in a pile of stones. A big scar of a society still finding its way. Still looking for a new personality. With a huge way to go before it will probably find a proper balance: welcome in Bucharest.

Bucuresti (to spell it the way it should be spelled) is a city of contrasts. A city on the edge between worse and better and between past and future. It's a city balancing between extremes. It's a society of extremes. I suppose that's normal when for decades the "communist average" used the be the magical codeword towards living a happy life. It's not a city of love at first sight, like Paris, Rome or Barcelona would be. But that does not mean you should just skip it when selecting your yearly city trips.

Bucharest is majesty. It's greatness obscured by a doubtful past and an big dose of fear for evolution. For finding a proper equilibrium in that enormous potential. 'Cause that's exactly what it's all about. The first steps towards activating that potential seem to be taken. If it is the nightlife, the way of living, the friendliness of the people. But a lot of work is still to be done before the future of this city will be confirmed as a bright one. I have faith in it, but who am I. Let's hope the people living there have it too. Because the city deserves it. Because the people deserve it.



To our Sefa - it would not have been the same without you.

All apologies...

I know, I know. Shame on me.

Shame on my lack of presence. On not being present like I intended to be. Shame on my lack of time, on working more than I should and spending the rest of my time doing other things. Shame on winter and his royal greyness, on the absence of decent sunshine and on lack of colors. Shame on lack of spring, of birds with new repertoires, of sunglasses and short skirts for whoever is willing to wear them.

But it's never too late to start over again. Even when you seem to have lost the habit, to have lost the drive taking you to do certain things. It's just a matter of looking for some new sparkles providing you with the right attitude and energy to get going again. To stand up and start walking again.

So here I am. Doing what I'm supposed to be doing more often. Doing what somehow I promised I would be doing. I'll try to keep on following the sparkles again. Those I though were gone. Those I thought would not come back any time soon. And it's exactly that what gives life its everlasting beauty: the unexpected.

Hi. My name is Fabio. And it's nice to be here again.

2007 + 1

It has been some time again. But I'm still here. Still trying to write down things somebody could hopefully understand or relate to. Especially now. Especially in front of the gates of a new year. A new time. A new beginning. At least for me. It's actually more than just a new year. It's really time for new things.

But let us first salute the old . Let us first take some time to think over how it was. How it has been. How it never will be again. But I'm not afraid of change. I'm not afraid of new adventures. It's exactly that to keep me going. To make me feel to be living the way I always wanted to. Staying in a familiar surrounding can be nice. It can be indeed. But surroundings change. We change. The world changes. New surroundings are born. We are re-born.

But the Firefly is still here. And he sure will stay. Changes do not necessarily mean everything has to change. Luckily. But still. Sometimes the new just sounds better than the old. It's as simple as that. And if it's not true, allow me to just believe it is.

And what about you. Are you ready for some change? It's ok both ways. Don't worry. As long as you keep on going. As long as you keep on living. Just don't forget about that.

Summer of '97

Last time I saw most of them it was ten years ago. Last time I saw most of them it was the summer 1997. Time went by. Each of us chose a path. Each of us chose a destination. If it would be the right one did not matter. Only time would tell. And now, most of us did reach a destination. Sometimes the same as chosen initially. Sometimes a completely different one. Reached through a different path. With different means. And sometimes even with a different mentality, while becoming a new, different person.

It's 2007. Most of us got back together. Just for one night. Just for a few drinks. After ten years. To have a chat. To relive what has gone by, what once was and maybe even what could have been. Some are still the same, as if ten years did not pass. Some are still the same, but clearly ten years later. Some are different. Some became parents. Some lived ten years as if each year counted for ten. Some still have to start living those ten years.

But what it all comes down to, is to have gotten back together. To have relived the past. Just for a moment. To not forget how it was. To not forget who we were and where we come from. To get old knowing it was all worth doing the effort.

Sette

Vladi stava per arrivare. Giuseppe ed io ci eravamo messi sul balcone con pronto un secchio d'acqua da versargli addosso appena sarebbe arrivato. Ed infatti...lo scherzo, uno dei tanti, riuscì alla perfezione. Tanti ricordi di estati magiche. E alcuni di questi vivranno per sempre.

È il 1996. Fine agosto. È l'estate di Ginosa. L'estate dei sette amici. L'estate di Pablo, Francesca e Noelia. Ma anche l'estate di Cristina. È l'estate della casa della nonna di Fabio. Della chitarra ed il Millenote. Dei 'tanta voglia di lei' e le serenate. Delle penne a mezzanotte. È l'estate degli amici di Michel anche a cantare. Anche a cucinare.

A San Chirico Nuovo le prime serate fresche sono già lì. 'I sette venti', diceva sempre Michele Mucci. Di sera si esce con la maglia. Si va in giro in macchina piuttosto che farsi le passeggiate su e giù per la via principale. Si va a Tre Cancelli. Si chiacchiera. Si scherza. Ogni tanto si balla. Si ricorda. E in quel fine agosto i ricordi sono soprattutto quelli delle tre settimane appena passate sulle spiagge di Ginosa.

Lo avevamo detto tante volte. Ci avevamo pensato. I piani erano già quasi fatti. Ma a San Chirico Nuovo il cratere tra il dire ed il fare è enorme, quasi impossibile da superare. Quell'anno invece no. Deve essere successo un miracolo. Devono essere scesi sette angeli dal cielo per mettere finalmente insieme quei sette amici. Per trovargli una casa non troppo lontana dalla spiaggia. Per metterli in macchina dei genitori disposti ad accompagnarli. E per convincerli a finalmente andare oltre le chiacchiere, alla scoperta della vacanza indipendente. Alla scoperta delle ragazze. Alla scoperta dei panzerotti fritti. E alla scoperta della vita a Ginosa Marittima. E così fù. Per me, ma anche per Nicola, per i due Michele, per Samuele, per Fanelli e per Giuseppe.

Il miracolo non si sarebbe più ripetuto. E gli angeli non sarebbero più scesi dal cielo. E così negli anni a venire ogni uno di noi andò per la sua strada. Anche se si diceva che l'estate a seguire saremmo tornati. Anche se si pensava che gli angeli magari ancora sarebbero venuti. Si sapeva che semplicemente non sarebbe stato così.

E così ci ritroviamo con memorie dimenticate forse troppo in fretta. Nicola con il costume da bagno forse un pò troppo stretto. Fanelli che cerca di aggiustare il gommone senza fine, senza mai riuscirci. I due Michele incantati dalla bella Francesca. Giuseppe ed il beach volley. Samuele e l'abbronzante. E Fabio ed il letto volante.

Memorie di sempre e per sempre.
Magiche.
Da non dimenticare. Mai.