Thursday, October 27, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, May 16, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)