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.

Long distance call

They met some time ago now. Flickering lights of an unexpected, but steamy party. Mutual friends. A drink or two. A few sparks, but just friends. Even if maybe good friends.

Sometimes it happens. Sometimes you meet someone you just know he or she could be a friend for life. Or even thé friend for life. But at the same time sometimes it can't happen. Because the right stars are not in place. Because you do not feel up to it due to circumstances. Because there are boy- or girlfriends involved. Because you do not want to spoil the status-quo your universe lives in. Because you want to keep that moment just as it is. With its magic. With its sparks. With its flickering lights. Because you're in a strange place far away from home or simply because she will be leaving in the morning.

What happens is that you keep in touch. World's communication technologies tend to make the world a really small one. Even for friends. Even for relationships. At least at first. As words are easily found. As memories are clear and fresh. As willingness comes from itself. But time's a bitch. Words become hard to find. Memories loose their brightness. And all willingness becomes a puddle of vagueness of a far away past.

It all ends with a quickly written birthday card. With a short message for Christmas. Or with simply nothing. Nothing but blurry memories. Of how things could have turned out differently. Of how things could have actually been. Of the girl or boy with the sparks in the eyes waiting to be caught by your own eyes. To be remembered when its too late.

What if?

Would he have said it? Would he have spoken up? To tell. To speak.
Would she have faced her worst fears? Would she have dared? To show. To reveal.

Often we wonder. Often we dream away to a world in an imaginary dimension. To a world build up by the answers of 'what if' questions. Asking ourselves what would have been is an integrating part of our way of living. It makes us wonder. It makes us imagine and dream. It makes us bitter for what could have been. Just as it could make us feel relieved for what is not. For what luckily did not occur. For what will hopefully never be.

The imaginary world is just...imaginary.
Comforting when we need comfort.
Reassuring when we are in lack of certainty.

But it helps.

It gives an excuse to wonder. And at the same time to dream. To imagine. We like to imagine. Even if we do not realize it. Imagination is inspiration. And inspiration is life. This life. This real life.

And so, at the end, also that imaginary life starts making part of - once again - that same real life.

04.17

Enter the big grey door. Go straight into the hallway. It's the first door on your left.

"04.17" has for years been a synonym for the place to be. The room where it was all about making the best of it. Of choosing the alternative approach to how things should be done. It was not only all about realizing work is just a way of being able to get the glasses filled at night, but also of realizing that it's better to do things the best possible way since things have to be done anyway. The ideal mix of only good things. And so the days went by. Work went by. Easily, stressless, but firmly, properly, completely. Just the way it should be.

But days, weeks, meetings, presentations, endless discussions on how to proceed, more meetings, tons of documents, written words making strange, at times hardly understandable sentences went by. Time went by. People went by. But not in 04.17. It all stayed the same. The way it should be.

Until.

Nothing is forever. It's the most real cliché humanity ever invented. But it's really a real one. So also 04.17 went by. We went by. Our separate ways. To spread the way it should be in other 04.17's.

Footprints

I once got a birthday card saying 'many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart'. It's a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt.

I don't even remember who gave me that card, so I suppose it's more than obvious that person did not leave particularly big footprints in my heart. Nonetheless that quote got somehow stuck in my head. Maybe because of its truth. Maybe because of it's realism. And certainly because of the way it synthesizes in a few words the whole universum of the way we interact: we meet people randomly. At work, on a train, in an airport, on the street, in some club or in a bar. With some of them we get closer: we get to know them. Starting from a name, to sometimes ending up with their beliefs, hopes, views on life and maybe even their most dark secrets.

I sometimes wonder who those footprints-leaving-people really are. And I suppose I will never know for sure. I mean, I could maybe take a guess, I could indicate some possible candidates and see if their shoe soles would match the scars I have inside, but I would never be able to be completely sure. People come, just as they might stay or simply go. Friendships are born, just as they might die. Relationships rise, just as they simply fade away.

So what about holding on? Should we? Of course we should. As long as there are footsteps at least. As long as there are scars. As long as we feel like it. And as long it is physically possible.

The bathroom window

We often tend to forget. We tend to feel the urge to travel to distant places to see things we once saw on television. Or things we just never saw before, but only heard of. We tend to get blind or be blinded. We tend to get used too much. To what we do. To what we have. To where and who we are.

So stop. Just stop. Even if it is just for a second.
Open your eyes. Look.
You might fall in love again.

And at the end of the day home could really be a sweet home.


[Picture taken from the window of my bathroom - it's as simple as that]

Bittersweet

I used to be a dreamer.
And think of the future to come.
Think of the how, who and where of life.

But that's all gone.

I used to run through open fields.
Arms wide open,
Chasing the setting sun.

But that's all gone.

I used to make plans.
Design them, shape them, even put them on paper.
I used to build and tear down again.

But that's all gone.

I used to gaze away,
Watching clouds go by,
Making utopian shapes of impossible realities.

But that's all gone.

And still.
I'm happy.

At least I think so.
At least I hope so.

Go east!

I've seen quite some places over the years. I've traveled to countries nearby and far away. I've seen beaches and mountains. I've experienced cold snow and sand too hot to walk over. But for a strange reason, I've barely visited Eastern Europe. I've visited Prague. But as a little kid. And as we all know, kids are not particularly interested in culture or history. Recently I finally decided to do something about it and after a 4 day trip to Budapest I realized I've got quite some catching up to do.

The beautiful stewardess of the late night Wizz Air flight to Budapest seemed to be the precursor of things to come. Just as the 30 degrees at arrival were. Especially if you know that the arrival was at 1 am. Mix beauty with high temperatures and a breeze of intriguing feminine perfume and a guy goes crazy. Luckily I had an Hungarian friend picking us up at the airport, to save us from getting lost.

From the beginning it was clear that Budapest is the ideal mix between culture and history. It's a city thinking and moving fast forward. Nothing 'Eastern' is left about it. People have invested and still are investing in trendyness and modernism. In life. The city's past probably has quite something to do with that attitude. Having to live under terror for decades seems to have made inhabitants of Budapest stronger, with a greater will to enjoy life. Can you blame them?

It's a city where history thus has a lot to say, so you should take your time to listen to it. The House of Terror is probably the best reminder of how things can turn out if mad people get to do their way. But it's also a city of good food and -it just has to be said- gorgeous women, making it a city to go to with friends, rather than with your girlfriend. Don't get me wrong, it's just the looks I'm referring to, one night stands and sexclubs exist -as always- rather exclusively to satisfy those British who just do not know what going on holiday means. And again, do not get me wrong: I'm not referring to all British.

Anyway, I've already been checking the latest tickets to some other countries. Poland and Romania for example. We'll see. First I'll have to survive a reality check of work, stressed colleagues and bills to be paid.

To never forget

House of Terror - Budapest

Spaghetti en Samsonite

De pasta is nog niet gaar. En toch is het al over half elf. Had honger toen ik van werk thuis kwam en heb met een net iets te grote kom soep de honger gestild. Met alle gevolgen vandien voor de eetlust. En dus is het maar een avondmaal op zijn zuiders - zoals de oma het nog steeds doet - geworden. Met als verschil de zwoele warmte die je zou noodzaken om buiten te zitten. Het licht geruis van het heen en weer geflaneer op de lokale main street, gecontrasteerd met de luidkeelse uitbundigheid waarmee mijn opa de laatste roddels weet te verkondigen. Maar ook met als verschil de nacht met een zorgeloze zwarte hemel waar sterren zich wél nog thuis voelen. Waar dromen zich nog thuis voelen. En waar fladderende vuurvliegjes en tsjirpende krekels telkens weer zorgen voor een spektakel van licht en geluid. Geen dons om 's nachts onder te slapen dus. Geen paraplu om op straat te komen. Maar het verschil ligt waarschijnlijk in nog veel meer, met op kop de mentaliteit van het zorgeloos levensgenieten.

Boven staat de kleine Samsonite al klaar. Een puzzel van t-shirts, shorts, jeans, ondergoed en toiletgerief ligt uitgestald op het bed. De keuze van de schoenen nog. Ach ja, teenslippers zullen wel volstaan. En over truien spreken we helemaal al niet. Heb net op één of andere weer-site gezien dat het op bestemming momenteel 41 graden is. En ook al is dat cijfer misschien niet helemaal betrouwbaar, zal de werkelijke temperatuur zeker geen 10 graden lager liggen.

Alleen het vakantiegevoel is er nog niet helemaal. Maar ik ben een last-minute mens, dus maak ik me wat dat betreft allerminst zorgen. Dat komt dus wel, desnoods pas als ik de heilige vakantiegrond zal betreden en uitvoerig zal kussen. En ook al zal deze trip een eerder korte rush zijn, ook al zal het meer weg hebben dan een snelle kick, het zal de moeite waard zijn. De kick zal nog lang blijven nasidderen. Daar ben ik nu al zeker van. Maar kwestie toch maar het zekere voor het onzekere te nemen, zal deze dag straks worden afgesloten met een uitvoerige en goed gearticuleerde versie van het Wees Gegroet.

Maar dat is voor straks. Tijd om te eten. De pasta moet dringend worden afgegoten. Buon appetito.

Heroes

Been watching a little bit too much of Heroes lately.

Two nights in a row, five episodes per night, 420 minutes of hoping the cheerleader will survive, Hero will make it back in time and Peter will finally find its way. Still quite a way to go to find out if the world will actually be saved and a bunch of other questions will be answered, even if in view of the apocalyps the latter might become as irrelevant as dust in a desert.

Luckily we have them, our heroes. Luckily we have the Petrellis and Bauwers making this world a better place, and saving it day in day out from its inevitable end. Or should I say: "Luckily we have our heroes we think will save us when things go wrong". It's all about believing. It's all about hoping. And most of all: about not being alone in this big -sometimes scary- world.

Have to go, the dvd is ready to play to next episode.

The saturday night drunken dream

Saturday night fever. The girls are choosing their outfits. I just went for jeans and t-shirt. The clock ticks. The fever grows bigger. I can almost hear the crowd go wild. Patience, patience, just a few more minutes.

-"Still some make-up, we're almost done here... ."
-"Yeah, yeah, take your time, we'll just go for another mojito".

I really like mojitos, especially if I make them myself...or if the dark-haired girl of the Villa Ernesto makes them. Just too often the flavours are not blended like they should. The equilibrium between sweet and bitter can be hard to achieve. And please, what the hell are all of those bartenders doing with Bacardi, when there is Havana Club at our disposal?

Anyway, by the time we can go, the party already seems to be half over. In reality it still has to start and the main act probably still has to arrive. But the home-style mojitos can be a pain in the ass if you don't pay enough attention. And it's not that I don't know it. It's not that I haven't experienced it before. The temptation is just too much I suppose. And let's blame the waiting for the girls to choose their outfits. Let's blame it on the make-up. But then, let's be honest: a dark sky without stars and a big full moon can't be called a moonlit sky, can it? So we'll just have to live with it, it's part of the fever.

[...]

The clock kept on ticking. But this time we did not really notice. Too much time to think about enjoying. Enjoying the groovy sounds. Enjoying the friends and the people. Enjoying the flirty moves moving around. Enjoying the time of our lives.

But tomorrow is waiting. Have to get up early. So maybe we should just go on chasing stars under our sheets. The stars of the night left with the coming of the morning birds. Singing. Making you feel even more tired. And making you realize the morning after experience is just a footstep away.

Q & A-session: "Are you happy?"

-That's a good question.
-I really don't know.
-I wish!
-Of course I am.
-Never.
-Yes!
-Should I be?
-Ask me tomorrow.
-I used to be.
-No, I'm not.
-I try to be.
-That's a difficult one.
-Am I happy?
-It depends.
-Always!

Slow food for fast people

The cupboard is empty. I really need food. I'm thirsty. An empty fridge too. Still 23 minutes to go before the grocery store closes...and I'll need at least 20 to get there, maybe 15 if I'll turn it into a deadly joyride, if the constellation of stars will send traffic in the opposite direction and if I would just find my damned keys in time.

No keys. No car. No 20 minutes. No food. Nothing to drink. It'll be once more a fast food evening. Fast food. I really don't like that term. My origins forbid me to like it. I'm a disciple of the slow food movement. You know: food as joy, not as a simple necessity. Not as an unbearable burden to keep on living. Slow food. Slowly. Taking your time. A properly set table. Candles. The right atmosphere. The right company. The right wine for every dish. Taste as an impossible voyage through the world. Through cultures. Through a mix of colours.

But not tonight. It'll be a fast one. I will make up for it tomorrow, the day after and the rest of the week. It's a good friend's birthday. A party is waiting. And I'm sure it will be a party to remember.

In the summertime...

Got up with the sun hitting my face this morning. Summer´s here, even if I´m not completely convinced yet. Still too many grey clouds interfering. Still not enough t-shirt temperatures. "It will come, it will come", is what I keep repeating myself time after time, morning after morning. Especially when you got up feeling it was summer. Feeling warmth on your face. Feeling happy to get up...until reality confronts you once again.

We had summer in april. And then it was gone. It took off to more exotic destinations. To places where there´s enough summer already. But at least we had it. Did I complain too much? Should I not have been talking about global warming and stuff? Is this my fearful punishment? Let´s hope not. I´m sure not...

For now I´ll just keep enjoying the rays of sunshine hitting my face. Lifting my head up towards the blue parts of the sky. Dreaming away in bits and pieces. Waiting. My t-shirts are ready to go. It´ll take just a minute to get changed.

Opdracht nr. 1

Zomerse temperaturen zijn weer in zicht. Helderblauwe lucht, fleurige t-shirts of wulpse kleedjes, romige ijsjes op overvolle terrassen en een hoop vrolijk optimisme om de dag door te komen. En toch zou ik hier over niemand minder dan de Goede Sint en drie - geen twee, geen vier - Zwarte Pieten moeten beginnen schrijven. Waarom? Lang verhaal. En eigenlijk mijn verhaal. Laat me hier gewoon stellen dat het is bij wijze van opdracht. Bij wijze van het spelen van de Barmhartige Samaritaan om de mensheid eens te meer een glimlach op het gezicht te toveren. En eigenlijk ook gewoon bij wijze van verzoek of...opdracht.

Waarom ook niet? Het is het proberen waard. Al weet ik nu al dat de Sint/Piet combinatie aan de vooravond van een beloftevolle zomer weinig - lees: geen - steek houdt. Maar toch. Misschien is het gewoon kwestie van de knop om te draaien en de hersenprocessen even in omgekeerde volgorde te laten verlopen. 'Reverse Engeneering" noemen ze dat in meer wetenschappelijke contexten. Met andere woorden: waarom uiteindelijk altijd bij het begin beginnen?

Het verhaal eindigt zodoende ergens aan de zoveelste zwarte schoorsteen. De laatste schoenen werden gevuld en de laatste bestelling werd op het bestelformulier aangevinkt. Gedaan voor vanavond. En gedaan voor dit jaar. Americo (blijkbaar de naam van het vermaarde wortel-etende witte paard) heeft er genoeg van. De pieten puffen. Hun rug doet pijn van het dragen van veel te zware zakken. Ze zien zwart. Zwart als roet. Zwart van vermoeidheid. De vraag die ik mij daar altijd al bij heb gesteld is de volgende: die Pieten, zijn die gewoon zwart of zijn die zwart van in al die schoorstenen te moeten kruipen? Met andere woorden en misschien een beetje sarcastischer: zijn die Pieten echte knechten of ronduit slaven?

In dat laatste geval zou het verhaal van de Goede Sint die vreugde brengt aan de kinderen over heel de wereld (hetgeen ook niet waar is, maar gewoon beter klinkt) uitmonden in een verhaal met een wel heel erg bittere nasmaak. Een smaak van wreedheid en onrechtvaardigheid, van cynisme en achterbaksheid. En misschien vooral, van onschuldige onwetendheid. Maar laten we nog even gelovig zijn. Laten we nog net niet te ver denken. Laten we niet over de schreef gaan door onze gedachten op verkeerde sporen te brengen. Laten we gewoon geloven en gelovig zijn. "You're a non-believer", wist een vriendin mij ooit te zeggen. Hopelijk is hiermee het tegendeel op zijn minst een beetje bewezen.

Maar goed. Ik zat aan het einde van het verhaal. Ik ging naar het begin ervan evolueren. Maar misschien is het, gezien de zomerse toestanden, beter om de Sint gewoon te laten vertrekken. Terug naar huis. Terug naar Spanje, Turkije, Aruba of waar dan ook. Terug naar de mythe. Die van vrolijkheid en vreugde. Die van geluk voor alle kinderen van de wereld.

The burden of being upright

Should I say it? Should I tell? Maybe I should. But do I really want to? Do I want to risk the consequences, the risk of change, the risk of being brutally slapped in the face, even if it would be what I deserved.

Deep down we probably all know when, how and why we should just tell. We all feel it's time to be confronted with reality, with honesty, with truth. We all know relief is just a step away. But at the same time we know this might be a rather unpleasant confrontation. One we'd rather avoid and replace by a different reality: the one we were building inside our thoughts, inside the web in our heads where we got stuck in, but at the same time feel comfortable in. Comfortable in a new world where we will be able to live happily ever after. As long as we can live with it. As long as other people do not get hurt. As long as we know what we're doing.

Telling the truth is a noble thing. It should be something to be proud of. It's what distinguishes heroes from cowards and reality from fraud. But being upright is a hell of a burden. It's the fight between angels and devils. Just as living reality is. Just as being a hero is. Just as not running away to chase other realities is.

But let's be honest for once: at times we all want to be a bit of devil.


[Post inspired by "The burdens of being upright" by Tracy Bonham]

De liefde overleven en het overleven van de liefde

Liefde kán mooi zijn,
Het kan verstikken, verdringen en doen vergeten,
Het kan vragen, verlangen en eisen,
Levens, gedachten en gevoelens,
Het kan blind zijn,
En verloren lopen,
Het kan vergaan,
Maar gelukkig ook weer komen,
Om terug vrij te zijn,
Om weer mooi te zijn,
Tussen bitter en plakkerig zoet,
Tussen nu en oneindig.

Voor Sylvie en Sven

Moments

I feel I'm starting to be repetitive. I feel like I'm writing the same things over and over again. Maybe it's just an impression and maybe it's even a wrong impression. But it's the way it feels. It holds me down in surfing to this blog and writing things without thinking too much. Because if I think when I write it just does not feel right.

I'm thinking now. But I'll try not to bother too much. I'll try to suppress what is in my head, letting myself go with what comes out of the movement of my fingers, rather than out of the grey mass inside my head. But then...nothing. I'm waiting. The way too high temperatures of the last few weeks have lowered to the season's average. So I can't blame the weather this time. Something has to come, since the former hot, nearly breathable air is no more. Only grey skies and sporadic drops of rain.

I start thinking again. And actually I see I did manage to write something. So maybe it's not about thinking versus just letting yourself go. Maybe it's just a matter of the moment. Moments. That's what it is all about. And right now I can say I feel happy, relieved. I'm freshly awake to start a new day after the last few weeks of chasing impossible deadlines, of searching for light in chaotic darkness. So even if the sun might not be shining up there, it's shining in here again. At least for now. At least as long as the trance of having a much more quite period in front of will last.

So let me hope to be able to come back here a bit more often. To think. To just do, write and tell. To be.

Too much sunshine

Don´t worry. I would probably be the last one to start complaining about an overdose of sunshine. Especially if you live in a country where the sun is said not to show itself that often. And even more if you have to deal with raindrops all the time. But that is like it usually is. That is the average. And we all know that the average is just a figure. We all know the average is something that just never is, a plastic doll in the middle of an endless variety of difference.

So there is no sunshine overdose. Even if I tend to start asking questions. We all know about global warming, we all know about the ozone-layer, we all have seen documentaries on how the earth will look like in a decennium from now and we all know we should not be moving to Amsterdam or Venice due to danger of high water. But as all people, just knowing how it is does not seem to be enough. We are a peculiar kind of living beings: somebody tells you something, you might believe it, but as long as you do not really sense it, as long as you do not really experience it, it´s just something. It´s living in the void, it´s there without really being there.

The way too early summer, way too high temperatures, and way too little amount of rain seems to bring us to reality. We already knew we have a problem, but we seem to be realizing we really have a problem. Politically, socially, psychologically.

It´s time. Or better: it was time. Let´s start doing something about it.

Realpolitik

I'm staring at my keyboard for a while now. I'm looking at my fingers asking them from my inside to start moving, to start pushing those little black keys with little white letters on them. But not much seems to happen, except this description, except these few words telling you a state of mind, showing you a fine sample of authentic reality. So I suppose these words are not the product of flashes of inspiration, nights full of dreams or extraordinary occurences to be telling and writing about. Just saying how it is could do the trick... But then, are we really interested in how it really is in reality? I don't know.

Too much reality could become boring after a while. Because reality tends to be repetitive, to tell history in a cyclic manner, rather than making it evolve. All Big Brother shows started off with huge successes, but after a few years of broadcasting nobody seems to be interested any more. Too much reality? Of course if we would all be action heroes our reality to tell about would probably be much more interesting than the average one, but eventually -once again- nobody would give a damn any more: at the end the girl will always get rescued.

My fingers are still moving. Still pushing those keys. Still telling a bit of reality. But not for long any more. Your interest could already be fading. There are other things to do. There is another reality waiting out there. For me and maybe also for you. And once again, also that one probably is not worth to be telling about.

Waiting

We all have to endure it at times. Some of us rather seldom, others all the time. Waiting is something making part of what, who, where and how we are. Waiting can be hell. Hell for the fear of what is to come. Just as waiting can be an extraordinary pleasure. Pleasure for what is not yet and maybe, just maybe, never will be.

Sometimes we wait because we know we have to wait. If you have a red light or stop sign ahead, you'd better stop. If you just put the De Cecco pasta in some boiling water, you'd better leave it in there as long as it needs to stay in there. But then, don't leave it too long. You'd might end up with something you really don't want to eat. So wait. Take time to wait. But be aware. Know when the waiting is over. Know when to get up, open your eyes, zip up your jacket and go.

But now I wait. I choose to wait. No signs of my waiting being over yet. Maybe because it's time to wait. Because I don't have to go yet. Because I don't want to go. I grab for a cd on the cupboard. It says 'Booka Shade'. I hesitate, but eventually I realize it's just perfect. Play!

Post n° 50

Fifty times now.
Fifty stories.
Fifty tales of life.
Fifty times everything or just nothing.
Fifty dreams. Fifty hopes. Fifty wishes to come true.
Fifty candles.
Fifty kisses.

Fifty times now.
And fifty times more.

Today

Today isn't a good day. Today is a bad day.

Been awake all night. Tossing around. Turning from left to right and back to left again. Putting my head under my pillow. But that doesn't help at all. It takes away your breath. So head back ón the pillow. No staring at the ceiling. The dark was just too dark for that. Just staring into the dark. No dreams. Just cold foggy winter. The hope for some sunshine was already gone by 6 a.m. You could hear the raindrops on the window. You could hear the street was wet as a lost car driving off to probably Brussels or Antwerp passed by.

Today is a bad day. Still morning. Still a long way to go till weekend. A very long way. A deadline is waiting. No weekend before that. Should I drink coffee? No, no thank you. Some sun would help. If I only could order that...and maybe a big ice cream, lunch in the park, a t-shirt and some sunglasses. But not today. Still some long hours ahead. So let the games begin...knowing that today I will loose anyway.

The spring-mode

Time to push the button. Time to hit the switch.

Time to take a deep breath and feel your longs getting filled with clean, fresh air. Spring is there. At least it seems to be there. Maybe it's just one of winter's last jokes. But we can't deny the blue sky, the cheerfully signing birds, the feelings of butterflies and maybe even the smell of the first sun crème.

Let it be said. It's spring. So bé spring. So féél spring. Take a look around. You're probably not the only one. Teenage girls in short skirts. Teenage boys looking at the girls. Huge tiramisù ice creams in the park. A cold beer under the sun on some terrace in the city centre. Even a working day becomes pleasant. Even your deadline does not seem to be chasing you any more. Feelings to bring you back in time. Memories free of worries and full of life. Just for now. Just for a few hours and maybe days. So let's enjoy it for now. The deadlines will still be waiting tomorrow. Will still be there chasing you just as they did before.

Label: 'In English'

I started this blogging adventure with the idea of writing in Dutch. It seemed the most logical thing to do. The daily world turning around me speaks Dutch, words just come easier in Dutch and the grey mass of my brain rather tends to use Dutch as the main means of communication between the different entities. As time passed by however, first needs and signs of having to tell the world things in a different language started showing up. English at first, but also some Italian and even some Spanish. French? Maybe. Probably not.

So Dutch was how it started. If I would write in Italian, I'd put 'In Italiano' underneath my post. For English it was just the same; label: 'In English'. By way of exception. Because it was occasionally. Just now and then. But as time went, more and more English came into that daily world. It became the rule, while Dutch became the exception. If you want to reach people, English just seems to be the better option. The better tool. The better microphone. And at the end, Dutch listeners probably won't bother too much, since English for them should be just as understandable. But then, I'm worrying about something without even knowing if there even are Dutch-speaking listeners. Somebody there?

So I'll drop the label: 'In English'. Just like I'll drop all the other language labels. Why? Because at the end it's all and always the same: words forming sentences, telling stories, living life. And life is not to be restricted to some Dutch, English, Italian or Spanish outfit. It does not matter. Just as it does not always have to be the easier way.

Sleepy train

I always tend to fall asleep whenever I'm on a train. I managed to wake up in terminal stations where I was not supposed to be. I managed to miss my connections. I even managed to have my cell phone stolen due to having my eyes closed.

Maybe that's why I don't like trains too much. And it's not only because I may have encountered some misfortunes. It just makes me tired. It wears me out. I mean, you get on a train fresh and bright and you get off all fuzzy and tired. Even if it only is for like an hour. Even half an hour. Even if you just got up and are completely awake or if you come back from work and can't wait to get home, can't wait to go to have a drink with friends or just to go couchsurfing in front of your tv for the rest of the evening. That excitement doesn't translate to falling in sleep, does it?

I don't know what it is. Often you hear people say they see the train as an excellent place to meet people. To make conversation. With or without a hidden agenda. With or without looking the good looking blond girl into her deep blue eyes. With or without getting off with a phone number or an email address. For me it's all the other way around. The person in front of me always seems to have a grey face. Always seems tired of having to have to sit there. Always seems to be fallen asleep. So, what do I do? Just the same.

Is it me, you could say? Is it the person in front of me? Is it the train? Or do I just happen to choose the wrong seat all the time? Maybe it's exactly that. Maybe I should take a walk through the whole train to pick the right spot. But then. That spot might be taken. That spot probably will be taken. So, once again, I'll end up in front of the person with the grey face. The person being tired to have to be sitting there. The person with the tendency to fall asleep.

Unreasonable behaviour - 5 a.m.

No, this is not about some episode of '24'. This is about the fact that once again it was 5 a.m. this morning. 5 a.m. when my hand got lost searching the light switch of my bathroom. 5 a.m. when I had to dig up my last energy resources to squeeze some toothpaste on my toothbrush. A shower would have been nice, but my body just said no: 'Bed, that's where you will go right now'. So I solemnly obeyed.

The second time this weekend. And once again my body seems to have quite some characteristics of something coming close to a zombie. Sleepy eyes. A bad taste in your mouth that just does not want to go away. Water. More water. Liters of water. A constant desire of going back to bed. Some soft pillows and maybe a bunch of dreams to try to at least regenerate a part of what has gone lost in the past 48 hours.

Actually it's funny how we manage to have a good time going out, while having to deal with the consequences a bit later. And having to endure the same experience twice in one weekend was something I thought was not meant for me anymore. Maybe it isn't. Maybe I should hope it isn't. And maybe this weekend indeed was the exception confirming the rule. But on the other hand I should also admit it all was worth wile. At least as long as I won't think about the clock radio that will be playing with my ear drums once again tomorrow morning. Not for fun. Not to dance upon. Not to bring you to a higher level. Not to escape reality. All the contrary. All real and reality.

[To Katrien and Fre]

+32

Terug thuis. We zijn geland. De steward heet ons welkom in Brussels International Airport. Het is 22.45. De vertraging valt uiteindelijk nog mee. Het is 6 graden buiten. Ja, inderdaad. Goed dat ik mijn winterjas bij de hand heb gehouden, ook al heeft het me een hoop meer sleurwerk gekost. Ook al heb ik ervoor het zweet op mijn voorhoofd moeten trotseren. Het is al donker. Een lichte bries die eerder iets weg heeft van de restanten van een zware storm. Een paar uur eerder was er ook een bries. Een zeebries. Een warme zeebries. Band 4 voor de baggage claim. Niet dat ik heb moeten stoppen om even naar de monitors te kijken. Gewoon de instinctieve kuddegeest op de menigte loslaten: 'ah ja, die zat ook op mijn vliegtuig...en die ook: het is band 4'. Waar stond de auto nu ook weer? Was het G45 of J414? Damn. Even denken. Waar ben ik drie dagen geleden ook weer langs gelopen? Wat heb ik mezelf toen nog gezegd? Ah ja, die loopbrug. En het derde zebrapad. Even friemelen in mijn portefeuille. Mijn parkeerticket. Neen, niet in de portefeuille, in de auto. Eerst naar de auto. De bagage kan al gerust worden ingeladen...ook al zou ik in mijn verstrooidheid in staat zijn mijn bagage nog eens heen en weer mee te nemen. Ben het geluid van die kleine rollende wielen nu toch gewoon. Geen file vanavond. Denk ik. Hoop ik. Komaan, toch niet op zondagavond? Wel? Neen, toch niet. Misschien dan een flitser op de E40? Neen, ook niet. Denk ik. Hoop ik. Toch niet op zondagavond?

De garagepoort smakt dicht. Mijn ogen zouden dat precies stilaan ook willen. Maar neen, nog even. Eerst de honger stillen. En daarvoor de bagage uit de auto halen. We zijn weer thuis. Even geen Spaans, Italiaans, Engels of Frans meer. Gewoon Nederlands. Gewoon een grote friet en twee kaaskroketten. Of toch liever stoofvlees? Laten we voor beiden gaan! Uiteindelijk zal ik in de drie gevallen sowieso teveel hebben. Uiteindelijk zal ik sowieso met een volle maag onder het vertrouwde donsdeken kruipen. Maar het doet er niet toe. Ik heb thuis. Mijn douche. Mijn zetel. Mijn warme choco. Mijn bed. En zo dadelijk mijn dromen. Die zijn er misschien wel altijd. Maar thuis smaken ze toch altijd net iets beter.

I'm from Barcelona

At least I was...just for a tiny while. Just a few pages of my own book of history. Just the time to sense magnificence and colours giving shape to what has none. Endless varieties of tastes, mangling together to experience something coming close to paradise. Not to forget the dreaming away amongst the best of the Gaudi, Dalí, Miró and Picasso repertoires, even if without the 'Persistence of time'. The presence of sunshine, sunglasses, the first t-shirts and some home made Italian style helado (or should I write 'gelato') making the setting even better, could be the why of this declaration of love to a city of life, to be rediscovered time after time, visit after visit. And maybe at the same time it explains the bits of exaggeration to be found in this hymn to the things in a way or another probably are also to be found in other places.

So yes, I'm from Barcelona. At least I was...just for a tiny while. If it's not reality, at least let's dream it, let's wish it. I need an excuse to escape the rain I have to face day in, day out, from morning to evening, and further till dawn again. It's like we haven't been paying our electricity bills to get access to the biggest natural energy resource. Global warming, they say. Yes, indeed. But we only get rain.

But ok. We still have Barcelona. A two hour flight. Maybe some extra delay due to heavy air traffic between Brussels and Luxemburg. And that's it. It's like we do not even have the time to dream about it. So maybe we should not mind the rain too much. Only our bank account could be complaining. And hey, even then...would summer really be that far away?

How it all began

This is a flashback.

Maybe I've been watching a little bit too much of 'Lost' lately. But luckily I won't be telling about some island in some ocean where some airplane crashed upon and where some survivors have to deal with some other people.

This is about realizing I never started off properly with all of this writing, publishing and opening up to the cyberworld and beyond. I never managed to explain my why's, when's en where's. I never spoke about the who. Not that I feel the need to open up and elaborate on my most intimate details to a world for me too big to handle. No, not at all. A fundamental rule of someone who tries to tell something should be not to go too far. Not to forget that part of him- or herself the world should not be interfering with. There is a chance that one day nothing of that 'self-being' will be left, wasted in too much publicity. Dreams will be gone. And we will just belong to emptiness, to everything, to everybody and especially to nothing.

Anyway, we all do what we want with our secrets. And most of all, we all deal with the consequences of those secrets ourselves. Let's just not pretend not to have secrets, since that would mean not to be living. It would mean not to experience seconds, minutes, hours and all other indications of time set forth by the never ending ticking of that huge clock we sit on. So, secrets aside, this is a humble description of a journey we like to call 'life', brought together in one big soulsearch between words, thoughts, feelings, ideas, expressions, smiles, tears and all the other things coming from a place we like to describe as our 'heart'. A description however limited. To limits of life. To boundaries we set out, hoping never having to cross. To boundaries we'll never want to jump over. The barb-wired fence with a hungry big tree-headed dog at the other side is a nightmare we just do not want to encounter. So be aware of limits. Of limiting. Of being limited to where I want to go, to what I want you to know. Telling everything would mean giving up curiosity, mystery and willingness to keep on reading and to get to know more. Or am I just kidding myself?

It doesn't really matter. At least not for me. I like playing with that feeling. Just as you probibly like to play with the idea to know. So let's meet somewhere in between. Where we all can sit together underneath some big oak on a sunny day. A picnic basket. Some music if you want. I'll bring the wine, if you'll be willing to listen.

Days of happy b-days

For all of you I might have forgotten about. For all of you celebrating once more a day from the past where stars got together and the earth stopped turning. Just that one tiny moment. A moment of history. Even if it might only be a piece of history of our own, our little secret to keep for ourselves or to share. A sparkle of life let free in the big world. Maybe to make it a better place. In any case to make it our own.

Happy birthday Bart
Happy birthday Liesje
Happy birthday Marieke
Happy birthday Michel
Happy birthday Carole
Happy birthday Raf
Happy birthday Frederik
Happy birthday Annelies
Happy birthday Nonna
Happy birthday Annelies
Happy birthday Bert

Make the best of it. Of that moment. Of that day. Of your life.

Almost back

I've been away a while. Away from thoughts and inspiration. Away from daily business. Away from same old same old. You've got to see different things, you've got to give your eyes a chance to see difference and your hands to sense that difference. I thought a trip to New York would have been a nice way to do so. And actually it was. Without having to elaborate on the where, when and why. Just saying 'New York' is enough. I've you do not already know, just trust me, or go and see for yourself.

But still I'm not completely back. Time just is not at my side lately. So still some work to do. And some more traveling, without having to sit on an airplane for more than 8 hours this time, 'cause Barcelona is no more than 2 hours of flying. See you soon, more stories to come. More tales to tell. More feelings to share.

Legoland

Ik zag mijn buur net passeren met twee enorme dozen lego onder zijn arm. Neen, niet voor zichzelf. Dat denk ik toch. Want als ik hem was, dan was de kans groot dat ik er mijn handen toch niet helemaal van zou kunnen afhouden. Kleine blokjes in alle kleuren en geuren die op één of andere manier bij, in en op elkaar weten te passen, en de sleutel vormen tot een wereld van fantasie, van wegdromen tussen ridders en feeën.

Er ging geen dag voorbij zonder lego. En lego was waar een dag uit bestond. Zolang het pubergehalte nog niet voldoende was ontwikkeld, kon zelfs het blonde buurmeisje met de diepblauwe ogen niet in de weg van mijn heiligdom staan. Inderdaad, mijn heiligdom. Mijn wereld. Mijn kleine wereld waarin hooguit 30 mensen woonden, 10 auto's rondreden, er een trein was, een vliegveld, een politiekantoor en een veredelde brandweerkazerne. Van woningbouw was niet echt sprake, daar er niet meer was dan een paar schamele huizen, een middeleeuwse burcht die als ruïne fungeerde en een boerderij met paarden, een paar stalknechten en de nodige accessoires. Er waren wegen met verlichtingspalen en zelfs echt werkende verkeerslichten die ervoor moesten zorgen dat auto's het spoor niet zouden oversteken bij een passerende trein.

Maar die beperkingen, die kleinschaligheid, hoge staatsschulden en waarschijnlijk hoge belastingen maakten allemaal niet uit. Het was mijn droomwereld waarin ik de werkelijkheid kon bepalen zoals ik dat graag had. Een goede tiran die alles over had voor zijn volk, daar waar het volk zelf niet veel te zeggen had. In de echte wereld zou ik waarschijnlijk niet graag gezien zijn, maar dat maakte toen helemaal niet uit.

Het was mijn wereld.
Ik was koning.

Dirty inspiration

Inspiration is a strange thing. It's never there when you need it, when you sit behind your desk waiting for it to come. It's never there when we have time to do something with it, to unleash your creativity and start moulding a meaningless brick of clay into shapes of life.

Inspiration comes as you sleep, giving rise to your dreams. To thoughts you never experienced. To feelings you just did not know to be there. Putting it this way it all seems to be about remembering those thoughts and feelings as you wake up. But then, opening your eyes is like ringing a bell to bring you back to reality. Electric shocks making sure to clear your mind, erasing every single bit created in your sleep.

So maybe inspiration is all about being lucky. Lucky to discover a little piece that survived your process of waking up, bringing you back to what you created. Or just lucky to be struck by it as you dream away watching birds fly over in search of the warmth of the south. Maybe we should dream away a bit more. Just putting our sensors to zero and waiting for something, for nothing, for everything.

Or maybe we should just keep our eyes open at night, waiting for dreams to come before sleep takes a hold of us.

Jeugdsentiment

Om niet te vergeten hoe het ooit was. Om niet te vergeten dat dingen onomkeerbaar veranderen, andere wendingen nemen, telkens op zoek naar een compleet nieuwe horizon. Om niet te vergeten dat we ouder worden, ook al willen we er misschien niet aan worden herinnerd. Om onszelf niet te vergeten, onze dromen, onze vooruitzichten, onze jeugdliefjes met bijhorende vlinders in de buik en op hol slaande harten, ons huiswerk dat steeds mooi gemaakt - of net niet - diende te zijn. Om de leerkracht met de vergeelde sik van de sigaren niet te vergeten, maar ook de jonge vervangster met de veel te korte rok en diepe decolleté (niet dat iemand dat erg vond). Om onze weg te blijven vinden in hetzelfde dorp, in nieuwe steden of andere landen. Om te weten wie we waren en waarheen we gaan. Waarheen we ooit wilden gaan.

kvraagetaan - de fixkes

makkik binnen makkik binnen om een lieke te beginnen
over de dinges die kik mij ammaal herinner
uit de goeien ouwen tijd
van rekenen en vlijt
een leven zonder zorgen ambitie of spijt
heelder dagen gaan sjotten
voor den donkere thuis
alleen maar wa ravotten
en t school daar kwam niks van in huis
drei keer durven was doen
maskes plagen liefde vragen
en al wa ge zegt da waarde zelf
me uw broek in den helft
het was zo simpel ammaal
zo simpel ammaal
zo simpel as ik vraag het aan

kvraagetaan

er was nog gene gsm gene vtm
en niemand die hannibal of murdock wilde zen
rons honeymoon carolientje merlina met de parafix
en voerdes was er niks
we mochten niks mor dejen alles
urbanus was nen held
ons pa diejen oj nog haar en we telden al ons geld veur de kermis
showen in de boksauto’s
outrun in plaats van onze commodore
er waren geen cd’s geen mp3’s
alleen mor wa cassetjes
en buurman wa doet u nu
veur ons allereerste tetjes
het was zo simpel ammaal
zo simpel ammaal
zo simpel as ik vraag het aan

kvraagetaan

derde couplet potteke potteke potteke vet
de g’ed al honderd was men eerste brevet
’t songfestival jeuj later naar bed
the reflex fl-fl-fl-flex op ons tennisracket
ja jonges we zagen het groot
we wieren ammel profvoetballer of piloot
en haten was nog geen nationale sport
alleen misschient die koteletten op ons bord
bivakpotsen sponsen broekskes karbonaaien
die knielappen die z’ aan ons broekskes wilden naaien
betsaksaai bettemakemaai
ik stop ermee wa is men schaai
het was zo simpel ammaal
zo simpel ammaal
zo simpel as ik vraag het aan

Birth - School - Work - Death

Yesterday I had the chance to hear a song that just slipped my mind a long time ago. There just is so much music around that you can't remember everything. But once in a while it is nice to hear things you forgot about. Things you used to like. Or things you like to remember because of a special meaning, because of a connection with a specific chapter of your life, or just because of general values to give to a world giving meaning to your existence.

We all know about The Godfather, one of the best movie of all times. Or better, the 3 best movies of all times. But maybe not all of us know about The Godfathers [in plural that is]. It might be that referring to a song called birth, school, work, death might help a bit more. Not that it matters that much, but yesterday, hearing that song again, I realized how easily a lifetime can be brought together in a few words. I mean, a whóle lifetime. An average of something like 80 years summarized in barely 4 simple words! You can call me crazy, but I like to consider that quite scary. Because thinking about it, it's more or less exactly what it is. Ok, not for everybody, but at least for most of us...

A whole journey of neverending memories already made and stored away or still to make, to write down or to record. It does not matter. A few words and your book is written. Without the details maybe. Without the color schemes and the templates. Just the essentials. And ok, those few words mentioned in that title of that song might be subject of comments, a few more words might be added or replaced, but in the end the message is clear: live life your way. Live life in a special way. And most of all, make sure to remember it in more than a few words.

Two

Waiting is what it was.

Infinite, intense and fearful waiting.
Quick prayers. Burning candles. Soft whispering in the holy nothingness.
Sounds of grinding teeth.
Afraid hearts of doubt. Afraid hearts of infinite hope.

But in whichever way, pounding hearts.
Fast and strong. Pumping. In their own strong pounding rythm.

Two hearts.
Two small hearts.
On their way in their own world.
But not alone.

Free from violence. But also from protection.
Released. Free. Saved.

Steady.
Ready.
Go!

Two times welcome.

[to Aude and Maxine. To the proud parents]

[Thanking Ilana and Co. for the translation]

Twee

Het was wachten.

Het was eindeloos, intens en angstig wachten.
Weesgegroetjes. Brandende kaarsen. Zacht gefluister in het heilige niets.
Tandengeknars.
Bange harten van twijfel. Bange harten van eindeloze hoop.

Maar hoe dan ook kloppende harten.
Snel en stevig. Pompend. In hun eigen stevig kloppend ritme.

Twee harten.
Twee kleine harten.
Op stap in hun eigen wereld.
Maar niet alleen.

Vrij van geweld. Maar ook van geborgenheid.
Los. Vrij. Verlost.

Klaar.
Gereed.
Start!

Twee keer welkom.

[Aan Aude en Maxine. Aan de trotse ouders]

De zwarte doos - twee dagen later

De wapenstilstand is over.

Geen rust meer. Rode flikkerende cijfertjes heersten weer in het donker. Het donker dat nog lang niet plaats zou maken voor enkele sprankels licht. Meer hoefde niet. Naar zon durf ik tegenwoordig sowieso al niet meer snakken.

Het ochtendgloren van de maandagochtend smaakte dus weer naar duivels bloed. Nochtans dacht ik een pannekoek met bloemsuiker naar binnen te hebben gespeeld. Pannekoeken. Jawel! Er was vanmorgen dan toch íets dat de ban van de zwarte doos wist tegen te werken. Heel eventjes maar. 40 seconden microgolf en een handvol seconden meer om het goedje naar binnen te spelen. Kort maar krachtige deugd. Een boost adrenaline...maar de dag is lang. Veel te lang om te kunnen overleven op een kick van een pannekoek met bloemsuiker. Nieuwe vormen van herbronning zijn gewenst. Koffie is geen optie.

Zal ik overleven?

De zwarte doos

Goed dat het vrijdag is.

Vanmorgen was het weer knokken tegen dichtvallende oogleden. Zelfs tandenstokers zouden niet hebben geholpen. De wekker was de laatste dagen steeds meer een poel van verderf. Duivelse taferelen doorheen een klein zwart doosje met rode cijfertjes omgeven.

Rood. 'Kleur van de liefde', zeggen ze. Yeah right.

Kleur van die rode duivelse cijfertjes die eindeloos van vorm blijven veranderen. Voortschrijden, om weer opnieuw te beginnen en toch weer verder te gaan. Geen getik. Geen waarschuwing. Geen herinnering. Geen begrijpen aan. Enkel willekeurige, plotse en striemende kreten die een mensenleven korter proberen maken. Tot een wanhopige druk op de knop even verlossing zal brengen. Negen minuten lang. Om dan nog eens hetzelfde te moeten ondergaan.

Het is tijd van verzet. Het kleine zwarte doosje zal de volgende dagen zwijgen. Of het nu een wapenstilstand is of een tijdelijke overwinning. Het zal zwijgen. Ik zal het laten zwijgen. Het zal het zwijgen opgelegd krijgen. Geen plaats voor rood. Toch niet in de zin van de cijfertjes.

Letting go

Sometimes we just need to let go. Those dreams I mean. Those wishes we carry with us in a certain space and time.

Sometimes we just need to accept the fact of having to go on, letting go all those broken pieces belonging to another world. And every time we do so, we change. We put a little step to a different life, but in the same time to a life further on. On another level, on another stage, before a different crowd.

The fact just is that letting go is not always that easy. Because it brings knowledge of change. And we humans just do not like fundamental change. Because it triggers feelings in our minds we are afraid of. Afraid of loosing. Afraid of having to deal with. 'Holding on', that´s it. Holding on to a rope that is not attached any longer and that reaches her end.

But then, there still will be sunshine. Like there always will be. So just enjoy getting older. Enjoy letting go. Enjoy breathing fresh air on a cold winter morning. New dreams are waiting. New horizons will be met. Take care of the wishes to come and forget the ones to never fulfill.

[Written 9 March 2006 - in a different time - in a different space - with the same feelings]

Bubbles of life

Think. Wrong.
Do. Right.
Breathe. In. Out. In and out.
Go. Here. There. Everywhere.
Be. You. Just you.
Feel. The unknown. The wanted. The mystery.
Taste. What has none.
Wish. The impossible.
Believe. Whatever you like.
Understand. The understandable.

Dream. Life.

De vergeten context

Mensen praten met elkaar. Ze converseren. Ze laten zich uit over de meest vreemde en tegelijkertijd ook meest normale onderwerpen. Mensen lachen met elkaar, net zoals ze op elkaars schouders huilen. Ze fantaseren. Ze plannen. Ze maken ruzie of hebben elkaar lief.

'We inter-ageren', zou een socioloog zeggen. Maar conversaties zijn vreemde dingen. Het zijn entiteiten die als het ware niet zijn los te koppelen van een veel groter geheel: de bestaanservaring van zij die het woord voeren. Om het simpel te stellen: conversaties leven van hun context. Ze leven van dé context. En deze is telkens anders, telkens nieuw. Telkens met nieuwe verf geverfd op een proper, wit doek.

Context. Een simpel voorbeeld kan mijn filosofisch gebrabbel misschien een beetje verduidelijken.

In de jaren dertig ontstaan in navolging van Einstein de eerste projecten rond atoomsplitsing (ook wel 'atoomsplijting'). De vondst is op zijn minst fundamenteel te noemen, daar het uiteindelijk zal bijdragen tot het grootste deel van de Westerse energieproductie. We verwarmen er onze huizen mee. We maken er licht mee wanneer het donker wordt. Ik kan schrijven wat in mij opkomt op deze laptop. We verplaatsen er dagelijks de helft van de wereldpopulatie mee en we doen oneindig veel andere dingen die pakweg een paar honderd jaar geleden zelfs niet denkbaar waren. We zetten de wereld op zijn kop.

Maar een verhaal zou geen verhaal zijn, had dit verhaal geen context. Atoomsplitsing heeft namelijk ook een compleet ander gezicht. Een gezicht waar geen woorden aan hoeven te worden vuil gemaakt. Een verhaal waar beelden al te veel over hebben verteld. Waar tranen ternauwernood hebben kunnen voldoen om hartverscheur te compenseren: atoombom.

Context is dus essentieel. De wereld is enkel en alleen begrijpbaar indien er zo iets als context is. Zoniet zijn het zinloze gedachten in een nietszeggend geheel. Als een verjaardagstaart zonder verjaardag of een kerstman op zes december. Laten we daarom geen conclusies trekken van het context-loze. En laten we daarom dingen enkel en alleen trachten te begrijpen wanneer we ook de context meekrijgen. Zoniet denken we het onverstaanbare te kunnen verstaan. Zoniet spelen we een spel dat enkel God - in welke vorm dan ook - kan spelen.

Lille and lights

Cathedral in colours - Lille

Bankok City Hall - Lille

Over Venus en Mars

Ja, inderdaad. Venus en Mars zijn planeten. Net zoals de arme Pluto er ooit één was. Dingen veranderen en uiteindelijk komt aan alles een einde, voor planeten is dat blijkbaar niet anders. Maar ik ben niet van plan om mij momenteel uit te laten over de mortaliteit der dingen. Er zijn andere fora waar die discussie veel beter op zijn plaats zou zijn.

Een boek van een zekere John Gray gaat door het leven met de titel 'Mannen zijn van Mars. Vrouwen zijn van Venus'. En ook hier wil ik de opmerking maken dat het niet de bedoeling is op dat boek, noch de auteur in te gaan. Hetgeen me wél intrigeert is die titel. 'Mannen zijn van Mars. Vrouwen zijn van Venus'. De keuze voor deze koppelingen lijkt op zich goed gekozen. Een gemiddelde karaktertrek van een even gemiddelde man of vrouw maakt het niet moeilijk om de eerste categorie te linken aan een planeet die veel ruwer, onwaarschijnlijker en harder overkomt dan de planeet waar we de tweede groep aan linken. Noem het het verschil tussen een voor vrouwen -weeral spreek ik met gemiddelden- eerder sexy maar o zo onaangenaam aanvoelende stoppelbaard en een stel vrouwelijke benen die pas met de ladyshave zijn bewerkt.

Maar dan. In een conversatie met een vriendin kwam op één of andere vreemde manier deze link naar boven. Ik bedoel dan de link tussen vrouwen en Venus en tussen mannen en Mars. Alsof mannen op de ene planeet zouden leven en vrouwen op de andere. Maar er zou in dat scenario iets fundamenteels mis zitten. Als een theaterstuk dat gewoon niet kán kloppen. Want als de ene groep op de ene plaats zou zitten en andersom, zou het een mum van tijd kosten om een ware exodus op gang te zetten. De mannen zouden -noem het drang naar voortplanting- zich kost nog moeite sparen om zo snel mogelijk naar Venus te trekken, net zoals vrouwen -misschien op een iets minder opzichtige manier- hun grote valiezen zouden beginnen volstouwen om de trektocht naar het barre Mars in te zetten. In een mum van tijd zouden vrouwen van Mars zijn geworden en mannen van Venus. Wil dat dan zeggen dat we alleen nog met manwijven en verwijfde kerels zouden blijven zitten? En dan het concept 'hetero' een utopie zou worden?

Zoalng we allemaal op aarde leven is er gelukkig nog plaats voor een stoofpotje aan vanal. Als het nu hetero, homo, lesbisch, bi, bo, ba of boe is. Zolang we maar allemaal gelukkig zijn.

Happy 2007

Brussels - Dansaertstraat - Some time past midnight