My Queen Karo (2)

I can´t believe I haven´t told anything about this movie!
But maybe the pictures on itself say enough.
Anyway, if you didn´t know yet, it was my first role as an extra for a feature film.
I´d gotten up at 5:30, went to the meeting place for dressing and make-up. I didn´t seem to need make-up, ofcourse I never do, but it would´ve been nice to sit in a make-up chair for once.
So I just made a picture.

For this particular scene, young people were needed. We started to walk towards our shooting location. There we would find a group of mobile police units, ready to take us on.
We started rehearsing on the sidewalk. Our goal was to rebel against the police. Shouting and fighting were our instructions. So there we stood, face to face, our clan of young squatters with fake mustaches and sideburns standing side by side against the supposedly incarnation of law and order from the sixties.
People were looking out their windows as this was bound to get interesting.
Just as in the second part of Lord of the Rings, it started raining. This wasn´t in the script. And then hell broke loose.
During these rehearsals, people who would stand in front of the line would actually get hit by sticks. I got one slapping my ear against my skull. Even though the sticks were prepared with foam to minimize injuries, I started to walk back in line. This m*therf%r hurt!
After rehearsals we spent half an afternoon in and around a café, waiting. This is the life of an extra, and I don´t know if I could live with that, it being a full-time occupation.

What I got out of it? A great day with wonderful (young) people. And a picture of an actress that nobody knew, but I had seen 2 movies of and therefore consider a celebrity: Déborah François. Speaking of which, the movie l´enfant won a golden palm, and she had a great part in that. The other movie I saw with her is just plain sick, so I recommend not to see la tourneuse de pages.

Déborah François on the background and Anna Franziska Jaeger playing the title-role.

Live from Madrid (2)

What I did mostly before the movie wasn't going to must-see places most people would look up in their travel guides. I didn´t go to Prado. I don´t feel much priority in seeing classical art that much anyway. I went to the park. And to a bookshop. I saw a book titled ´how to repair your underwear´. With phrases like: the guide for a man´s man. A man who doesn´t wash his underwear, but fixes it.
Maybe I will do the touristic places later. And in the perspective of being efficient, if you want to see a lot, you best go to where it´s less crowded first.
When I walked through Madrid, the first thoughts that crossed my mind were:
It´s so much like Paris!
And (after touching the metal railing in the metro): This is the cleanest metro I´ve ever been in!
Or: The smell in the hallway is just like in Malaysia, maybe it´s because of the desinfectant, Dettol it must be, even though I don´t specifically know what Dettol smells like, but I´ve seen so many commercials of Dettol in Malaysia it hardly can´t be anything else.
I found that El Paseo de Las Delicias is just like that street in La Fourche.

I still see a lot of similarities with France, that probably can be explained by visits of the same architects and designers if my feeling is correct.

It´s only the first day in Spain and I have a lot more to go. I won´t be writing every day I guess. Because I feel like I´m already trying too much, without taking good care of the most important thing. The experience itself.

Goodnight!

Live from Madrid: the Clone Wars

Again I think that you can be in a dormant state for a long time and all of a sudden be surprised, changed, revitalised by a single day.
Today was such a day. Though I don´t know where to begin. Technically it´s not even over yet. But I will try my best.

Let´s begin with the ending. Or at least the last thing I did before sitting behind this cosy computer.
I was not going home yet, because my guesthouse-hostess and good friend Miriam was going to draw her friend nude for art-class. She told me the girl was very shy. So I decided it was better to come home until they were finished.
I looked in the distance and saw a cinema. The thing I naturally did was walk towards it and take a look which movies were being shown. I knew for sure I needed an English spoken movie, it´s the first day in Spain and I just wouldn´t be able to keep up with the movie´s plot this way.
The first poster I saw was from ´Wall-E´. An animation movie from pixar. I had seen the introductory film about it somewhere and I didn´t feel like watching this kind of movie.
The Dark Knight I had already seen (see review) and I wasn´t in the mood to see it again.
The last option was a Star Wars movie: the Clone Wars. I knew this was an animation. I had read a little about it. I decided to watch this movie. It turned out to be a wonderful choice.

For people knowing Star Wars and hating it, this movie deserves to be looked at with an unprejudiced eye. I was slightly influenced with the remark I read, that the skin-graphics look bad, but I soon forgot that, because, as a medium Star Wars knower I found this one of, if not, the best Star Wars movie.
I didn´t expect to see such a pleasing film.
This can be the power of going with just a little or no idea what´s going to happen.

I think the makers had gotten exceptional freedom because the original Saga has been completed and the main plot has been explained. This story is between the last 2 movies, and adds more depth to this plot.
The freedom that has been taken works out wonderfully, because the characters aren´t treated as holy anymore. This movie has a lot more lightness to it than the other Star Wars movies and a wonderful new female character. She is still a kid, but proves that girl-power is unmissable in this world by saving her master more than once, and subtly exposing his male weaknesses.
The android robots are even more incompetent this time, which explains perhaps more that the evil emperor has planned this all along, making them ready for failure. To fully enjoy all these things in the movie, you must at least be a medium Star Wars knower. But the relationship between the young girl and her teacher is accesible to all viewers. It´s a character that stays with you all the way.

I went to the movie to keep myself a bit occupied so I could gradually prevent any awkward stumbling upon a girl in a room being drawn naked who is painfully shy. That's really something I wouldn't want to happen. And it would be really, really unlikely to happen, because I would still have to ring the bell to get in the building and take an elevator to get to the top floor. But I think we always imagine the worst possible things, after having experienced a thing like that before, as an automatic prevention system in our brain. Luckily it didn't get to any embarrasing moments.
Exactly after the movie finished and I left the cinema I got a message that I could come home.

Sometimes...Some things just cut the cake in being incredible

Mother and daughter were burnt in car
A 74-year old woman and her 52-year old daughter got in an accident when their car caught fire. The daughter lost control of the steering, the car drove off a slope, came to a halt being flipped against a tree and caught fire. The firebrigade could not save the women in time.

On the way to Malaysia

As I kind of feared, a big, fat, smelly man was sitting next to me in the plane. Well, he didn't really stink, but I wasn't going to smell extra to make sure. And he wasn't as fat as I had imagined. I guess my anticipation already made the trip less harder to endure.
As I sat down, he didn't look or speak at me.
I was sitting at the emergency door. This meant we had a lot of foot space. Directly facing us were the stewardess's seats. A woman sat down. I started talking to her instead, because the man didn't give the impression he would let his eyes off his car-magazine for one second. The woman kept staring at the other side of the isle.
Having asked why she could sit in the stewardess seat she told me she was one herself. But on a holiday.
She also told me she was Romanian. I could recognise some of that in her face.
Now she was travelling on another company. She worked on Emirates, we were flying Lufthansa. I wanted to ask her more, but then the real stewardess was taking her seat and kind of stole my conversation.
I can't blame her, because she didn't know I was interested in this woman's story.
I tried joining the converstation, the Romanian woman looked back at me sympathetically, but there was no way to get in between them. I let them have their talk, from one stewardess to another.
I had put on my headphone and listened to the arm-rest radio. Greatest channel for in-flight listening was the lounge channel in my opinion. You just fly along with the music. I must have listened this channel a great deal, because I remember that on the entire flight I've heard 2 songs repeatedly. The program must have restarted after an entire cycle. I will never forget that tune. Really loungy music that some Germans would love and I normally would hate for its sweetness, but on this flight it was the best music I could have wished for.

...Cyprus...

I caught that word from the conversation the women had. I believe the stewardess in function must have been from that area. I'd have guessed she was Greek. She looked more Greek to me than Turkish. She had a big nose. She was pretty tall for a stewardess. She wore glasses. She didn't seem extremely young, but she also didn't look like she was the most experienced one either.
I could almost look in her skirt. I was sitting directly in front of her. But I didn't look. I didn't want to look. The girls were having so much fun, but I couldn't hear what they were saying and it was hopeless to get in between that way.
The man didn't care. He just kept his mouth shut. The only words that would come out were the answer to the steward whether he would like chicken or pasta. And even then I couldn't hear him.
The Greek stewardess did have the seat in front of me, but she was going to serve the people ahead of us. Probably buisiness class. And then she closed the curtain. Which wouldn't close completely. You would still see the corridor.
Now I had the chance to ask more to the Romanian woman.
'Who were you looking at?' I asked.
'My husband.' she said. 'He's also a steward. We work on the same company.'
'Aha...! And why don't you sit together?'
'We have spare seats, because we are stewards.' she said.
'Did you meet at work then? And how long are you together?'
'Actually, we just married 2 days ago and now we're going on a honeymoon.'
'Really?? Wow..! Are you going to Bangkok or Kuala Lumpur?'
'We're going to Cambodia actually...'
'Really?'
'We'll change in Bangkok and continue to Ankor.'
I then asked her 'Did you see that movie from Wong Kar Wai, In the mood for love?? I think it's also in that place. Really nice.'
'I think not...'
'I had a girlfriend from Cambodia...or actually her parents.'

The woman used the two folding chairs as a bed to sleep on. Sometimes she would walk back to her brand-new husband.
One time he also came to our side of the isle. I congratulated them.
How nice, a steward's couple, on the way to their honeymoon, with the transportation they are so familiar with.
In Bangkok they left. As the woman was standing up to leave I wished them to have a good time.
I didn't ask for their name. I didn't have to. They were "the flying couple".

If I had not talked to them, I would be oblivious to this wonderful given.
The man next to me never spoke a word on the trip. Maybe he expected a small, skinny Chinese boy and was so surprised it came true that he couldn't open his mouth for the entire trip.

On the way to Malaysia (2)

I found the song I wrote about just now
and it's really bad.
But it was and probably still will be great on the plane.
Because it's loungy and just makes you dream away when you fly.

Note that there is less oxygen in the sky, so maybe my music taste wasn't so strict anymore.
(Just as my taste for cuisine diminished; I almost ate everything they served, and more.)

Goodbye workspace!

Just as new. The hallway in school I used as my workspace has been cleared.
Being an emergency passage and all I got the inevitable speeches from Ferdinand, who had to defend my stay against the fire-brigade and the coffee-machine lady. "People have to walk through! Especially the coffee-lady! And no blocking objects like chairs, take them away!"
One day I even got a letter from him. Basically the same speach, but written in big capitals with a black marker, just to emphasize his stress. I guess it mattered to him that I wasn't there enough. But other people had put the chairs there. How was I supposed to know?
Working on so many photos didn't make it very easy to stay. I got crazy occasionally. Just like Sander, who tried to make a selection from my archive, for one afternoon. The heat was probably the worst. The sun shone in during afternoons. It had to be over 40 degrees C. sometimes. You would sweat by just standing there, looking at the pictures.
Now the sun left a mark on the sheets of paper where I laid my pictures on. Or actually the pictures left a mark; where all the rest has aged, these spots show where time stood still.

Meneer Sietsma

Dhr. A.J. Sietsma Senior. Iedereen kent hem wel van gezicht in onze buurt. Een grappige kop met een alpinopetje op in koude tijden. Hij kwam vaak eten in ons restaurant. Dan kreeg hij een tafeltje voor zichzelf. Hij bestelde óf een beetje bami met groenten (tjap tjoy) óf een nasi met 1 stokje saté. Nooit teveel, want er moest nog een plek overblijven voor de vanille-ijs mét slagroom. Dat hoefden we eigenlijk nooit te vragen. Ik heb vaak het ijsje voor meneer Sietsma klaargemaakt. De laatste tijd heb ik hem niet meer gezien.

Hoe ik er precies achter ben gekomen weet ik niet meer, maar meneer Sietsma hield van fotografie. Dus in mijn tijd als ober heb ik hem wel eens mijn iPod gegeven om te kijken naar mijn foto’s. Niet veel mensen schonken aandacht aan hem, maar nu was hij het middelpunt van de belangstelling. Een oude man kijkt met plezier foto’s op een iPod.

Ik heb een keer gevraagd aan meneer Sietsma of ik hem mocht fotograferen. “Maar natuurlijk!” in zijn beschaafde jofele toon. Ik baal ervan dat ik de foto’s met een erg trage sluitertijd heb genomen. Als commentaar gaf hij ook toen ik ze liet zien dat ze technisch niet goed waren. Maar er zat er wel één bij die hij aan z’n zus wilde laten zien, voor hoe het met hem ging en hoe hij er nu uitzag.

De volgende keer dat hij langs was geweest had ik blijkbaar de fotografische vlam in hem aangewakkerd, want het bleek dat hij met zijn technische camera portretten heeft gemaakt van mijn moeder. Ik was toen niet aanwezig en heb genoegen moeten nemen met de gemaakte foto’s. Grappig dat die oude man interesse had in mijn moeder. Voor hem is ze natuurlijk nog zo jong als een mus.

De laatste keer dat ik meneer Sietsma heb gesproken is op donderdag 8 november vorig jaar. Ik wilde al een tijdje zien wat hij nou eigenlijk had gefotografeerd. Hij had al meerdere malen verteld dat zijn werk in het Oude Raadhuis hing. Wat eerder had ik geïnformeerd naar zijn aanwezigheid en werk. Dat bleek daar toen te hangen en hij zou elke donderdagmiddag een kopje koffie drinken met de buurtgenoten. Deze dag was ik er weer en hij zat er. Ik liep naar de tafel toe en vroeg over zijn fotografische interesse. Hij zei dat ik na het koffie-uurtje wel mee kon gaan naar zijn huis.

Op het tempo van zijn rollator liep ik al vragen stellend mee naar zijn huis. Het eerste stuk lopen was richting mijn oude basisschool. Hij bleek al bijna 90 jaar te zijn. En nog steeds te fotograferen. Ja, van mijn moeder wist ik wel, maar ik dacht dat het een uitzondering was.
We kwamen bij zijn huis, slechts 5 minuten van ons restaurant (halve minuut als ik het sprintend zou doen). Op zijn deur zag ik zijn naam: A.J. Sietsma Senior. Dus hij moest wel een zoon hebben. Dat durfde ik nooit te vragen. Wie wel? Misschien was hij wel zijn hele leven alleen geweest en met zo’n vraag had je hem er pijnlijk aan herinnerd.
Ik vroeg waar de A voor stond.
Arthur. Dat kon ook niet anders. Een naam die ik al kende. Een tijdloze, koninklijke naam. En Arthur Junior? Die woont gewoon in de buurt. En diens jongere broer woont in Utrecht. Ik vroeg nog of een van hen óók interesse in fotografie had, misschien zat het in de familie, maar dat bleek niet zo.
Toen ik de woonkamer instapte viel me op dat, naast het feit dat de man van een goede stooktemperatuur hield, er een fascinerende mate van orde op de keukentafel heerste.
De kerstkaarten, brieven en andere post lagen in nette stapeltjes naast elkaar.
Toen was het zover om zijn werk te bekijken. De man leidde me door een gang die opvallend kouder was. Een voorproefje van strak ingelijste foto’s met abstracte beelden en knappe vrouwen.
En toen kwamen we in de kamer met zijn werk. Op tafel lag een grote stapel dikke fotopakketten, ongeveer zo hoog als tien grote pizzadozen op elkaar. De foto’s waren allen omzoomd met een groot passe-partout, en van ieder jaar zat er slechts één tussen. Ik kon al snel afleiden dat het een hoop jaren zijn dat hij bezig is geweest.
De beelden waren stuk voor stuk perfect in technische uitvoering. Geen wonder dat hij commentaar gaf op mijn foto’s met te trage sluitertijd. Hij kwam uit een tijd dat mensen nog liefde, geduld en aandacht voor de foto’s hadden. Hij zegt voor Philips te hebben gewerkt als een leraar. En dat de fotografie meer een hobby is geweest. Meer een passie zou ik zeggen.

Van de foto’s die ik zag waren een hoop portretten van kunstenaressen. Beeldhouwsters om precies te zijn. Er hing ook een portret aan de muur van, naar het scheen, de secretaresse van Mahatma Gandhi. Ik twijfel daar niet aan. Een zeer tijdloos en elegant portret was het.
Wat ik ook niet zal vergeten is een zelfportret van de beste man in zijn jonge jaren. Hij was op een nudistenkamp op vakantie. Met de zeer herkenbare lach op zijn gezicht en zijn jongeheer in de volle zon kijkt hij je aan.
Het beste werk waren zijn foto’s van bomen. Hij hield van bomen. De bomen op zijn foto’s waren monumentaal, tijdloos en elegant. Zwart wit en op supergaaf papier. Deze man is als zijn bomen.

Bij het afscheid gaf de man nog een flyer mee voor de tentoonstelling die de fotoclub zou gaan houden. Dat zou in dezelfde buurt van mijn voormalige basisschool zijn: ’t Karregat. Ik ben samen met mijn zusje gegaan. De rollator die in de hoek lag moest van hem zijn, maar hem zelf kon ik niet vinden. We keken naar zijn werk. Ik herkende de techniek van collage die hij eerder had toegepast op zijn architectonische foto’s. En de omgevingen waar hij geweest zou moeten zijn. Niet zo ver uit de buurt. Tongelresestraat. Tja, met een rollator kom je ook niet ver. Ik keek heel anders naar die straat op dat moment.

Laatst meende ik meneer Sietsma nog te zien. Mijn vader was net klaar met bellen. We zaten in het restaurant op klaarlichte dag. Ik keek uit het raam en daar kwam een kleine blauwe auto langs rijden. Het kan niet veel anders of die man met dat bijna grijnzende gezicht was weer een paar kilometer per uur extra en een upgrade rijker geworden.

My sister Mimmi

My sister hardly leaves the house. She likes to stay in her room most of the time. But when she gets out, it’s either for food or for television. On it she watches either a movie from the Movie1-channel or soccer from the Sport1-channel. They are from the same company that delivers digital television.
My sister knows everything about soccer. She definitely knows more than I do, and maybe she knows more than me and my brother’s knowledge combined.
If my sister isn’t watching TV, she will be behind the computer. Either working for her Spanish study or trying to satisfy her unquenchable thirst for knowledge.
I sometimes try to take her out. I then force her to take the bike and come along with me. To the shops in the centre, or on very few occasions I can take her to the museum.
The van Abbe is quite a big museum which has been expanded not too long ago. We went to see some art, and something with soccer if she would be lucky enough to encounter an artist’s work with that subject.
Stepping through the white cubes of different sizes we reached a particularly empty one, with a grey floor. The people in front of us walked steadily on without really looking at the work in this room. I couldn’t help staying, because the work was a person.
The person was lying on the floor. The moment she saw us, without looking directly at us, she got hope. As though standing for one second longer gave her the recognition and energy to perform her act. Maybe she waited a very long time to have another audience. I was proud to be a witness. She crawled over the floor, expressing agony and suffering.
What a beautiful feeling that she waited for who knows how long, to perform this especially for us.

My sister and I continued our path through the museum. From all the works, this was the one I remember from our visit that day. I guess she hasn’t forgotten either - even though I forgot if at that specific day there was a work about soccer - I’m still curious what her memory has imprinted from that day.

As I’m typing behind this computer in my school, I guess she is already home now, or in a few minutes. Either eating, watching TV or behind the computer.
If I had the chance to go home now, I would try to take her out.

A sleepy weekend, turning into something more useful

During this weekend it's been very easy to be lazy. Just hang out on the couch a lot and watch TV while snacking anything that's eatable.
Yesterday I ate apple-pie-flavoured yoghurt with added oats,
a dried-raisin loaf with almond-paste and sugar snow, a lot of apples (golden delicious), a tomato cream lobster soup (canned) with a homemade multi-grain bread and to finish I turned half a kilo of potatoes into crispy chips seasoned with Spanish salt and freshly ground black pepper. What a day.
Of course I couldn't stay home ALL day, so after eleven I met with Marta, her cousin Pilar and friend Cristina. The girls would stay one more night with Marta before they would go back to Spain, so I had the chance to meet them.
I sat down at their table outside the “Janssen en Janssen’s café” and ordered a white Martini and Ice-tea cocktail to try for a change (I had only drunk water before that day). We had a good talk about future professions like journalism and photography, living in other cities than your hometown and preference in music and movies.
After the getting-to-know-each-other talk we went inside this café and started dancing (A good way to get rid of all the excess laziness and calories).
We kept dancing until it hurt my ears.
Yes, my ears, because my legs never get tired :)
With departure at hand for the visiting girls, we stretched our company by strolling around the city centre. "Se promener" as the French would say. Pilar lived in Paris for 3 years and so she just added some French to our conversations, completely naturally and unconsciously.
As the meeting ended on our bikes and I had caught the last floating kisses goodnight with my hand, all I could think about was how satisfied I was with turning my day around and spending the last hours of it with other people than myself.

Over dromen en de bieb

Donderdag 8 mei 2008

Als een krokodil die wacht op zijn prooi, heb ik overdag in mijn bed gelegen. Met de wetenschap dat hier zelden een prooi langskomt.
Ik ben toen maar gaan lezen in mijn favoriete boek, heb geschreven, nagedacht en gedagdroomd.

Soms droom ik dat ik ergens mee bezig ben, terwijl ik denk dat ik het echt doe.
(De laatste keer dat ik een droom voor de realiteit verwarde was toen ik wilde opschrijven wat ik gedroomd had. Het was een droom die zó scherp op mijn netvlies en in mijn geheugen gegrift was, dat ik hem wel op móest schrijven. Het probleem was dat ik blijkbaar nog zo moe was, dat ik telkens meende het op te schrijven, terwijl ik dat eigenlijk nog aan het dromen was. Tot vijf maal toe heb ik gedroomd dat ik mijn droom aan het opschrijven was. Ik wilde de droom niet vergeten, dus concentreerde ik me op het daadwerkelijk pakken van mijn pen en papier. De reden dat ik het steeds niet kon opschrijven was omdat mijn tas met spullen verder dan een armslengte van me af lag.
En toen had ik de oplossing gevonden. Het enige hulpmiddel dat bij me lag was mijn mobiele telefoon. Die heb ik gepakt en begon al typend met mijn duim de droom te beschrijven. Alles zou gedetailleerd worden vastgelegd. Met een precisie die ik nimmer had kunnen evenaren.
Na een aaneengesloten bericht van drie SMS’jes waren er geen letters meer over.
Het feit dat ik het begin van de droom had vastgelegd gaf me de energie om eindelijk mijn ogen te openen en echt het bed uit te stappen, een vel papier en een pen te pakken en te schrijven. )

Halverwege de dag toen ik mijn nest was uitgekropen evolueerde ik van reptiel in een rechtopstaand beest. Een mens zou ik ‘t nog niet willen noemen.
Pas na vele omzwervingen zou ik op school gaan werken, en hoofdzakelijk in mijn eentje. Maar voordat ik zover was heb ik nog een hoop andere dingen gedaan. Het piekeren was overheersend in al mijn gedachten. Ik begon zelfs te twijfelen of het blauwe shirt dat ik droeg nog wel een keer aan kon, nadat ik het de dag ervoor had gedragen bij het kaasfonduën. Ze zouden me er in herkennen en vinden dat ik een viezerik was. Het is best onsympathiek om dit van goede vrienden te verwachten of zelfs maar te overwegen. Blijkbaar zet paniek aan tot meer paniek.
Ik heb besloten het toch nog een dagje aan te trekken, want ik vind mijzelf zelden stinken (Chinezen zeggen weleens dat westerlingen een zure lucht achterlaten, wat zij dan niet of in mindere mate produceren). Ik vond daarnaast de kleur uitstekend bij mijn schoenen en gemoedstoestand passen.
Zonder verder te aarzelen ben ik naar de stad gegaan om mijn ronde van inkopen te doen, geordend naar de meest ideale verhouding prioriteit en afstand t.o.v. elkaar. Ik begon bij de Hema, en kocht een kladblok (om de versie die in Duitsland samen met mijn tas en andere bezittingen is gestolen te vervangen).
Bij het teruglopen naar mijn fiets begon ik meteen een ingeving te krijgen. Ik bleef staan bij de fiets en schreef op wat ik later zou moeten onderzoeken. (Over Bauby.)
Ik leek een criticus die een aantekening maakte over het aangezicht van de ingang van de (pas vernieuwde) Hema. Met professionaliteit stak ik de pen even in mijn mond om na te denken over mijn passage/ingeving en schreef hem vervolgens snel, maar met precisie op. Nooit denkend over hoe de mensen naar me kijken in zo een geval, je moet toch zelfvertrouwen uitstralen, denk ik dat ik een paar mensen toch goed voor de gek heb gehouden.
Wat een leuk gevoel kan een kladblok met pen je toch geven.

Na nog 6 winkels te hebben afgestruind om een spray te vinden die niemand had en een kabeltje wat niet bleek te werken, kon ik mij eindelijk wijden aan het dagelijkse bezoek van de bibliotheek.
Ik ben nooit lid geweest, en toch voel ik me er nu zeer vertrouwd.
Ik stapte binnen toen er net een vrouw van middelbare leeftijd naar buiten kwam. Ik groette met een lach en een blik die wilde zeggen “hé, wij zijn hip hè!” omdat ze ook een zonnebril bij haar had en ik een leeftijdgenoot zou kunnen zijn van een zoon die ze misschien zou hebben die hier misschien nooit te vinden zou zijn (voor de boeken althans).
Ik liep de vaste route naar het boek van Bauby, eerst voorbij de inleverbalie. Ik glimlachte wel weer zo uitbundig als ik kon.
Toen liep ik langs een man met een paardenstaart die vast en zeker bij de kinderafdeling zeer op zijn nopjes zou zijn. Hij deed me denken aan Hakim van Sesamstraat. Er zat een soort ijverigheid in hem die misschien komt van het willen bewijzen dat ‘buitenlanders ook heel productief kunnen zijn’. Met die staart liet hij blijken zich genoeg op zijn gemak te voelen tussen de Nederlanders om zichzelf te zijn en het haar lang te laten groeien. Een geïntegreerde, bijna aanstellerig “ik houd van Holland”–schreeuwende immigrant van de 2de of latere generatie. Dat fantaseerde ik na één blik op hem te hebben gericht op weg naar mijn geliefde boek.
Het volgende stuk alsmaar rechtdoor en vlak voor de DVD’s negentig graden links afslaan richting romans, kast A-B.
Ik verwachtte al op een bepaalde hoogte in de kast de blauwe versie van het boekje te vinden (ze hadden ook een gele, maar die was uitgeleend) en ja hoor! Daar lag ie. Maar toen viel mijn oog ook op een boek met groene kaft en een wel zeer herkenbaar logo. Ik pakte het boek, bekeek de voorkant waarop een enigszins herkenbare Ewan McGregor als Obi-Wan Kenobi was geïllustreerd. Ik wist wie het jongetje naast hem moest zijn, maar hij leek niet op één van de acteurs die hem speelde in de film.
Het verhaal bleek zich tussen het verloop van twee films af te spelen en het jongetje zou in de tussentijd de puberteit meemaken. Dan heb je soms meer dan twee acteurs nodig om al die stappen van ontwikkeling in groei weer te geven.
Na de omslag gelezen te hebben dacht ik dat het voldoende was om het verhaal van de twee omvattende films te kennen, en legde de toch wat kitscherig aanvoelende gekafte verzameling van papier terug in de kast. Tegelijkertijd had ik al de Nederlandse versie van J.D. Bauby’s laatste levensverhaal in mijn handen, het boek waarvoor ik kwam.
Toen het nog leek dat ik de twee boeken aan het vergelijken was liep er een vrouw langs de boekenkast, bijna neuriënd, om ter plekke aan te geven dat ze naar een boek op zoek was. Ik maakte voor de zekerheid de weg een beetje vrij zodat zij er bij zou kunnen. Ze maakte een geluid dat duidelijk impliceerde dat hetgeen ze zocht hier niet lag.
Zei ze daarmee ook dat ik niet aan de kant hoefde? En deed ze dat neuriën alleen maar bij andere mensen, om aan te geven waar ze precies mee bezig was of was het zó erg ingebakken dat ze zelf niet eens wist dat ze ‘t hardop deed?
Aan de ene kant vond ik het storend om bij elk boek te moeten aanhoren dat het niet was wat ze zocht, maar er zat ook een consideratie aan die voor mij heel transparant maakte waar ik bij deze vrouw aan toe was.
Ze was op zoek naar een boek, geen twijfel.
Gek genoeg verkleinde het de kans te denken dat ze naar aandacht op zoek was van een potentiële flirt.
Al die middelbare vrouwen van 30 en 40, ik word er gek van.

Ik kon gaan zitten.
Ik koos altijd een klein rond tafeltje met een stoeltje bij een van de kasten. Het tafeltje dat het verst van de balie verwijderd is was precies zoals de dag ervoor. Het stoeltje was nog steeds met het uitzicht naar de baliemensen toe gericht. Ik denk dat de afgelopen 24 uur er niemand echt is gaan zitten om te lezen. Deze tafeltjes staan ook zó dicht bij het gangpad, dat niemand echt de onvermijdelijke aandacht van passerende mensen wil riskeren.
Maar ik vind het heerlijk. Het is dan ook echt míjn stek. Dat de stoel niet is verplaatst betekent alleen maar méér dat het mijn stek is.
De bezoeker die voor boeken komt leest de kaft, hooguit wat pagina’s en leent het dan om het in alle rust in de eigen omgeving te lezen. Dat nergens mee te maken willen hebben is volgens mij “typisch Nederlands”. Zo was ik ook. Boekje uitkiezen en zo snel mogelijk naar huis.
Maar nu ik elke dag terug kom en mijn boekje lees (is ook niks geks aan in een bibliotheek), geniet ik niet alleen met volle teugen van het verhaal, maar ook van de omgeving. De kans dat ze me vragen gaan stellen lijkt me uiterst klein. Boeken lezen in de bieb zonder lidmaatschap. Dat is toch de ultieme kwajongensstreek voor intellectuele adolescenten?
Maar als je eenmaal ouder bent geniet je toch anders. Ten eerste moet je ‘t in het geheim doen en gepakt worden is in mijn geval zó klein dat het eigenlijk weinig uitdaging is. Ik zal moeten genieten van het feit dat ik in deze bibliotheek misschien wel de enige ben die het tot een relatie heeft geschopt met slechts één boek.
Als ik mijn hoofdstuk uit heb ga ik nog even te rade bij mezelf of het voldoende impact had. Soms is een hoofdstuk wel erg kort en heb ik zin om even nog een krantje te lezen. Zo ook deze keer.
Ik moest nog wat gezichten van de uitcheck balie overtuigen (gewoon normaal doen, anders val je op) en het spannendste moment is altijd weer door de poortjes lopen. Je weet dat je niks bij je hebt, maar toch kan ie piepen. Het is een gelijkwaardige angst die ik had om over het spoor te lopen bij de wegovergang. Die angst wordt aangewakkerd als dàt gebeurd waar je bang voor bent geworden. Je weet dat er geen trein over je heen kan rijden terwijl je op het spoor staat, want je wordt op tijd gewaarschuwd. Maar als je nèt op dat moment die seinen hoort starten dan schrik je je wel een hoedje. Vooral als kind.
Eenmaal bij het krantenhoekje pakte ik de NRC-next. Aan de grote tafel plofte ik neer. Tegelijkertijd ploften er nog twee mannen bij mijn tafel neer. We zaten met z’n vieren te lezen. De mannen waren allemaal ouder dan ik, twee zelfs boven de vijftig. Ik denk dat een groot deel van de mensen hier nooit in het gedeelte van de bieb komt met de romans. Daar zag ik toch hoofdzakelijk vrouwen. Maar de mannen hadden iets over zich heen hangen wat de vrouwen niet hadden. Ze kwamen hier waarschijnlijk iedere dag, of zo vaak als ze konden. In hun adorabele onschuldig- en absoluutheid lazen ze hun krantjes:
“Ik heb geen abonnement nodig, ik verdien dit gewoon.”
“Ik werk hard en verdien niet eens zo veel, dit is míjn krant!”
Ik blijf kijken naar de foto van Ronald Koeman waar hij zijn kont afveegt met een Duits shirt. Ik had altijd al een hekel aan die gast, maar dit gaf meer dimensies aan dat afgrijzen. Hier was hij nog jong. Wat kunnen ze dan irritant tevreden kijken. Ik moet denken aan Peter Jan Rens van nu en een jongetje van de basisschool, met net zo’n kop. Alle foute dingen komen voor mij dan samen in die blik van Ronald Koeman. Ik sla de krant snel dicht en verlaat het gebouw.

The times I had to cry

* One day the destruction of the twin towers was on TV again. I watched it, alone in the big new empty house of my parents.
I couldn’t help feeling compassionate about those people I didn’t know.



* A suburb in île de France. In a renovated farmhouse "Ferme du Buisson", art and movies are shown to visitors. A performance starting with a spotlight that could change from a white circle into a black circle. Something I had never seen before. The people in the room were facing the floor in the middle, fully concentrated at experiencing this phenomenon. The size of the circle changed. A man in a black, spandex suit entering the stage and a girl in a white similar skin-covering material, when the light split in two.
I don’t know what it was the couple did - maybe it was because they were Japanese - to let me feel something so basic and profound, I had to cry.
The performance still lasted a while, but all I needed was that short peek giving me insight in the beauty of humanity. Words could not have expressed what I felt and I was thankful to have experienced this moment, for some things can not be explained, they have to be lived.

Zeppelin

The funny thing about this zeppelin was that I saw it in Eindhoven in the afternoon, and while I was travelling towards Rotterdam, I saw it again out of my window!
I must have caught up with it...
Encroyable

Feng Shui

One day I was re-organizing my room, a thing I like to do thoroughly when I do it.
It had started with my father making a comment about my bed. It was stuffed in the corner against the heating and under the sloping ceiling. He said the sloping ceiling would bring bad luck, as I wouldn't be able to breathe or get up. The heating so close to me while asleep would also dehydrate me.
As a good son I wisely considered his comment and thought about it.
I usually disagree with my father on a lot of things, but if it was true it wouldn't be a waste of time.
Another reason why it wouldn't hurt also to try to please him, is because I am his first son. This is considered very important in his part of our family, because it seems they are always asking about me. To make matters more complicated, my father is also the first-born son of hís father. And his father happens to be the first-born of thát father. As for the generation befóre his grandfather, I can’t tell, because I think we just forgot.
So, knowing this, that there’s more at stake than just my own name, it’s good to consider to be the good boy. But this time I wasn't trying to please my father, I was seeing his point. There would always be a chance that I would bump my head against the ceiling (even though it never happened before) or get really dehydrated being near the heating. The other comment he made about not being able to breathe well and bad luck had a superstitious flavour, but it was interesting, because you're never sure about these things. (My father also says I shouldn't wear black clothes, because they attract death. Therefore I try to never wear clothes that are completely black, but at the very most very darkish blue. Only my coat can be black, don’t ask my why, because I never asked or just can’t remember the reason.)

As my father’s comment sunk in I started thinking about another place for a bed. It would be replaced with my "old bed", which was in fact newer than the one I was sleeping in. It had only been used in another house from my parents they never decided to move into.
With the replacing of my bed of course a lot of things had to move.
Eventually I repositioned 50 percent of my room in order for me to sleep on another bed. A genuine bed, which might be better for my health, feng-shui, qi-gong, luck and whatsoever.
For five days I've slept in this bed and then I had to leave. Go back to my room in Enschede. It's been 52 days since I've been home. I feel like I will never be able to go back, with all the buisiness I’ve got to take care of. Is it better or less FengShui when I dón’t sleep in the bed?

The night of happiness

Yesterday I left Enschede after a rather dissatisfacting day at school. Only me and one guy were working on the computers. Everyone else had left, and our scanners were both not giving much satisfaction. He asked me where my fellow students were and I told him the chance to see photography exam students was smaller than the chance that I would show my bare ass on top of that table in a full lesson.
Anyway, he couldn't take it anymore and left. I didn't have anyone to talk to anymore and realised I couldn't progress much with a broken iPod. So I went to take the bus.
Leaving the school at 15:45 would make me arrive in Rotterdam just in time.
I had an appointment with my friend Arthur at 18:30. He was a guestdirector for the filmfestival and I would get to see his film for free.
As I arrived we both went to the local restaurant, just up the escalator from the station. The station is being renovated, so it's likely that the restaurant will be gone after that.
We both like the things La Place serves, so it wasn't hard for me to say yes. Planning to both take a different dish, to compare tastes, he ordered Wok Noodles and I the mixed grill platter.
If I would have to review the meal I would say two out of three pieces of meat were good. The service for me wasn't good or bad, very plain (maybe a little too relaxed). And overbaked fries with pear juice is a bad combo. I guess half of that was my own mistake. Good to know for next time.
We were joined by one of the actors from Arthur's movie. Mr. Kevin. We went underground, trying to be on time for the program.
We arrived exactly at 8 o'clock, in an old warehouse from the Dutch VOC, smelling like indian food they just had. We were actually a bit early as people were still eating or waiting for the dessert. Arthur said that we could just as well have eaten here, but we didn't know. I don't think it would've been free, but with the 3 tickets Arthur had left we surely could've gotten a bit of food in exchange!
Anyway, the program started. A lot of experimental-looking home made films. The first movie kind of showed what most of the directors must have done technically. The use and possibilities of 8mm, 16mm and 35mm film.
Compared to most movies I think Arthur's 3 minutes were on the short side. Nonetheless, he was one of the few Dutch people, which makes it have that extra homemade touch.
As the program dramatically outstretched its time-limit Arthur and Kevin left, because they had to go to another festivity.
I finished the program, having to take the next train, while the next group of people was waiting.
Going home wasn't going to be a smooth ride. It was raining and I had to walk 5-10 minutes to the next subwaystation. When I was on the bridge I was literally blown forward, like the hand of god was giving me a push on the road.
I saw a man pissing on the street. I had to piss too, but I had to catch a train first.
Somehow I have misread the tube-map when we arrived. I thought our station was in the east, because it was on the right side on the map when we were in the train. So I went for the westward-metro.
But after one station I realised I took the wrong one. I looked on the map of the right train of where I had to change. This was the central station which was under the junction.
Too late I realised this didn't mean I had to go south-side, because AGAIN, this map wasn't drawn as it is supposed to be. Because the central station is in the north. Because of all this wrong direction riding I had missed the train that was already an hour later than planned.
Arriving at central station I would have the choice of waiting more than half an hour for the direct train or take one now while trying to change in between the route.
It was again not the wisest thing to try to do something I was hardly sure of. But I couldn’t wait any longer, as always when it’s about transport.
So I went and the train passed Dordrecht, which was good, because that's where the other train would pass and then we arrived in Roosendaal. It was the final stop. I knew this and I thought there would be a connection now, but there were no more trains in this station. I always go through this station between Rotterdam and Eindhoven, so I thought at least the train of half an hour later would arrive here, but the conductor said no.
A no wasn't much fun.
I was going to be stuck here, in this place where I knew no-one. I saw a hotel and conscidered staying here. There were still people at the desk, so they were still open. It was half past twelve and I didn't want to give up just yet. No more buses and a cab would cost a fortune. I went back in the station to find a train, something. Actually trains still arrived, but all ended here, to be cleaned or whatever.
Then one guy came to me and asked me if I had a phone, his battery was empty. He said he fell asleep and should've gotten out 1 station before. I let him call and asked him where he lived. His parents could pick him up, so I asked him if they could drop me at the previous station. I knew this would help me, because every hour a train goes through that station from Rotterdam to Eindhoven. If I just knew that it goes around Roosendaal I wouldn't be stranded.
The boy asked his parents, and they would come.
That was a chance for me, so I could relax for a while. We chatted about where we came from and how we got stuck here. It's very useful to have a buddy when you're stuck.
So we talked for 45 minutes until his parents came.
His parents looked older then I expected. Maybe he is older too then he looks, because he appeared to be very young and talkative, but was already working somewhere in a big city. Though I didn't ask him what he did, his clothes looked pretty much like he studied law. :P
We realised to be closer to Breda, which meant I wouldn't have to travel back a station, but could go one close to my final destination.
In less then half an hour we arrived in Breda and they dropped me off. I was very thankful and so were they for having to use my mobile.

In Breda I still had to wait 45 minutes for my next train. It really felt like I just missed it, even though it left 15 minutes earlier.
On this station people were dressed for carnaval. The floor was dirty to sit on and I didn't want to join either the group of drunken kids or the hostile group of police.
So I went outside, because I had 45 minutes to wait anyway.
Looking for a toilet, but there wasn't any in the neighbourhood.
I did see young people walk towards the station. They must have come from the local cafes. But I didn't see any, and it was raining. So I just waited outside with my bag. Looking at people. One guy kept looking at me, and I think it was his steady place were I was standing now, so I went back in the station. People were walking through a gate which had just opened, to the platforms of the arrived train. It wasn't my train, but I wanted to walk and see something.
I went to the platform where my train would arrive in half an hour. A voice called: where are you going? So I said Eindhoven, and was called back to wait at the gate.
Everyone was gone and I could find 1 space which was clean enough to sit down. I started writing in my journal. The thing I always do at the end of my day.
People started sitting behind me. Almost as if I were a leader and they were following me. But this was just a thing of my head, it happens when there are people behind you, you can't really look in the face unless you turn your head.
The gate finally reopened and I could go to Eindhoven.
I was getting a little tired. Opening my eyes to the fact I had arrived.
But still, I had to get home. I had told my parents to sleep and my brother was having fun in the bars.
I asked the taxi cabs what the fare would be. 30 euros.
Another one I asked to bring me as for as possible for 15, but he didn't want to listen.
I hated that guy, but anyway I waited a moment to think about it.
It was snowing like mad and that would be a rough journey.
But I couldn't give the taxi-drivers their satisfaction. I mean, if I don't have that much money they don't want to drive me.
But they don't have that much customers, because when I came back the same cabs were still standing there.
I had decided to just walk home.
It would be more true to my belief.
And so I did.
I just walked.
I wore my hood and walked through the snow.
I felt like a soldier, marching through heavy weather conditions and with a heavy bag.
But I was happy.
Happy that I had a hood. That I could stand the cold. That I had a leather jacket.
For the snow. It was a beautiful sight in the night.

Around 4 o'clock I was halfway. I made some pictures of this time when everyone was either asleep or partying.
I was almost completely alone on the street, making tracks in the fresh snow.
When there were people passing I felt like they pretended not to see me, because I could've been a burglar.
I mean, I wore a hood, so you could hardly see my face. And I was carrying a heavy bag. I imagined I must've looked at least suspicious.

Just before I arrived I saw bikes around the old info-centre. I realised that this was the place where newspapers were distributed to the bike-"messengers" in this neighbourhood. The newspaper we receive everyday is a 100 meters away from the 2ndary distribution. I had to think of Paolo Coelho's "the alchemist". Also because I saw the woman sitting next to me in a train that evening reading it. And it makes the day come full circle. I wanted to tell her "good book, don't you think?" but held back just before I did, thinking that she wasn't finished and that it might not be a completely justified question.

I took off my wet shoes and jacket, let them to dry and went to bed.

the Dream

Sleep well?
Well, I had a dream I couldn't shake off my mind today. I wouldn't say it was a nightmare, because I wasn't shocked, more stunned.
It started with smoke coming from a place that only existed in my imagination. It looked like an American city at dusk, but it felt like Enschede, my city of study. I was biking with a small group of men towards the fire. Then we saw clouds rise, like an explosion just took place. Out of nowhere a red-hot scorching train was slowing down on a hightened track, but still with great speed came pelting towards us. I saw there were still people inside the train. One wagon detached itself and came flying towards me. Time slowed down considerably, making the experience really intense. I was waiting for the right moment to jump away if necessary, but I was nailed to the ground. Maybe it was the slowing of time that made me as heavy as a weight. I hoped the train would go past me. But it stopped moving.
I was in my bed. The images freshly burnt in my memory, I was looking for my pen to write it all down. I always keep my pen in my photo-bag, but the bag was nowhere to be seen! I was desperate to get it down on paper. About 6 times I imagined that I had found a pen and started writing the story. But it wasn't real! I thought to myself: get this recorded, somehow! I never had such a clear memory of the details in a dream for so long after having dreamt it. It was as though my mind was fighting against a force that didn't want the dream written down. Then I thought about my mobile. It was right next to my pillow! All this time I could've been typing in there. So I started typing. Nearly not as fast as with a regular keyboard, but it worked. When I reached the third message though, there were no more letters left! And I wasn't finished yet!
Eventually I got out of bed, got my bag and wrote the rest on a piece of paper.
Why I'm putting it online? I don't know. But it's here now.

ps. My mother told me having dreams with fire, brings wealth, in some Chinese superstition? Not a bad thing I would say...:)

Freezing my nuts off

Today I did some things I wanted to do in quite some time. One of them was: finding a way to climb the roof of my apartment. I've been trying to see the view from a higher perspective (which is already nice when you're on the 2nd story (which is also the top floor & the one I'm living at). The only easy way to reach the top would be through the maintenance hatch, but it's locked and to be used by the concierge only. Next to the hatch is a tall ladder, but it's also locked! There was no other way for me to get to the roof than by standing on the fence of the balcony and pulling myself up from the ledge. This was the most exciting thing I've done in quite some time (but nearly not as exciting as how to get down again!). The view was as expected: utterly brilliant! But what a cold breeze! I was wearing my green army jacket and poloneck diesel for cryin' out loud, but I was shivering all over. It might have been stress though, for being on top of a building illegally without knowing if I would get down without a broken bone. I could enjoy the sunset a little longer this way. Too bad I was the only one to enjoy it.

Ps. The second thing I wanted to do in quite some time was: starting this blog. I hope that in time, if I'm really putting my efforts in it, I will have found a way to share my experiences more profoundly as before. Cheers,

Afong