My generation

The greatest fault of my generation, is the fear of missing out. It is the force which drives us. We value experiences over money, it merely serves us to gain more experiences. We chase after them wildly, like wolves after a rabbit. We fear missing out on seeing the world, on doing something meaningful, on going to that fabulous party, on bringing a child to this world and feeling unconditional love. We surround ourselves with the technology to remind us of that fear. Pictures on Facebook of events that we didn't attend, movies of times we never lived in, music of worlds we could not inhabit. But we dream, oh how we dream. In our dreams we wrap our arms around time and space, we scavenge the earth forever until all is lived. Do we not know that we have experienced so much more already than those who came before us?

The poetry of my generation lies in the chasing after the experience, which is our greatest experience in the end. One day we will come to realize that. When our bodies slow down and finally we start looking at the ravages around us.

A thought

I tend to go looking

for things that cannot be sought after.

Memories

The leaves looked the same last year, catching the light from the yellow streetlights. First I see the dog and then I see him, his cap on his head, walking hastily as always.
And I remember suddenly, standing with him in the forest at twilight, looking out over the house as he was showing me the property. He told me about how they built the garden and how the children collected rocks for the paths. His cell phone rang and it was his son calling. His voice softened and he called him a funny petname. I looked at the lights coming from the house and I did not want to go back. He told me about the motocross area and how they disliked the sound. We passed a small castle in which they sometimes dined with the people living there.
I remember sitting in the car next to him, with the dogs in the back. And carrying lunch over the dunes to the beach. He was like an uncle who knew many things.
I remember being the first one to wake, stepping into the only hot room in the house as I was shaking with cold. I remember looking into the old tainted mirror. And him, showing me how to sweep the dust from the concrete floor.

Something dangerous

My mind is fuzzy, I cannot seem to place my thoughts in the right compartment of my brain. And why do I feel like a robot, mechanically directing my movements? It is strange to live this way. I don't know what caused it and I don't know how to stop it. I meditate and eat well and sleep well and I'm working a job that I like, I'm seeing my friends, taking walks in nature. I'm doing everything right, so why does it feel wrong?

I feel like I'm constantly moving, keeping myself busy. But I panic when there's nothing to keep me entertained. When I find myself not knowing what to do I get this feeling as if I've had three cups of coffee in a row. I'm frantically looking at the checklist in my head, but I cannot bring myself to clean the bathroom right now. I need a good book or a good movie because it's too early to go to sleep. I need something good. Right now.

I'm scared to sit still in my room and do nothing.

And then comes along this great peace of art. And the thing that good art does, is it slaps you in the face and forces you to stand still. I realize suddenly what was wrong. I've stopped believing in miracles. This work of art reminded me of them.

There's no room for miracles in your life when you are being your own slave driver, like David Henry Thoreau so rightly describes. I need to sit still in my room and contemplate the beauty of art and life. Even though it is scary to do so. And even though good art is being ridiculed within the public domain and seems to become more scarce every day. Never stop searching for something that touches your soul, coming from the soul of another human being.

Even though this used to be my natural state of mind once, I find it extremely hard right now. And I need to literally force myself to sit down and not think about anything that I'm supposed to do. The moment of release comes when there's nothing I can bring myself to do. That's when I let go. Some good calm music helps: Arvo Part. It needs to become a normal part of my life again. I'm glad I realize that now.

Storm

He leans to the back and slides down across the back of the seat. He is now sitting on the floor to my right. I move my bag, so it will not be in his way. In doing so, the chord from my headphones gets stuck between his arm and my armrest. I pull the chord and I have to look at him now. "I'm sorry", he says nervously. "It's okay", I respond, smiling. I can tell he was not expecting this. He looks relieved, as though he thought I was going to snap at him. He's probably seen a lot of snapping today. People screaming, daring each other to a fight, beating each other up, yelling, swearing, spitting, drinking, vomiting. The same people with whom we are crammed-up here in this tiny space. It is as if I told him everything was going to be fine. The world is only like that for a day. There are still people out there who do their homework with headphones on and smile. He leans back and pulls his blond bleached hair behind his ears. Everytime someone near us swears or screams, he glances at me, to see how I will react. But I am made of stone. I am an island of peace and calm. I do not even blink. A man next to us start whistling at a blond girl. He doesn't stop. He whistles and whistles louder and louder. It pierces my headphones. The man is getting no reaction. So he starts yelling. His voice scraping, bouncing off peoples shoulders. "Whore, whore, whore." It goes on and on. Tension starts building up. I can feel it in my stomach as I try hard to hold on the the letters on my page. The girl goes to the man. She has to move three people first. When she gets there she asks his what his fucking problem is. He replies: "What, bitch". My eyes are fixated now on the violence that is about to erupt. I can see the built up tension on her face from enduring the whistling and swearing for the past half an hour. She breaks. And gives him a hard blow in the face. People start moving fast everywhere. The man gets up and starts beating and punching the girl. This is the first time I feel my body getting physically scared. My mind is still calm, but my heart is pumping adrenaline. A hand to my right moves over my legs. It grabs the armseat to my left and holds on to it tightly. Everyone jumps upon one another. I see thick vains and red skin and eyes almost popping out of skulls. But his arm hovers over me like a shield. There is a storm in this train wagon. I never once look him in the eyes. But his arm is there. In the midst of this barbaric cruelty. An arm made of brown skin and warm flesh. And as the storm blows over, he draws his arm back. I go back again to the island I was before.

I do not understand the need of man for violence and destruction. I do not understand why people are wired for them. But I know in the midst of them you can see tenderness.

The extraordinary

I closed my book, walked out of the library and took the elevator down. Once outside I took my bike from the shed and cycled into the dark night. One of the first spring nights of the year. I saw a man staring at the sky. I followed his gaze.

And I startled. Against the dark, starry sky, there was this extraordinary thing. A giant rainbow filled the air. It wasn't a real rainbow, like one you'd see during the day. I could see the source coming from a university building in the distance. But the coloured rays of light were so strong and big, they pierced the sky for as far as I could see, covering the city. As I stopped to look, I saw the colours slightly hovering, almost like they made a sound. I felt like I could jump up and touch them. I saw them beaming across the freeway and imagined the people coming home from work, tired, weary even maybe, suddenly seeing this rainbow above the traffic lights. How they would wonder at this sudden marvel, just like I did.

This, I thought, is real art. You take something daily, ordinary (a rainbow) and make it into something extraordinary (a giant rainbow at night for the entire city to see). And it demands your immediate attention. You cannot look away. There's nothing you need to say. You just stare. Any thoughts about the past or future you had the moment before are gone. It's like receiving a gift. You know someone out there took the effort for you to see this. It unites. People around you see the same thing, and you know that about each other. It's all that counts in that specific moment, not the difference between you and the other, but the same thing you are looking at right here, right now.

The age of instant gratification

Yesterday I heard this song and I really liked it. I looked it up on youtube and there it was. Ready for me to play as many times as I wanted. All I had to do was push the button over and over again.

When I was young, I used to listen to the radio very often. I always had a favourite song for a certain amount of weeks. I would hear it for the first time and my ears would sharpen. "I like this song," is what I would think. And then the next time it played, I would be thrilled. "There's that song again I liked so much!" And over the next couple of weeks I would sometimes turn on the radio and silently wish for the song to be played. I craved for it to be played. Begging inside my head: "Please, please, play my favourite song." And then, whenever I could hear the first notes, it would be magical. I would jump up and down and dance and sing out loud in my room. I captured that moment, because I knew I was lucky to hear it and it was going to be done in a few minutes. And then I'd have to wait until the next time it would come along.

Sometimes it can be a real blessing to get what you want instantly.

But something gets lost there as well. It's like we don't know how to desire anymore. To want something so bad that is out of reach. To get to know your desire, to sit with it, to taste it on your tongue, to let your hands slide over it in your dreams. There a physical pain almost, an aching.

It's uncomfortable. And we don't like that. We don't have time to sit with our desires. We seek instant gratification and build our world around it using the internet, 24 hour shops, modern communication. But not only our world. Also our dreams. We think it's nonsense to dream of something you can never have. A dream is something to pursue, something to be made real, something to go after. But what about the dreaming itself? What about the desire? We believe people who fail to live their dreams, who's desires are not fulfilled, are losers. Because in this world we can have whatever we want, all we have to do is reach out and grab it. We are responsible ourselves for the pursuit of our dreams. I even believe that for a great deal of the time. And I end up blaming myself for being a loser.

A few weeks ago I met this wonderful, beautiful girl. She's eleven years old. And she asked me: "Do you want to know what my deepest wish is?" I answered "Yes, please." And she said it was kind of silly, but her deepest wish was to be able to fly. "Not in an airplane or a machine," she added, "But with wings, real wings growing from my back." And I was struck. I suddenly remembered having the same wish when I was her age. I sometimes dreamed about it at night, soaring above the houses feeling so free, so liberated. But also being awake. I would imagine how it would feel to soar, to swim the sky. I had forgotten all about that dream. I looked at the girl in admiration for being able to dream without boundaries. I suddenly understood that dreaming and desiring is not necessarily something that appeals to your responsibility to seek gratification. Dreaming and desiring can be in fact: the point.

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