Kerstverhaal

Er waren eens...

2 broers die Agnus en Linus heetten. Ze woonden in een land in het noorden, waar het in de winter altijd vroor en er een dik pak sneeuw lag. Agnus was de oudste en Linus de jongste. Ze woonden alleen met hun vader in een huisje in het bos. In dat huisje was het altijd gezellig. ’s Morgens vroeg reed hun vader weg op zijn paard, op weg naar de grote stad om zijn werk te doen. Agnus en Linus gingen dan op pad, het bos in, op zoek naar hout voor het haardvuur. In de middag kookten ze groentensoep in een grote pan op het vuur en sneden ze dikke plakken brood met boter. Als vader ’s avonds thuiskwam, rook hij van verre de heerlijke geuren van de soep en kon hij haast niet wachten zijn zoons te zien.

Als ze met zijn drieën aan tafel van de soep aten, vader, Linus en Agnus, vertelde vader verhalen uit de stad. Soms gingen ze over Ida, de bakkersvrouw die witte haren had van het rondstuivende bloem. En soms over Thoren van de boekwinkel, wiens brilletje zo ver op zijn neus stond, dat vader steeds bang was dat het eraf zou glijden. Als vader met Thoren praatte, stak hij altijd zijn hand een beetje uit om de bril op te kunnen vangen.

Linus was zelf nog nooit in de stad geweest. Hij kon zich niets leukers voorstellen dan een keer met vader mee te gaan, naar daar waar zoveel verschillende mensen woonden en ’s avonds de lichtjes in de huizen brandden. Agnus was ouder dan Linus en was al een paar keer in de stad geweest. Hij schepte daar altijd over op en plaagde Linus over dat hij nog te klein was. Maar Agnus vond de stad niet eens leuk. Hij zei dat het er vies was en dat de mensen stonken. Linus geloofde daar niets van. Hij wist zeker dat het er mooi was en dat de mensen er heel aardig waren en heus niet stonken.

Vader vertelde dat nu het gauw kerstmis zou worden, er midden op het plein een grote kerstboom stond met wel duizend lampjes erin. De piek van de kerstboom had de vorm van een kerstengel met twee grote witte vleugels. En op kerstavond, precies om middernacht, kwam de kerstengel tot leven en zong een prachtig lied. Linus wilde natuurlijk niets liever dan de kerstboom en de engel in het echt te zien. Maar hij was nog te klein. Het was een lange tocht door het bos en vader vond het te gevaarlijk om Linus mee te nemen.

Iedere avond vroeg Linus: “Vader, mogen we alsjeblieft met je mee naar de stad om

Ida de bakkersvrouw met het witte haar te zien? En Thoren van de boekwinkel met de bril die bijna afglijdt? En kerstboom met de lichtjes en de kerstengel?” Vader zuchtte dan en schudde zijn hoofd. “Nee Linus, hoe vaak moet ik het nog tegen je zeggen? Je bent nog te klein. Als je groot bent mag je mee.”

Linus vond het niet leuk. Maar er zat maar één ding op. Hij moest wachten tot hij groot was. Maar dat duurt lang! Iedere avond als hij in slaap viel, wenste hij dat snel groot zou worden zodat hij naar de stad kon.

Zo gingen de dagen voorbij en werd het bijna kerst. Linus was dan misschien te klein om de kerstboom in de stad te zien, ze hadden wel hun eigen kleine kerstboom in het huisje. Linus en Agnus hadden samen lampjes en kerstballen erin gehangen. En vader had er een piek op gezet, een kerstengel net zo één als die in de stad. Op de dag voor kerstavond, trokken Linus en Agnus er vroeg op uit om extra hout te halen voor de extra lekkere soep die ze voor kerst gingen maken. Linus liep door de sneeuw met een bosje hout onder zijn arm achter Agnus aan. “Schiet eens op, kleine!” riep Agnus “Een beetje sneller graag!” Linus vond het helemaal niet leuk. Agnus liep steeds verder voorop en Linus kon hem bijna niet meer zien. “Agnus, wacht nou!” riep hij. En toen opeens hoorde hij heel hard “kraaaaak, plons.” “Agnus!” riep Linus. Maar Agnus gaf geen antwoord. Linus liet het hout vallen en rende naar de plek waar hij Agnus voor het laatst zag. “Agnus!” Opeens bleef hij stokstijf stilstaan. Voor hem zag hij een gat. En in dat gat zag hij water. Agnus was door het ijs gezakt. “Agnus!” riep hij nog eens. Linus beefde van de schrik, wat moest hij doen? Hij keek om zich heen en zag een dikke tak liggen. Gauw, dacht hij. Hij pakte de tak en stak hem in het water. Hij voelde hoe een hand de tak greep en hield de tak stevig vast. “Trekken Agnus!” riep hij. Agnus kwam boven water en trok zich omhoog aan de tak. Linus kon hem maar net houden. Agnus bibberde vreselijk. “K-k-koud,” zei hij. Zijn lippen hadden een blauwe kleur. Linus deed zijn jas uit en sloeg die om Agnus heen. “Kom, we gaan snel naar huis.” Eenmaal thuis maakte Linus een warm haardvuur voor Agnus, zodat hij weer op kon warmen. “Gaat het alweer een beetje beter?” vroeg Linus. Agnus knikte. “Dank je, Linus. Je hebt mijn leven gered.”

Toen vader die avond thuis kwam, vertelde Agnus hem het hele verhaal. En vader zei: “Je bent heel dapper geweest, Linus. En als je zo dapper bent, ben je wat mij betreft ook groot genoeg om mee te gaan naar de stad.” Linus kon zijn oren niet geloven. “Echt waar?” vroeg hij. “Echt waar,” lachte vader.

En zo reden op kerstavond vader, Agnus en Linus met zijn drieën naar de stad op het paard. Het was een lange tocht, maar Linus was maar wat blij dat hij mee mocht. Net voor middernacht kwamen ze aan bij de kerstboom op het grote plein. De boom was inderdaad heel groot, en hij had wel duizend lichtjes net als vader had gezegd. Rondom de boom hadden alle mensen van de stad zich verzameld. Daar was Ida van de bakkersvrouw met het witte haar. En daar was Thoren met het brilletje dat bijna van zijn neus af gleed. Ze zwaaiden naar hen en Linus zwaaide terug. Toen de klok twaalf uur sloeg, werd het muisstil. Alle mensen keken omhoog, naar de piek van de kerstboom in de vorm van een kerstengel. Plotseling begonnen de vleugels te klapperen. De ogen van de engel gingen langzaam open. Zachtjes zong hij, eerst heel zacht en toen steeds harder. De stem van de kerstengel was mooi, zo mooi. Zoiets moois had Linus nog nooit gehoord. Hij keek naar de mensen om hem heen en wist zeker dat ook zij nog nooit zoiets moois hadden gehoord. Ida de bakkersvrouw met het witte haar had zelf tranen in haar ogen. Toen het lied afgelopen was, deed de kerstengel zijn ogen dicht en veranderde weer terug in een gewone piek. Linus voelde zich een beetje moe. Vader tilde hem terug op het paard. “Dag allemaal,” zei hij en zwaaide naar de mensen van de stad. “Dag,” gaapte ook Linus. Op de terugweg naar huis viel hij in slaap op het paard. Maar voor Linus helemaal in slaap viel, wist hij één ding heel zeker: dit was de allermooiste kerstnacht, die hij ooit had beleefd.

Einde

After the storm

As they kept on walking and walking she could not remember the shape and texture of colours. The way a red velvet cloak contrasts with other colours in a room, satiated and soft. The way sunlight turns a young leaf into a transparent kind of green. And the beauty of those green leafs when standing under a tree looking up to them against the blue sky. All there was now, was the vastness of the white snow, contrasted by black mountaintops piercing through. Even the sky was one giant bulk of whiteness, weighing heavy on her head, forcing the colours out from her memories. She could not count the days they had been walking through this landscape. Her feet did not belong to her body any more. They walked mechanically, without a will being imposed on them, following his pace and movements as he walked in front of her. Had not his cloak been a dark chocolate type of brown at one point? The frost had turned it white, like everything else. His silhouette moved at a constant pace. They had to survive. She fell. A sharp pain through her right knee. She wanted to cry out, but feared the snow would soak up the sound. He moved farther and farther away from her. But then he froze. And turned. She saw his silhouette coming closer. And then everything went to white.

She woke up feeling cold. The light of the fire flickered on the wall of the cave. He was sitting close to the fire, with his back turned to her. He moved his arm, stirring something. He was warming snow into water. Water, she needed that. She produced a sound. He turned around. Brown. She remembered now. His hair was brown and curly and his eyes were brown as well. His skin and lips were teared by the frost. It looked painful. Did she look like that as well? He brought a spoon of water to her lips. She tried to swallow some. "How are you feeling?" he asked, with a brown voice. "Cold," she answered. He smiled slightly. She thought about him carrying her through the snow. "I'm so sorry," she said. He said nothing and gazed into the fire. Shadows danced across the walls. "I wish I was stronger" she whispered. He shook his head and turned his gaze towards her, as he drew closer, slowly. She felt a panic rising from her belly. "Don't", she said sharply, feeling weak. But he didn't listen and just smiled, eyes twinkling as he drew even closer. "Don't worry", he said "it's just to keep you warm." She wanted to protest still. But then everything turned to brown as he placed soft breaths of warm air onto her cheeks, her neck, her nose until he finally breathed life back into her lips. She soaked up his warm breath into her lungs, warming her from the inside. Her heart raced in her chest. There was no more coldness left in her body now.

Before the storm

Leaves

Through a rain of golden leaves
Rustling against the open sky
I cycle
Towards a man dressed in black

As I almost hit him with my bike
He draws back his black hood
And shows me a smile made of pale white skin

A letter to Jane

Dear Jane,

How I love your work. Reading your work is like listening to the voice of a women's heart. You are witty, honest, clever, refined. I do have difficulties following you sometimes. This is because you lived in such different times than mine. Your language was baroque, like your music. If only you knew how you never cease to inspire in spite of that. Your stories, the desires of your heroines, they are universal. I love how, in spite of your own situation and the "true" stories surrounding your life, there seems to be a sense of hope. Instead of turning bitter, like some writers do, your characters do not have to suffer for it. I try to imagine you. Sitting by the window, looking out upon green hills and grey skies. Dreaming. Simply dreaming. Your hand, holding a pencil. Your mouth, slightly opened. Most artists I have come to know in my life, were kind of mean and distant. Like they belonged to an exclusive club that you could never give the right password to in order to enter. They could never be great artists unless they learned how to be kind, generous, loving, warmhearted. That is how I see you. It speaks from the words on your pages.
If we were living in the same era, I think we could have been friends. How I would have admired you for your courage to choose for love instead of wealth. To choose a profession that everyone told you was not fit for a women. We could have gone to balls together (I love that fact that you liked to dance). We could have made long walks, sharing thoughts about life and love. How I wish to know more of you. How I wish to make those walks and ask you so many questions about writing and happiness and the way you view your life and works. Would you have done anything different? Would you rather have lived in my time than yours? What would you think of my time? We have freedom of love and equal rights now. Could you ever have imagined that? The manners of society have become much more vulgar though. You would be shocked. We live at a much faster pace. A lot of women, including myself sometimes, read your books and long for a life like that. They long for quietness, seclusion, searching for the right words, being courted, hiding their skin behind long dresses, not giving away their love so easily. But I know you write from that longing yourself. The life in your time was not necessarily like it was in your books.

I wonder so often what you would write about were you living in this day and age. This, I think, is one of my most important questions to you.

Know that reading your stories makes my heart swell in my chest. It feels as big as the sky. You have managed to touch me like that, even after a few hundred years. I thank you for that. Thank you for showing me the greatness that a women can achieve by following her heart.

Yours truly,
Angela

Children vs adults

I have started my new education since a few weeks: the adventure of becoming a primary school teacher. It is hard. I don't have a lot of time left for myself now anymore with heaps of homework to do. I'm thinking about getting an easier job with less hours. My motivation for work is lacking, which results in frustration and arguments with my boss again. All I want to do is study.

I always knew that. I am so much more happy studying than working. I believe I have made the right choice in embarking on this journey. My life is going in the right direction now, I can feel it. I come home from school at 23.00 feeling alive and inspired instead of sleepy. I am grateful.

There is this one question though, that I find unanswered in school. We talk so much about these children. About the way they discover the world by playing, learn by playing. We say: by playing with this colourful cube the child gets to know colours, learns of the texture, of geometrical shapes, of building something by adding other cubes. We need to create a safe and challenging environment for the child to be able to explore.

We cover all the ways in which the child can learn and all the while I keep thinking: to do what? To what end? The child gets to learn all these things and then what? I feel like the common notion in our society is that we teach these children a lot of things and then 'poof' they are ready. They are fully-bred grown-ups. Grown-ups do not create safe environments for each other. On the contrary, they can make each other's lives miserable. Life is hard out there, we say, so you better come prepared with a good education. Does that mean they stop exploring? Stop learning? Stop looking at colours and feeling the texture of things because they already know? They can make money now? They can go to war and get killed? They can stop being curious at the beggar at the end of the street and ignore him?

Children make for much better citizens than grown-ups, I believe. They are innocent, open, spontaneous, courageous, wild, dependent, curious. I feel more akin to them then to most grown-ups. Looking at the children in my classroom it is so hard for me to believe that one of them could be a killer, an abuser, a greedy, manipulative person. They are truly innocent. We pour so much hope and prospect into them. Why do we stop at this when we are fully grown? Why do we stop seeing hope and prospect in each other? There is also always this notion that a child represents hope. Hope of that child becoming a better person than yourself.

But this distinction between a child and a man doesn't work for me. At what point do you give up hope and why? Everyone has been a child, hasn't they? (this is another funny thing that comes with this education, I keep on fantasizing about people as children: Geert Wilders, Silvester Stallone etc.). I do not see why we should stop being children: exploring, playing, being innocent, curious, naive, looking at colours, feeling textures, depending on others.

For me this education at becoming a teacher means to create continuity between myself as a child and myself as a grown-up. For a long time I was under the impression that I was ready learning, because everyone expected me to stop studying and make a living for myself. I felt unhappy working. It felt like it had nothing to do with me, or with my education. But this was just reality. At some point you stop being a child and become responsible. You work hard for a boss that mistreats you because you have to make money and it is just the way the world works. You stop being a child.

Can you imagine the difference? In becoming a teacher, I become a child again. I learn, I help out, I am curious, I am creative, I am innocent. I can pass on my knowledge, my education finally makes sense, because I get to teach these children what I know. I get to express myself to them, and have them express themselves to me. Teaching is the same as hoping. A teacher recently asked us if you have to be an idealist to become a teacher. A lot of people disagreed and said it would be too hard to be an idealist and a teacher at the same time, because you cannot actually cause change in a child. I think they are wrong. I think being a teacher is intrinsically idealist. By helping these children to grow up we expect and hope for them to create a better world than the one we have created. We never give up on a child. And so we should never stop seeing each other as children, no matter how old we are.

The artist part II/The letter I wish to receive

I am just going to pretend now that in response to my previous post I would receive this letter, written by a person I admire. I truly recommend this to anyone, writing yourself a letter of encouragement in the name of your heroes. Here we go.

Dear Angela,

The desire for creation you carry within is a gift. And you should never consider it as anything else than a gift. It is given to you by God, the greatest creator of all times. It is only natural that we feel the desire to create, since we ourselves are created in the image of the greatest creator Himself. It is given to you purely for your own enjoyment. It is not a burden, it is not a task, it does not come with any obligation other than the freedom to enjoy and treasure it whenever you can.

The first thing an artist does, is acknowledge this desire, know that it is there and feed it. This is something you, according to your writing, already do. So this is good. Keep in mind to always treasure and nurture it whenever you can. Keep on doing the things that awake this desire in you, watch good movies, read good books, take walks in nature, spend time alone, learn new things, listen to good music, eat good food. Do not waste your time with things or people who drain your energy instead of adding to it. This is the foundation for every artist. Your desire is your motivation to create.

You probably already know, it is a lot like being in love. There are butterflies in your stomach, you have energy, there's an almost painful longing inside of you. At times you feel like you can take on the entire world and at other times you despair at the idea that the person you love will reject you. Love and creation are very similar. Your heart recognizes them as the same. Isn't it true that when you are in love you are at your most creative? This is why artists speak about a muse. Our muse evokes in us the desire to create.

You speak of your visions. There is no creation without a vision, every great artist could tell you that. So it is excellent that you have visions of what your work of art is supposed to express. But keep in mind, visions are very abstract. A vision is a whole, it is a complete work, it is a feeling. If you start to work, try to separate it from the words and notes. A word or note, or a combination of them is not a vision. You cannot force your vision into existence. You must try and let it guide you on your way. You want it your first words to be as perfect as your vision. But your vision is not a practical thing. The strange thing is, you can only reach it by letting it go. Sometimes, in the midst of your work, without expecting it, something great happens and it is exactly like it was in your vision only the location or the words or the music is different. By letting go I do not mean give them up. No, please don't give them up. Try to reach them only don't try to force them. I know, this is difficult, very difficult.

You have to take risks. If you think that we were not afraid or not thinking that we were incompetent like you, you are gravely mistaken. All that is left from us is the good work, but we have written pages filled with rubbish, experienced great frustration and despair. I know you say that we were younger than you, but are you really going to let something like that stand in your way? What about the things you have already done? The pages you have already written? You act as if you have done nothing about your desire to create up until now, but this is not true. You have done a lot already. Your wish is to make it more substantial, to spend more time on it. This can be arranged. In order to overcome incompetence, insecurity, shyness you simply need to practice. Everything gets better with practice. Never stop, just try. I know there is frustration and pain ahead, but isn't the pain and frustration of not even trying much worse? Try not to forget there is not only frustration and pain, but also relieve and joy and inspiration and love once you keep going.

You say your biggest fear is to die not having become the artist you wish to be. But this is not true. Your biggest fear when you grew up was dying without having loved. Keep in mind that however things may turn out, you have loved and been loved most profoundly. This is the most important thing in your life, yes, more important even than you being an artist.

I know that in the creative area you have met people who would take others down to get to where they want to be. People who tried to force you into their idea of an artist. People with authority who told you you could never fit the profile for an artist. You have not yet met many good examples of what you believe an artist should be.

But I tell you, you never have to be anything other than yourself. We were ourselves. If anyone tried to tell us different, we stuck to our believes. And so do you. You just have to shout them out some louder. Louder. Do not be ashamed of your believes and feelings and stand up for them. Even if nobody agrees with you.

So, now that you have read this, go out and create. Stick to what you know. Finish what you start. Start with a few words from your desire to create, let your visions guide you and don't stop until you have something substantial. Throw it away if it is not good and start over. Start over all the time. I believe in you. You have it in you to become a great artist. Don't let anybody ever tell you different.

Yours truly,
your heroe

The artist

Even though I dare not say it out loud, deep in my heart I know that I am an artist. It doesn't matter how many studies or jobs I take to fill my time. The intense desire to create inside of me is always present. It is fed by all the beautiful creations I see around me. The more inspiring movies I see, books I read, music I hear, the stronger the desire gets. There is a way to suppress the desire. By not giving it any attention, not seeking out inspiration, just letting my life be lived, working for money, watching television, eating microwave foods. But it doesn't take very long for me to live that way and become severely unhappy and depressed. I have tried this.

Some people feel this desire and just act it out. Unfortunately I do not count myself so lucky. I almost think it's funny the ways in which I try to postpone the actual materialization of my desire. The way it works is like this: I get this vision, a vision of what my work of art is supposed to evoke in people, of what it is to evoke in myself, what it is supposed to look like and feel like. It's the same thing that is evoked inside of me when I see or hear something beautiful, but sometimes it is also more than that, I also already know the story as a whole, or hear the song as a whole.

Then once I finally get myself to start, I feel so far removed from that vision. There's just words on paper or notes coming from the guitar, but they do not match that vision, not by far. I get really confused and frustrated and it isn't what I was supposed to make. I have the words and the notes, but I cannot match them together in the right way to get to where I want to be. So my efforts start to feel useless and failed and frustrating. There was even a time when I stopped trying at all. But my desire never goes away. And the older I get, the more painful it gets to feel so far removed from the creating person I wish to be. I think of all the great artists that have lived and how they were not like me, how they didn't suppress the desire and just acted on a much younger age than I am now.

Sometimes I fear so strongly that my life will pass by and I have not become the artist I want to be. This, ladies and gentleman, is my greatest, greatest fear. Because I know it is in my own hands. And I know it is where I'm headed if I don't change. I will die blaming myself.

And other times, I feel very close to the artist I want to be. I feel like I am her already, in a very shy, modest, starting out kind of way. Because it is not entirely fair to say that when I try to create I never came close to the vision. There have been moments when, through the cracks and between the words I typed, I sometimes caught a glimpse of it. The vision I had was materializing just a little bit. But it happened only when I was committed to finish what I started. I had felt it once when I was acting. (I was playing this girl who meets a man from a totally different country, with different habits and I was studying this object he carried with him, I think it was a pipe, to figure out what you could do with it) I was completely immersed in my role and my lines and all of a sudden I saw the face of a spectator. The expression on his face, I almost cannot describe how it made me feel. He was so drawn into my act that he had copied my exact expression. But he had added something to it. Not only was he copying my expression, I could see in his face that he was moved by what I did.
And this, I can honestly say, was one of the most fulfilling moments I have ever experienced.

I believe this is the first time in my life that I have given the exact right words to this process. It is a good analysis. But what now? I feel like I have given the artist inside of me more attention this past half year, since I've started this blog. But I am still so far, still so afraid, still feeling so extremely incompetent in realizing my dream. The desire keeps on burning inside of me, unfulfilled, unrealized.

What do you think?

Rain and romance

It feels like the beginning of fall. August in Holland is supposed to be a summer month, but it has rained for so many days now. I do love the fall. I love so many things about it. After a period of sunshine, being outdoors, eating light foods, swirling around in summer clothing with the lightness of the air, the fall is like a slow retreat back into your home. Daylight lessens, heaters are turned on, you make a nice nook for yourself in the couch in your dimly lit living room and read a book while listening to rain and wind against the windows. It's a mystical transformation, it's returning to yourself, to your home, to each other. You watch the world turn red and yellow and brown from your window, last harvests are being brought in, the food you eat starts to taste more saturated, heavy and filled with dark flavours.

The fall is also a season of romance. Romantic movies make more sense when you watch them during fall (and I believe I mean here the romantic movies that take place in a far away time or land, not so much the modern romantic comedies). Yesterday I watched Becoming Jane again, about our little brave and heroic Jane Austen. So today I am in a romantic mood and I would like to share with you my favourite scene from the movie.

Jane arrives at this ball (I've read that Jane Austen lived a quiet life, reading and writing a lot, but she nevertheless loved balls and dancing and she was good at it too). She knows Tom Lefroy, a man she has met a few times and is falling in love with, is at the ball as well. As she enters the room, she looks out for him. She greets some people, but all this time her mind and attention are focused on seeing his face in the crowd. Mr. Wisley, the man who proposed to her and with whom, if she were sensible, she is supposed to marry, comes up to her and asks her to dance. She accepts, giving up her search and they start to dance.

Then this is what happens. (please click to see for yourself)

'Poof' suddenly out of nowhere he appears, joining the dance. Everything about this scene is so well performed, the camera swirling through the crowd and slowly closing in on Jane, so that your mind is close to hers and you do not see the surprise coming at all. The music...ah...the music is just gorgeous. It's a remake of a piece by Henry Purcell, a famous musician from the Barok period. The actors, the way she flutters and tries to compose herself, the way her posture changes from boredom to passion from the moment he is there. The way he smiles all smug exploring the reaction caused by his surprise and suddenly changes the intensity of his gaze, realizing the effect of his act goes deeper than he could have imagined, the confusion of mr. Wisley, the hand on her back, it's just...overwhelming. Not a word is being said and yet so many things are happening in this scene. I love that. Can you imagine a time when this was a part of life, these manners, the dancing, the clothing, the music? It seems so strange to me. Dance, etiquette, social rules, they are all a collective creation of mankind. Just dancing, not speaking, moving your body to a certain rhythm and expressing a certain emotion by that. Isn't it strange that we do this? We are still the same mankind, but the manners are so different now. I do miss that in modern day courting. There is almost no room for tension to build up. When you dance with someone like in this scene, just looking each other in the eyes, touching hands carefully, moving slowly to the same rhythm without saying a word, the tension must be so real and tangible. There is more room for your inner feelings to be felt, to be explored. Silence and movement is something we do not use anymore in courting. Speaking has become the main element of winning someone over. But speaking and feeling at the same time is difficult (at least for me it is). I wish more people would try to get to know each other in silence.

There's another thing this scene evokes in me, caused by the music. When I was a little girl, I used to play the violin. My father gave me this CD filled with classical music, I think it was to inspire me. I used to listen to the CD, but for some reason, I only listened to it on Sundays. Sunday is somehow the most quiet day of the week. It's a day that you tend to feel closed off from the world, secluded in your own space and your own mind. Sunday is the day melancholy seems to manifest itself very strongly and classical music goes perfect with that. So when I see this scene and hear the music I think back of those Sundays. I would be in my room, watching the clouds drift by from my roof window, surrounded by books and homework, writing or reading. This world in my room filled with classical music would be so enormously vast and wide. Everything fitted in there, all the feelings and hopes and dreams and desires and funny things, everything from inside of me was in that room. And it was huge, it covered meadows and lakes and forests and people I had never met and worlds I had never visited.

New habits

It's going very well. It's pretty amazing, I feel like I've finally found my pace. The pictures above are proof of that. Finally I have started my assignment journal, I've been wanting to do that for such a long time. I collect assignments I feel excited about. I write them down in this journal, act them out and record the results. Even the journal itself was kind of a creative assignment, because it was a cheap photo-album for which I made a new cover from a fabric I bought at the market. One of my first assignments is to make a label also for the front cover. I've bought ink, paint, a fountain pen to write, draw or paint my findings. I'm so excited and happy about this, I can't tell you how that feels. It's kind of dazzling also, it's hard for me to concentrate on performing one task, because my thoughts are fluttering all over the place. Since a week or so my mind started doing something new on it's own, fuelled by my enthusiasm I think. I am suddenly very aware of everything around me that was built, constructed. Everything I touch and see, houses, forks, teabags, sheets of paper, everything was fabricated, made, someone had an idea and pulled it into existence. That's how I noticed the house from the movie Percy Jackson, which I posted before. Because I am aware that it was made by men's hands, I feel like I could make such a beautiful place myself. I suddenly feel like I could build or make anything I think of. As I said, kind of dazzling...
I have to stay focused to also try and finish what I start. The thing that helps, is that I try to be very aware if what I'm doing at the moment is fulfilling, or if I'm just wandering around feeling restless, watching television etc. The more time I spend doing things I actually like, the more I become aware of the moments that I doing things purely out of boredom. It also starts to feel more pressing and urgent to do the things I like, because I'm more aware of the positive energy I get from doing those things. I love it. Who knows for how long I can keep up this high? I try to analyse all my thoughts and feelings because I'm so amazed by my new impulses and I don't want them to go away. It's like I'm trying to figure out the parameters I need for the moments I start to feel low again, so that I could just bring my good mood back to life. Is that even possible? I read once that changing your habits is a very hard thing to do, that you need an enormous amount of willpower and that few people are actually capable of changing their behaviour. I've made it happen now, it's a start and I am proud of myself. I'm secretly hoping that if I keep this up long enough, it will become my new habit and then it will be very hard to change back.

Listening to new music also:
Beach House
Villagers

Dream house

I saw "Percy Jackson and the lighting thief" recently. It was a pretty bad movie. But I fell in love with this house. Oh men, just imagine living here, by the water in such an open space in unison with the surroundings.




Copyright of 20th century Fox by the way.

A simple life

When I visit my home town and walk across the river through the foggy farmlands I imagine moving back there and living a simple life. It's like reading a story in a book about someone else's life. In my imagination that life is constant, stable, deep and simple. As if there's no more searching, no more striving to do better, be a better person, do more, be more creative. A simple job which contents me and enough spare time to do my own projects, read and study.

It's really not so much to ask for. In fact, all the conditions are here already. This past year I've had everything I wanted and yet I kept searching and struggling and things got complicated and weren't good enough. Off course when I imagine this simple life, I do not imagine a demanding boss, collegues who make your daily job miserable, people who take advantage of you, people who hurt you and discourage you. How come I get so affected by such things? It tends to take up all the space in my brain, all the energy in my body and I forget that everything is fine, that I have so much to be grateful for. I'm lucky to be surrounded and loved by people who constantly remind me of that, like my parents and my boyfriend. Whenever I am around them, I feel relieved. They have work and obligations like I do, but it never gets the best of them. They are not defined by it. I respect that, and also acknowledge that I'm not like that. These relationships are balanced. They show me how simple life in fact is, and I show them how complicated it really is.

I can't help but wish I had thicker skin sometimes. But then again I know it is simply the way I am. I take pride in the fact that I am a gentle, sensitive, disturbed, searching soul. It is my only defense. I guess life is harder on me than on others that way. Sometimes I long to live alone, hidden in a forest or a deserted beach to protect myself from the voices and opinions of others. But in the end I could never do that. Because in the end my love is too strong. I love the promise of kindness, generosity, funniness and tenderness that every man carries within.

The other colours of Greece/ vacation pics part 2

Tiny churches everywhere, even in the middle of the woods

Cheerful colours

Old men waiting for the bus

My favourite house in Parga. For the flower pots they use old buckets and olive oil cans and painted them in the same colour as the house.

Doorway

Checkered Greek socks (this one's made by Mathijs)

Greek wines

This closet aaah...it was just standing there like it belonged to no-one and I wanted to take it with me but thought of so many reasons not to (what if there was an owner, tiny rental car, customs and shipment costs etc.) In retrospect I regret that off course. I'm glad I made a picture.

Shutter (inspired by my friend Anne)

More shutters

Old press machine

Greek sign in Preveza

Greek street in Preveza

Greeks love flowers

Starter at our favourite restaurant (without a doubt the best restaurant in Parga): The 5 senses

Tip

www.carpediemdaily.com
www.theschooloflife.com

thanks to mrs. Smith off course!

Dreams

Where do they come from, the people you meet in your dreams? They come to you at night as a friend, an foe, a lover. But what are they made of?

I had a dream. In this dream I started a new life. I went to live in a new city, started a new education, made new friends and fell in love with a new man. And this new man was very, very real. I can still see his face, remember his voice, he even had a name (a funny one, but still, a name). His features were familiar, even though I had never seen him in my life. I touched his skin, he made me laugh. When I woke up, it was kind of upsetting. How is this possible? I never knew my imagination could be so strong that in the course of one night I could create a man with such detail and experience feelings for him. I was dissapointed he wasn't real, this was hard for me to accept.

So it got me to thinking. What if the people who appear in your dreams actually exist somewhere? What if by some magical accident a real person who is living their life totally secluded from yours entered your dream? What if someone from across time and space dreamed about you also? Would you be able to find each other? Or is it just one of God's little jokes?

It got me to thinking about something else also. All my life I've been having pretty strong dreams and written about them. I remember there was even a time when I was so into the whole dream thing, I would tell my parents how much I looked forward to going to sleep, because I was curious what dreams would come to me this night. It's just such a fascinating thing. It's experience without control. The mind so strong. It is absolutely free, completely without boundaries. No matter how suffocating reality can be, in your mind, you are always as free as a bird, you can do anything, be anyone. And apparently, I have a very vivid imagination. When I think about my longing to write fiction, I automatically think about my blockage in trying to come up with people or stories that aren't real. I block, because I think I don't have the creativity or patience to create characters or storylines (let alone interesting ones). But my dreams teach me that I am definitely capable of this. It's the same brain isn't it? So how could I consciously tap into that energy? It would really help me, I'd like to find out.

2 weeks after I wrote this in my journal, I went to see Inception, which is also about people entering each others dreams and the freedom of the creativity of the mind. (Funny coincidence. Or not. I like how when you are relaxed things fall into place and you start seeing patterns, things become meaningful, like they were trying to tell you something, like signs). Everyone should go and see this film, it's like a philosophical puzzle, brilliant and visually stunning, hats of to mr. Nolan. And also to mr. Zimmer for composing yet another brilliant score.

Greece green and blue/ Vacation pictures

A deserted place


Styx river (no ferry or Hades in sight)


Bottles of water hanging from a tree branch (no idea why)



The colours of the sea


The ultimate summer feeling


Blue light from underneath


How could you not fall in love with this?


Moonbeams


Small islands with churches but no inhabitants


Loving the colour contrast


Late afternoon sunlight on Parga


Parga from the top of a mountain


Sunrise at the airport


Leafy roof

Skin

On regular days
When my fingers drum to the rythm of a military mars
Eyes twitching from left to right
Mind moving with the weight of dark clouds before rain
The surface of my skin will be smooth and flat
Like the surface of my country

But when I hear the first notes of this song
Time spreads before me like the ocean
A pine forest grows there
A land filled with mountains
To form a blanket of electricity
The energy of life is showing on my skin

Inspired by: My love from Sia

Random summer pics

Explanation

I am aware that I haven't been writing a lot these days. I'd like to explain to you why. Something pretty amazing is happening to me. I think it's caused by the good weather, sunshine and vacation. But I'd like to think it's more than that. I'd like to think I've changed. I remember a year ago or so my mother told me that as a child I was always busy. I was constantly thinking of new games, playing, drawing, crafting. She told me she never had to give me anything to do, I was always active and creative. I felt very sad when she told me this. Because I had forgotten I was ever like that and haven' t felt like that happy energetic child anymore in a long time, being weared down by work, responsibilities and social obligations. I think the choice for not working 40 hours a week anymore was the best one I've made in this past year. It took me half a year to struggle with myself after making that choice and I was still very stressed even though my working hours were less.

But I'm arriving somewhere now. I stepped on a train and this is my first stop. I've started cleaning up and redecorating the house. And I'm having a lot of fun with it. I remember some time ago I posted here that I wasn't good at redecorating and it felt like doing chores. It feels completely different now. I feel like the busy active creative child again. It started by gaining confidence, because I was afraid I couldn't even hold a hammer the right way. But I just began. And of course I am my clumsy self for a great part of the time. But I get better along the way. And it's mine. All I'm doing is mine. The house is becoming our house. I'm taking my time. It's not about making it look good for others. It's about making it yours.

It can be really healthy to touch everything in your house with your hands. In dreams, your house is a reflection of your soul. When you enter an empty dusty chamber while sleeping, there's a part of your soul you've been neglecting. There are a lot of things in this house I've been neglecting. Still unpacked bags and boxes after I've moved in here for 2 years. So cleaning up the house is like taking care of myself. Looking at myself. Dusting the shelves of my imagination. I'm getting healthier with every step. I need less sleep, less food. This is how I wanted to live when I started this blog in January. I'm getting there. It's a start. Let's keep up this pace.

Summer poem

I want this summer to last forever
My limbs and muscles flow freely
There are bread crumbs on my lap
Sun is reflecting in the water
Salt is tearing on my skin
New eyes and vague smiles are mirrored in mine
Boys sleeping in the sand
Their eyelashes covering their cheeks
There's only innocence now
The sunlight turns us all into children
Shedding fresh light on birds and leaves and spiders
I'm looking directly at them
Vibrating green
So much deliciousness, this surely is heaven

Little Bee thoughts

I've just finished reading "Little Bee".

The thing that struck me most, is the way normal people like you and me are inextricably linked to normal people like you and me in third world countries. It brings a great sense of guilt for the you and me in the Western part of civilization. And no matter how idealistic we are, we seem unable to change things, because we are confronted with a complex system of power and simply a lot of evil in the world and in the hearts of men. The house I live in is bought with money made at Shell (my father-in-law works there), a company responsible for so much injustice in the world. I feel bad about that. Everything we do sustains the existing situation of injustice: the food we eat, the clothes we wear, the money we put on our banks. But what can I do? Should I give up my house? If I were to listen to my conscience, I would. And on top of that eat only locally, biologically produced food, buy clothes from shops I know are not engaged in child labour practices, put my money on a bank that doesn't invest in bad things. Would I feel better? Would I be a better person? First of all, I would be bankrupt, because living like that is expensive purely in terms of money and my income is too low. Is that enough reason not to do it? I could try to find a job that pays better, work more and live for a healthier mankind and planet. But then I would be unhappy. Is that worth the sacrifice? Is that all I care about, to be happy? How can I even begin to be happy when there are people starving to death, the exact same people that made the fabric for my couch, so to speak? I think part of the unhappiness is then due to the fact that I wouldn't directly see the consequences of my "good" actions. The evil we face is very impersonal, but so is the good. If I could tune in with a little camera on my laptop on the child who is released forever from the clothing workshop because I stop buying my clothes at H&M, maybe then I would be more likely to give it up, because I would feel happy that I helped in releasing the child. (I think though, If I kept on filming, I would see the child fall into the hands of other wolves). But it doesn't work that way. My actions do not have such direct consequences. Bad things and bad people will always exist, no matter what I do. And besides, this is a very selfish way of viewing things. Just because I don't see the results, I don't act, even though I know it is better? Come to think of it, I don't think I even know what is better. Because everything happens far away and it would cost a daytime job for me to figure out the history of all the products I buy, not even to mention the lies and misinformation you would come across from companies who sell them.

I had a discussion with a friend not long ago, where I stated that I hate the fact so many people believe we live to be happy. "All the choices we make and things we do are only to make us happy", he said, "even if we help others, because the gratification we get from helping others is something that leads us to be happy." I feel a certain emptiness in this statement, although I recognize that largely it is true, also for the way I live. I guess I should be glad then that God created us to be happy by helping others, otherwise things would go a little bit out of hand.

But I don't believe we should strive to be happy, because the action is then only directed by your own sense of gratification and thereby in fact selfish. I think we should strive to serve a purpose that is greater than ourselves. To serve, yes. "To serve" has a kind of degrading feeling for a lot of people, because you place yourself below something or someone else. I think we've lost our ability to serve in the Western world, because we are told daily that we should stand out and be confident and not let anyone walk over us. I recently heard a teacher say that all he ever hears in class these days is young kids saying they want respect. It's something they think they're entitled to, like a birthright, like a part of their bodies, an invisible arm or leg that also came out when they were born from their mothers. They are not aware that respect is something you earn. A president is a good president because he serves his country. He puts the needs of his countrymen above his own personal needs. Do you know a lot of presidents like that? No, you don't. Because it's very hard. It's sacrificing. We don't like to sacrifice and serve. We prefer to be comfortable and happy.

As do I. Some are willing to kill for it. They kill just to protect their comfortable happiness. I wouldn't go so far, but I'm not exactly on the serving side either. Actually, I'm mostly closing myself in inside my own happy safe state. I am aware that I buy the wrong products, that I walk past the poor man outside the supermarket without giving him my money. I stopped watching the news and reading the papers for a long time, because all the bad things happening in the world were piling up inside my body and I couldn't contain them anymore because they had no outlet. I am guilty, as are Sarah and Andrew in Little Bee, as we are all. Can you handle that? Can I handle that?

When you read a book like Little Bee the truth hits you hard in the face, no matter how hard you were trying to hide. For me personally, things are starting to get a little bit different now though. When I was a child, I was very idealistic. I knew that when I grew up, I would dedicate my life trying to make the world a better place. When I got older, I learned that my actions were insignificant, I learned about nihilism and systems of power that make you powerless. So I started to draw back.

But now, I think I'm waking up again. As I said in my last post, I have to stop dreaming big and start dreaming smaller. I don't want to look away anymore. I want to be engaged. I want to look evil in the eye and say: you don't scare me anymore. And looking evil in the eye also means seeing the people who are engaged in fighting it. This means reading the right books, the right magazines (like Ode or Vrij Nederland), watching the right programmes (like Buitenhof) and being inspired by activism, cheering these people on and being part of their community. Because mainstream media is only fixated on the grotesqueness of evil and not on the nuance. You have to look for the right examples instead of letting yourself be numbed down by the bad stuff and by the guilt. And, the most difficult part for me: let your actions follow your words. Try to serve the greater good in the little ways you can. Do it together with others, don't think you can do it alone. The object then, is not to be happy. It is to lead a deep and profound life, facing the painful consequences of trying to fight evil, the humiliation of people who make fun of your idealistic ideas, the people who stay evil no matter what you tell them, the feeling that what you are doing is useless. A true hero is not doing the things he does because it is making him happy. He is doing it because he believes in something, something greater than himself, and he is willing to suffer for it.

Clap your hands

So, after my last string of heavy posts, I decided it was time for some positive action. Life is like that. There are periods when nothing comes out of your hands, you just feel disappointed, overwhelmed, unable. And then there's always that moment when it's suddenly over. Without consciously noticing, something deep within you decides you've had enough. New hope and energy come boiling to the surface.

A friend of mine, after telling her the story of the friend on the boat, rightfully pointed out that I should look within my own house and see the beauty of it. It's true. Everything I need to be happy is within my reach. I think I realize now that I don't even really know what exactly it is what I want. I have all these vague notions of living like an artist, looking at others who do so, envying them, thinking I could never be as strong and courageous and wilful as them. Because that's the thing. I know I don't lack the talent, whatever that may be, I don't even care about that. I just lack discipline. I am already living like an artist and I seem to forget that sometimes. Yesterday I picked up a journal I was making the year I went to drama school. My favourite teacher in the world: Hans Lemmerman, taught us to keep a "book of things". He is still the most inspiring man I've ever encountered in my life. I was always so excited to get to his class, because my head would boil with brilliant ideas afterwards. Anyway, I found my "books of things" again and looked at the collection. I was kind of stunned by how good it was. And how it was exactly me, the way I see things. And I remember very well his advise. He told me I had a good eye for art, but I had to take it further. Instead of just noticing or pointing out, I needed to think of a shape to put it.

This is exactly what I have to do! I just have to find a better way to channel it, set clear and achievable goals for myself, get to action. I'm having these visions now about creating a crazy big schedule to hang on my wall, complete with my achievable goals, how to achieve them and the things I'm doing on a weekly basis to reach them. Some people are advised to dream bigger. My problem is dreaming too big. I need to dream smaller, in portions. What do I really want that I could reach in reality? Off course I'll never stop dreaming big, 'cause that's just who I am :). But I think it'll work this way. I feel excited about it, butterflies in my stomach. I hope I can hold on to this feeling now just long enough to actually get somewhere until I start feeling down again (haha, sometimes I wonder if I'm not accidentally manic-depressive). This is good. So, to match this positive excited feeling, I have a song for you, to get in the same mood: Sia, Clap your hands.

Two other things I'd like to share:
* I'm reading Little Bee by Chris Cleave. It's been a long time since I've read a good book. This book is simply brilliant. Beautiful, cruel, honest writing.
* I've enrolled in an additional education to be a primary teacher, whohoo! So excited about that. I'm just a nerd who loves school. It's going to be extremely busy though from September for the next 2,5 years. Hope I don't lose myself again. But I think this will be good. I love working with children. I dreamed about teaching children last night and woke up feeling fresh and happy. Off course I'm scared that this won't work out as well, I guess. But I believe I need to give it a chance.

Holiday

Yes, believe it or not. This is where I'll be this summer. Can't wait...

Hangover

It's tuesday afternoon, and I'm having a bad hangover. Still in bed. Haven't eaten anything yet. The hangover is not just from an overdose of alcohol (which I plan not to be drinking anymore for a looooong time). It's from something else also.

I spent yesterday evening in the perfect life of someone else. I still feel nauseated and overwhelmed by it. This couple, they have everything that I always wanted in life, and they're 5 years younger than me. They are on the way of having promising acting-careers, going to the most important theatre school in the country, already being asked by big theatre- and film directors to star in their plays and movies. For now they are very poor. They live on a small boat in the centre of Amsterdam, which was a mess when they first arrived there, so the rent is very low. But they renovated the interior themselves in the most beautiful organic way. All the furniture is hand-made by both of them from old wood, crooked in some places, because they're not furniture-making experts. All the books on their hand-made bookshelves are books I'd like to read. All the cups and plates and forks and knives they served us food in, was exactly of the old taned beauty I adore. The man spends his days writing a play now, and the women is in my favourite city in Belgium for an internship at the local theatre company. In the evenings they watch the sun go down on the tiny bench at the back of their boat, by the water, drinking red wine with the small lanterns they hung beside the boat turned on, surrounded by flower pots containing their own organic fruit and vegetables.

Uuugggh. I need to throw up.

Is this jealousy? I don't know this emotion very well. Jealousy means also that you don't want the other person having what they have, right? It's not like that. I like them very much and I am happy for them. It's just....I don't know. I am so ashamed of myself. It's very powerful. He asked me how come somebody as talented as me had all these dreams and didn't make them come true. He asked me that, the man with the perfect life I wanted in whose perfect house I was sitting eating his perfect dinner. He told me how hard he had to work for it and how insecure he was. I started crying and joked about jumping in the Amsterdam Canal. I couldn't be more vulnerable at that moment. I don't think he realized that. I didn't know him nearly good enough to cry in front of him. But I did. And I felt that all my fears and my holding myself back was just vanity or even just...plain silly. And he said, as many people have said to me in my life, that I probably didn't want it bad enough to go after it.

I don't blame him though. Most of my friends are people who are struggling with the things they love to do, like me. Not that he's not struggling. It's just different. He does it. It's very confronting, but very good to meet people who act instead of wonder. Everything seems suddenly so within my reach, as long as I just do it. But it's not like that for me. And I fear it's going to be harder even with every day that passes.

So I'll just throw up a couple of more times. And go on with my life.

End Credits

There is something very compelling in the combination of cruelty and vulnerability coming together in one character. Can a person be cruel and vulnerable at the same time? When you watch this musicvideo from Chase & Status feat. Plan B, you can see it in the boy's eyes as he hovers above the ground towards his death.

Necklace

This is a story about a necklace (btw.: as you can see, once I overcame my fear of drawing, I found joy in it, and now I want to do it again and again!).

Yesterday I had a really bad day. I had a talk at work earlier this week, explaining my problems and it was really good because I was as honest as I could be and I can be really scared of doing that when it could lead to confrontation. So I was being brave and I said it all and they listened. They recognized and acknowledged the problems and the share they had in things that went wrong. They promised to make things better and easier on me. I felt so proud of myself and relieved.

And then yesterday, after this talk, things went on in the same old fashion. I didn't feel protected at all, it was like the talk had never taken place, again blames were cast in my direction for a project that went wrong and I was so disappointed and upset by it. At the end of the day I rushed home trying to hold back my tears. And then when I got home, I got into a big fight with my boyfriend. It was so bad, that I did something I hadn't done since I was a child. Whenever I got so upset and powerless and frustrated that words could not express it anymore, I would grab the nearest thing and throw it across the room. Then I walked away, slamming the door behind me without saying a word and I just left and my parents would be really worried.

This is what I did now. I was eating a bowl of lemon quark during the fight. We were screaming and then I threw the bowl, still containing the lemon quark, across the table to the floor. Then I went into the bedroom, but I felt like I couldn't breathe and I had to leave. I went downstairs, put on my boots and my coat and I saw him cleaning the quark from the floor as he asked me: "Where the hell are you going?" I didn't answer. I just left, slamming the door behind me.

The only thing I knew would calm me down, was doing one of my favourite things: going to the cinema by myself, escaping inside a movie. But when I arrived at the cinema, the movie I wanted to see wouldn't show in another 1,5 hours. I decided to go somewhere quiet in the mean time. But I live in a small city, which makes it hard to find a quiet, private, anonymous place. I thought of a church first, but the one I saw that was opened was setting up some exhibition with workers walking in and out. Then I thought of the university library, because it was opened in the evenings when I studied, and I'd been wanting to see the renovations they had made over the past few years. I walked in and felt directly nauseous by the extreme nostalgia hitting me because the odour there was the same as it had been during my happy student days. But there were two guards sitting at the desk and they told me in the evenings I couldn't enter any further unless I was a student.

So then I was lost...I didn't know where to go anymore.

I just cycled and cycled. The scenery started to become more and more green, I was leaving the city behind. And at some point I found myself in an area I had never seen before. This was good, it distracted me, calmed me. I pretended to be somewhere else entirely. I entered fields filled with high grass and spring flowers of yellow, white and red. It became more quiet, leaving the noise of the city behind. I saw creeks with swans slowly drifting, old men fishing between lush green trees, little cycling paths with benches on the side. For a while now I hadn't seen anyone near. Through the trees framing the path I could see a tiny hidden open spot. I wriggled myself and my bicycle inside, and there I sat against a tree, hiding from the world underneath a roof of leaves. I felt grief and headache and tiredness overwhelm me. But I could finally let go. I had space to do that now.

And after going through all the anxious thoughts in my mind and crying warm tears, it became more quiet in my head. I slowly became more aware of where I was sitting. Cold, damp earth beneath my fingers. Tiny bugs crawling between fallen twigs. Fluorescent green leaves through which I could only see little cracks of blue sky. Suddenly my eye caught something that didn't belong in this natural space. Across from the tiny open space, something was hanging from the branch of a tree. I held my breath in excitement, forgetting all about my worries. It was a necklace. What was it doing here? Did someone leave it on purpose or by accident? It didn't look like it was an accident, because when I came closer I saw it was winded across the branch several times, like someone had really tried to attach it. Why would they have done that? Was there someone else here before me grieving and leaving the necklace as a symbol for what had happened to them? As I drew near I saw the necklace was made out of red twirling rope and it had two wooden beads. I held the hanger in my hand. It was heavy. A tooth-shaped stone with horizontal carvings. Who had worn this? It was like I became part of a new story. A fantasy story and this necklace was my clue. Or my passage to another world. The start of a journey or adventure.

This is called escapism. And I'm very good at it. This is why I think, when I finally get over myself, I should be a writer. When I was a little girl I wrote in another girl's "get to know your friends better book" my deepest wish: I wished that life was a fairy tale. She laughed at me and mocked me for writing that. This is what often happens when you tell people your deepest wishes. It's just how people are and how the world is. It hurts. People who say they don't care are liars or they have hearts made of stone. But I know could provide the world with the best escapes they could wish for. And that if I did that, life would become more like the fairy tale I imagine it to be. I would lose and indulge myself in my fantasy stories. I just lack the courage to do so. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the people who told me I'm talented that I disappoint them. I'm sorry for disappointing myself. I'm sorry. I hope I'll be ready someday.

I unwound the necklace from the branch and I put it in my backpack. I dragged my bicycle out through the trees and headed back to the city. I was on time for the movie: Prince of Persia. The best escape movie I could wish for at that moment. I know and see that it's not a good movie. But I enjoyed it very much. It contains a lot of elements I love and would use if I would make such a story myself. I think I have to collect those elements, and then maybe can I put them together and create the story finally. It did start already actually, but I'm afraid it will be no good. I have such high standards. Oh well...

At the end of the movie I returned home. My boyfriend was already sleeping. I lay beside him, quietly. He asked me where I had been. I said it didn't matter and that I was sorry for leaving like that. He said he had been worried. And then we slept.

Learning to love you more

"The best art and writing is almost like an assignment; it is so vibrant that you feel compelled to make something in response. Suddenly it is clear what you have to do. For a brief moment it seems wonderfully easy to live and love and create breathtaking things. In this section we have archived some of the work that has commanded us in this way. In a sense, these are assignments -- in the same way that the ocean gives the assignment of breathing deeply, and kissing instructs us to stop thinking."

I stumbled across this website while browsing the old pages on Keri Smith's blog: www.learningtoloveyoumore.com. It's a public art project with everyday simple assignments that everyone can do like: "record the sound that's keeping you awake". People who did the assignments could send the results to the website and were posted there. It's brilliant, but unfortunately they stopped because the grant got cut off. But it's worth taking a look and this quote is so familiar and lovely and it reminded me of my own post a while ago.