dinsdag, juli 07, 2009
55 kranten
Ze deed haar schoenen uit en ging zitten. Er lag een grote stapel post voor haar op het tapijt. Ze legde de brieven in stapeltjes om zich heen, en plukte te kranten ertussenuit. Ze wist het allemaal al lang. 55 kranten, voor een bepaald aantal weekdagen en een bepaald aantal weekenden. Ze had geen zin om het uit te rekenen, maar had de kranten wel geteld. Ze las de namen op de brieven… Familie, vrienden, belasting, veel brieven van de bank. Brieven van de buren en van haar oma. En een van haar nichtje. Dat zag ze aan het handschrift. Met lege ogen zocht ze tussen de brieven. Ze zocht wel, maar wist eigenlijk niet waar naar, en al snel stopte ze en liet zich languit tussen de brieven op de grond vallen. Was ze maar gewoon weggebleven. Heel even hoopte ze dat misschien niemand zou weten dat ze thuis was, en dat de brieven dan door zouden gaan en dat ze stilletjes weer kon vertrekken, haar koffers onuitgepakt weer mee kon nemen. Maar bijna onmiddellijk realiseerde ze zich dat de buren toch in ieder geval haar autootje gezien hadden, en dat ze helemaal niet wist wat ze daar nog zou moeten doen, en dat ze een lafaard was als ze weg zou gaan. Ze pakte een brief van de stapel, een mooie. De enveloppe was lichtroze. Met een kerstzegel. Alfred, dat was duidelijk. Niemand zou rond mei nog kerstzegels gebruiken. Op roze enveloppen. Ze wist niet wat Alfred haar zou schrijven, want hij wist toch dat ze weg was. En precies wanneer ze weer terug kwam. Als enige. Jee, wat had ze hem gemist! Alle 55 kranten lang had ze niemand zo gemist, maar nu ze zijn roze brief met kerstzegel in mei zo in haar hand had, miste ze hem ineens ontzettend. Het was zo’n fijn gevoel, dat ze eigenlijk de enveloppe niet open wilde maken. Maar de nieuwsgierigheid won het. De datum op de brief (die geschreven was op een slordig uitgescheurd velletje uit een agenda) was er een van rond de 12 kranten.
Hee, meid, hoe gaat het?
Iedereen schrijft je brieven, dus nu schrijf ik je ook een brief.
Ik weet wel dat ik niks terug krijg, maar ik mis je wel! Het is een beetje als het schrijven van een briefje aan een overleden kennis, je weet dat je niks terug krijgt, maar toch wil je het doen.
Kom nou terug, hé. Iedereen schrijft je brieven. Echt waar. Is het nou goed?
Liefs,
Alfred
P.S: Sorry, hé. Dit keer een blaadje uit mijn agenda. Ik ben echt bankroet, echt bankroet, zeg ik je. Ik heb geen rode cent. Ook geen blauwe trouwens, ha. Maar je leest het toch niet, dus is niet erg.
Als ze niet wist dat het over haarzelf ging, leek het inderdaad een beetje op een briefje aan een overledene. Ze legde het briefje behoedzaam op de bank, en wilde een volgende enveloppe oppakken. Er schoof iets door de brievenbus. ’56 kranten’, dacht ze, en stond op om naar de deur te lopen. Op de brievenbus vond ze geen krant, maar een klein briefje, dat ze nota bene zelf op de deur had geplakt, 55 kranten geleden – “Ik ben weg”. Eronder stond nu, in kleine maar dwingende bloklettertjes: “ECHT NIET”. Ze glimlachte, en zag nu inderdaad een gestalte voor de deur staan. Alfred, natuurlijk.
Hee, meid, hoe gaat het?
Iedereen schrijft je brieven, dus nu schrijf ik je ook een brief.
Ik weet wel dat ik niks terug krijg, maar ik mis je wel! Het is een beetje als het schrijven van een briefje aan een overleden kennis, je weet dat je niks terug krijgt, maar toch wil je het doen.
Kom nou terug, hé. Iedereen schrijft je brieven. Echt waar. Is het nou goed?
Liefs,
Alfred
P.S: Sorry, hé. Dit keer een blaadje uit mijn agenda. Ik ben echt bankroet, echt bankroet, zeg ik je. Ik heb geen rode cent. Ook geen blauwe trouwens, ha. Maar je leest het toch niet, dus is niet erg.
Als ze niet wist dat het over haarzelf ging, leek het inderdaad een beetje op een briefje aan een overledene. Ze legde het briefje behoedzaam op de bank, en wilde een volgende enveloppe oppakken. Er schoof iets door de brievenbus. ’56 kranten’, dacht ze, en stond op om naar de deur te lopen. Op de brievenbus vond ze geen krant, maar een klein briefje, dat ze nota bene zelf op de deur had geplakt, 55 kranten geleden – “Ik ben weg”. Eronder stond nu, in kleine maar dwingende bloklettertjes: “ECHT NIET”. Ze glimlachte, en zag nu inderdaad een gestalte voor de deur staan. Alfred, natuurlijk.
vrijdag, juni 05, 2009
dinsdag, januari 20, 2009
Letters of Jazz and Antoine, #2
12th of October, 1947
Paris, France
My Love,
I cannot say how happy I was when my aunt handed your letter to me. I’ve been hoping for you to write me every day, ever since you left. I miss you very much! You never told me England was such a horrible place, when we talked about your home. I always had the idea that England was a very artistic and peaceful place, full of inspiration. But you tell me the opposite.
I am so sorry to hear you don’t paint any longer! When I saw you paint in Paris, you were so passionate about it. You are very talented. Why are you refraining from painting? If England is ugly and sad, it must be a wonderful place to paint. The object one paints does not make the painting – the artist makes the painting. Therefore, if a good artist paints an ugly thing, the painting can still be a wonderful piece of art. When I had just started Art School, I suddenly became very tired of painting Paris, merely because it was so beautiful. I sometimes drove around for days, just to find an ugly thing to paint. You should paint England as it is. Paint its essence. Paint it, and mail it to me with your next letter – show me England as you see it.
Art School is wonderful! I have been working on a grand piece (grand - I know you’ll say I’m a yank when I use that word, but I can’t help it. There’s something nice about it. Maybe because it’s close to my native language) right now. It shows most nothing but sheep. I was inspired to do this picture when I saw a shepherd coming down from the hills when I was in the country. There must have been a thousand sheep. It was wonderful to see – all the sheep looked so similar, yet so different. That is what I am trying to capture in my picture, too.
About going out – I don’t do it so much. I enjoyed going out with you when you were in Paris, but other than that… I’ve never enjoyed going out with my friends so much. They are all artists; they go places to paint them, not just to hang out. It might be their great handicap, but otherwise, there is some good in it. An artist is just always an artist – he should be.
I do still go to the movies on my own, sometimes, however. There is – as you know – a great variety of cinemas in Paris, most of them showing decent, good or wonderful films. About that drama-film we saw that day – don’t worry. It was decent, but it wasn’t anything shockingly beautiful. I was indeed surprised you couldn’t tell much about it, but I thought it would have been something like this. How come you get sucked into other people’s conversations so easily? It never happens to me. It must be a woman’s thing.
And of course, I take walks. You should get a dog; it’s a wonderful excuse to walk through the parks in the evening. My walks in the park help me to order my thoughts. Lately, however, those have been about nothing but you. I must admit, even though I tried – I cannot stop thinking about you. If you wouldn’t have written me a letter, I would have written one to you. You changed my life completely, and when you left, it got back to what it used to be – lots of painting, walks in the park, the cinema, Art School, and lots of walking the streets of Paris on my own. I used to be very content with that – very happy, and when I first met you, I hated your parties, the High Teas you would invite me for, I hated dining with your family and the friends they had made in France. But somehow, you made me see the little charm there is in these things. The people we met – from the (excuse my language) fat rich ladies to the poorer lower-class people that nervously tried to tie up a conversation with one of the ‘better’ guests – they are like the sheep in the painting. They all like the same art, have seen the same movies, yet they are all different – they have there own small funny things. You made me realize how entertaining it can sometimes to be around people. Now you’re gone, and I miss it.
But, even though I try to hide it for myself, it’s not only the parties that I miss. They are nothing compared to the days we spent together. I love you, Jazz, and I can’t deny it. I’ve never been so crazy in love before. You did something strange to me. As I said before – you changed my life. I don’t know how you did it. And even though I am happy to write you and receive your letters, I will always miss you, because you’re not here. I wish you were here, Jazz. I really would.
Either way, please don’t forget to add a painting to your next letter. I am so curious, and I want to encourage you to paint. You must paint, because you’re a wonderful painter! As I said – an artist is an artist; always. On that matter, you will remember our discussion about music and visual art? I said I was just not born a musician and should not waste my time practising the piano while I could paint as well, while you said that even though painting was a bigger talent of mine, I could still make an effort to play the piano. I don’t want to insinuate that you are right, but I’d just like to inform you that I took up playing piano again.
Yours sincerely, passionately, and most truely,
Antoine
I cannot say how happy I was when my aunt handed your letter to me. I’ve been hoping for you to write me every day, ever since you left. I miss you very much! You never told me England was such a horrible place, when we talked about your home. I always had the idea that England was a very artistic and peaceful place, full of inspiration. But you tell me the opposite.
I am so sorry to hear you don’t paint any longer! When I saw you paint in Paris, you were so passionate about it. You are very talented. Why are you refraining from painting? If England is ugly and sad, it must be a wonderful place to paint. The object one paints does not make the painting – the artist makes the painting. Therefore, if a good artist paints an ugly thing, the painting can still be a wonderful piece of art. When I had just started Art School, I suddenly became very tired of painting Paris, merely because it was so beautiful. I sometimes drove around for days, just to find an ugly thing to paint. You should paint England as it is. Paint its essence. Paint it, and mail it to me with your next letter – show me England as you see it.
Art School is wonderful! I have been working on a grand piece (grand - I know you’ll say I’m a yank when I use that word, but I can’t help it. There’s something nice about it. Maybe because it’s close to my native language) right now. It shows most nothing but sheep. I was inspired to do this picture when I saw a shepherd coming down from the hills when I was in the country. There must have been a thousand sheep. It was wonderful to see – all the sheep looked so similar, yet so different. That is what I am trying to capture in my picture, too.
About going out – I don’t do it so much. I enjoyed going out with you when you were in Paris, but other than that… I’ve never enjoyed going out with my friends so much. They are all artists; they go places to paint them, not just to hang out. It might be their great handicap, but otherwise, there is some good in it. An artist is just always an artist – he should be.
I do still go to the movies on my own, sometimes, however. There is – as you know – a great variety of cinemas in Paris, most of them showing decent, good or wonderful films. About that drama-film we saw that day – don’t worry. It was decent, but it wasn’t anything shockingly beautiful. I was indeed surprised you couldn’t tell much about it, but I thought it would have been something like this. How come you get sucked into other people’s conversations so easily? It never happens to me. It must be a woman’s thing.
And of course, I take walks. You should get a dog; it’s a wonderful excuse to walk through the parks in the evening. My walks in the park help me to order my thoughts. Lately, however, those have been about nothing but you. I must admit, even though I tried – I cannot stop thinking about you. If you wouldn’t have written me a letter, I would have written one to you. You changed my life completely, and when you left, it got back to what it used to be – lots of painting, walks in the park, the cinema, Art School, and lots of walking the streets of Paris on my own. I used to be very content with that – very happy, and when I first met you, I hated your parties, the High Teas you would invite me for, I hated dining with your family and the friends they had made in France. But somehow, you made me see the little charm there is in these things. The people we met – from the (excuse my language) fat rich ladies to the poorer lower-class people that nervously tried to tie up a conversation with one of the ‘better’ guests – they are like the sheep in the painting. They all like the same art, have seen the same movies, yet they are all different – they have there own small funny things. You made me realize how entertaining it can sometimes to be around people. Now you’re gone, and I miss it.
But, even though I try to hide it for myself, it’s not only the parties that I miss. They are nothing compared to the days we spent together. I love you, Jazz, and I can’t deny it. I’ve never been so crazy in love before. You did something strange to me. As I said before – you changed my life. I don’t know how you did it. And even though I am happy to write you and receive your letters, I will always miss you, because you’re not here. I wish you were here, Jazz. I really would.
Either way, please don’t forget to add a painting to your next letter. I am so curious, and I want to encourage you to paint. You must paint, because you’re a wonderful painter! As I said – an artist is an artist; always. On that matter, you will remember our discussion about music and visual art? I said I was just not born a musician and should not waste my time practising the piano while I could paint as well, while you said that even though painting was a bigger talent of mine, I could still make an effort to play the piano. I don’t want to insinuate that you are right, but I’d just like to inform you that I took up playing piano again.
Yours sincerely, passionately, and most truely,
Antoine
P.S: Don't lie. You are Charm itself.
vrijdag, januari 09, 2009
Letters of Jazz and Antoine
5th of October, 1947
Boston, England
Dearest Antoine,
I know I told you not to write me and that I didn’t give you my adress, and I had actually planned not to write you, but then suddenly your adress popped up (my mother received a letter from your aunt, in which she asked if we had enjoyed our stay and if we had a pleasant journey, nothing much important), and I couldn’t resist. I’m not even quite sure what to say. I am afraid you will be mad at me, because I broke off our being together so rudely and abruptly, without even allowing you to write me. It was childish of me, and I realize now such actions do not have the slightest effect. My affection for you has only grown since, and the plan I had of putting you out of my head has not quite began to work yet. I miss you.
England is horribly dull. When I was in France, I totally forgot about the atmosphere, the people, the grey skies and the dull life I lead over here. I know I have said it many times before, but – I really had a wonderful time in France. I wish I could have stayed in France; it is so lovely, I like everything in France. The skies are never grey and the people, even though they can hardly understand me when I try to speak French (or even when I speak English), have been so awfully kind to me all the time. It is so full of beautiful art and beautiful scenery. In England, the people are kind to no one. They all lead busy lives and never have any time to spend on art or other beautiful things. The atmosphere over here is like the grey skies that always hang over city and countryside. There is always something cold, something rough hanging over town. Boston is the saddest place I’ve ever seen. It is no place to live.
I was very happy to see my cats, however. I had missed them very much while in France. My friend Chrissy has taken care of them wonderfully. They look like little angels. Chrissy said the cats have missed me very much, too. And that she herself felt very lonely without me. She is my best friend. Before I went to France, we would often go out together, to the pictures, or at sea (Boston is actually very close to the beach – but our beaches are so sad, Antoine. They are so sad!), or sometimes we would just drink coffee in some nice place or another. I don’t actually like coffee, but Chrissy always insists on us drinking coffee. She thinks it is very grown up to drink coffee. Very chique.
But since I got back from France, everything seems a little different. I had never travelled out of England before. I had never seen how beautiful other countries can be. Now, when we go to the beach, I think of the beaches in France, and how we would take long walks with ice creams melting in our hands because of the steaming sun. It makes me so sad, that I just don’t want to go to the beach any more. I’ve tried to explain it to Chrissy, but she thinks Boston’s beach is nice. She has something with England that I can’t understand. She always says that she likes the country for it’s apperant sadness. How can someone like a country for it’s sadness? It is completely alien to me.
I don’t go out as much as I used to. It just makes me so sad to see what England is like. The only place I still enjoy going to, is the little cinema we have over here. It is kind of a very old one, long past it’s days of glory, but once you have taken your seat and just look at the screen, you forget all about that. The pictures they show are wonderful. You would have liked them, too. If you ever come over to England (which you had better not, for your own sake), it is the only place I would really like to show you. I usually go there with Chrissy, now. We have the same taste in movies, if anything of the kind exists. Not that there is much choice – it’s not a big cinema. But she is good company to go to the pictures with. She is silent during the movie, and afterwards, too. I like that. If there is anything I hate, it’s people chattering in the cinema. Or chattering directly after the movie has finished. Do you remember the lady that was behind us when we went to see that drama-film in Paris? I guess you don’t, I didn’t mention her at the moment, I believe. She was one of that kind too. I could barely hold my attention at the movie. When you started talking about the movie afterwards, the only thing that sprang to mind was that the lady behind me had an awfully handsome cousin, very handsome indeed, and that she would introduce her company to him directly after the picture was over. It made me very sad, because you thought it was a wonderful picture. You must have wondered why I didn’t have anything to say, then.
Anyway, except for the cinema, I don’t go out much. Chrissy says that she’s worried about me, but I rather think she wants to go out more and that she needs company to do so. For weeks, I haven’t worried about it myself – I thought it would be the change of scenery, that I had missed my own house and therefore had no desire to leave it, that I now realized how sad England was, and more such things. I thought it would pass and didn’t pay much attention. I arrived on the shores of England three weeks ago, now, however, and all I do is sit at home. I do nothing. I don’t even paint. What should I paint? I am so tired of painting England!
But it’s not only that I miss France. I miss you, too. I miss you more than I would be able to admit. I can’t stand not hearing anything from you. A letter of yours would brighten my days enormously. I can’t forget about you. I hope you will forgive me for my childish behaviour when I left.
Much love,
Jazz
P.S: Reading my letter over, I realize that all I do is complain and talk about myself. I’m absolutely no charming person, I can’t understand what you see in me. But please tell me about France, about your life, about art school, about everything!
Boston, England
Dearest Antoine,
I know I told you not to write me and that I didn’t give you my adress, and I had actually planned not to write you, but then suddenly your adress popped up (my mother received a letter from your aunt, in which she asked if we had enjoyed our stay and if we had a pleasant journey, nothing much important), and I couldn’t resist. I’m not even quite sure what to say. I am afraid you will be mad at me, because I broke off our being together so rudely and abruptly, without even allowing you to write me. It was childish of me, and I realize now such actions do not have the slightest effect. My affection for you has only grown since, and the plan I had of putting you out of my head has not quite began to work yet. I miss you.
England is horribly dull. When I was in France, I totally forgot about the atmosphere, the people, the grey skies and the dull life I lead over here. I know I have said it many times before, but – I really had a wonderful time in France. I wish I could have stayed in France; it is so lovely, I like everything in France. The skies are never grey and the people, even though they can hardly understand me when I try to speak French (or even when I speak English), have been so awfully kind to me all the time. It is so full of beautiful art and beautiful scenery. In England, the people are kind to no one. They all lead busy lives and never have any time to spend on art or other beautiful things. The atmosphere over here is like the grey skies that always hang over city and countryside. There is always something cold, something rough hanging over town. Boston is the saddest place I’ve ever seen. It is no place to live.
I was very happy to see my cats, however. I had missed them very much while in France. My friend Chrissy has taken care of them wonderfully. They look like little angels. Chrissy said the cats have missed me very much, too. And that she herself felt very lonely without me. She is my best friend. Before I went to France, we would often go out together, to the pictures, or at sea (Boston is actually very close to the beach – but our beaches are so sad, Antoine. They are so sad!), or sometimes we would just drink coffee in some nice place or another. I don’t actually like coffee, but Chrissy always insists on us drinking coffee. She thinks it is very grown up to drink coffee. Very chique.
But since I got back from France, everything seems a little different. I had never travelled out of England before. I had never seen how beautiful other countries can be. Now, when we go to the beach, I think of the beaches in France, and how we would take long walks with ice creams melting in our hands because of the steaming sun. It makes me so sad, that I just don’t want to go to the beach any more. I’ve tried to explain it to Chrissy, but she thinks Boston’s beach is nice. She has something with England that I can’t understand. She always says that she likes the country for it’s apperant sadness. How can someone like a country for it’s sadness? It is completely alien to me.
I don’t go out as much as I used to. It just makes me so sad to see what England is like. The only place I still enjoy going to, is the little cinema we have over here. It is kind of a very old one, long past it’s days of glory, but once you have taken your seat and just look at the screen, you forget all about that. The pictures they show are wonderful. You would have liked them, too. If you ever come over to England (which you had better not, for your own sake), it is the only place I would really like to show you. I usually go there with Chrissy, now. We have the same taste in movies, if anything of the kind exists. Not that there is much choice – it’s not a big cinema. But she is good company to go to the pictures with. She is silent during the movie, and afterwards, too. I like that. If there is anything I hate, it’s people chattering in the cinema. Or chattering directly after the movie has finished. Do you remember the lady that was behind us when we went to see that drama-film in Paris? I guess you don’t, I didn’t mention her at the moment, I believe. She was one of that kind too. I could barely hold my attention at the movie. When you started talking about the movie afterwards, the only thing that sprang to mind was that the lady behind me had an awfully handsome cousin, very handsome indeed, and that she would introduce her company to him directly after the picture was over. It made me very sad, because you thought it was a wonderful picture. You must have wondered why I didn’t have anything to say, then.
Anyway, except for the cinema, I don’t go out much. Chrissy says that she’s worried about me, but I rather think she wants to go out more and that she needs company to do so. For weeks, I haven’t worried about it myself – I thought it would be the change of scenery, that I had missed my own house and therefore had no desire to leave it, that I now realized how sad England was, and more such things. I thought it would pass and didn’t pay much attention. I arrived on the shores of England three weeks ago, now, however, and all I do is sit at home. I do nothing. I don’t even paint. What should I paint? I am so tired of painting England!
But it’s not only that I miss France. I miss you, too. I miss you more than I would be able to admit. I can’t stand not hearing anything from you. A letter of yours would brighten my days enormously. I can’t forget about you. I hope you will forgive me for my childish behaviour when I left.
Much love,
Jazz
P.S: Reading my letter over, I realize that all I do is complain and talk about myself. I’m absolutely no charming person, I can’t understand what you see in me. But please tell me about France, about your life, about art school, about everything!
maandag, december 22, 2008
Kerstbrunch: Impressie
- Italiaanse kippendrumsticks met spekblokjes, champignon-tomaten, gegrilde groenten en pastabrood
- Italiaanse bakjes in een oranje pan
- Gourmet -> Alles wat overblijft
- Leuk; enig
- Vlees van moeder
- Toast met zalf en petrella
- géén cakejes
- Zoete lading.
- Italiaanse bakjes in een oranje pan
- Gourmet -> Alles wat overblijft
- Leuk; enig
- Vlees van moeder
- Toast met zalf en petrella
- géén cakejes
- Zoete lading.
woensdag, november 26, 2008
Novemberdrukte.
Al wachtend op iemand (uiteraard, het zal eens niet mijn tweede keus zijn) besluit ik wederom een blog te beginnen. Wederom, want: dit heb ik de afgelopen tijd best vaak gedaan. Beginnen, want: ik maak ze nooit af. Deze keer hoop ik van harte dat ik het tot het bittere einde zal brengen, en gezien ik [technisch gezien] een hele avond voor de boeg heb, moet het zeker lukken.
[ik zal voor uw gemoed en vertrouwen niet citeren wat ik in eerdere ongepubliceerde berichten als openingsalinea opgesteld heb staan]
Creative writing is even niet aan de orde. Blog is blog, ik mag hem best weer eens misbruiken voor een niemandalletje. Mijn creatieve geest wordt de laatste tijd al zo uitgeknepen, dat ik niet op een rustig avondje als deze beloofd te worden nog eens ga proberen de laatste druppels er uit te wringen [metafoor!]. Dan zijn we reeds aanbeland op punt één; ik geloof dat ik nu echt ziek aan het worden ben. Wat op zich niet zo heel heel heel heel erg gek is, gezien de 'novemberdrukte' (laten we gelijk de titel meenemen). Ik zal het niet opnoemen, mijn drukke bezigheden van afgelopen week, maar ik vind wel dat ik officieel aan een instortmoment toe ben. Ik heb het ook goed gepland, want mijn afspraak van vanavond heeft afgezegd (ingestortte gezondheid was ook hier de reden), terwijl ik morgen moet werken, overmorgen een dikke party heb en mijn weekend ook niet bepaald rustgevend genoemd mag worden. De week daar na dacht ik rustig gehouden te hebben, maar ook in deze week hebben zich ondertussen op de drie vrijgehouden dagen drie afspraken gevestigd. Nu zal iedereen zich in deze novemberdrukte herkennen en terwijl zij instemmend knikken en murmelen dat ze dan ook tussendoor nog eens die sinterklaarcadeautjes (en gedichten!) uit hun mouw zullen moeten schudden, ach en wee, hoe ze dat in vredes naam ooit gaan doen, en dat hun salaris deze maand er alweer doorheengejaagd is. Uiteraard ben ik voor zulke verdere klaagzangen niet vatbaar. Allereerst schrijf ik deze blog heel handig de dag voordat mijn salaris over mijn rekening leeggekieperd wordt, zodat ik niemand met mijn gemuts over geldgebrek kan vervelen (met ander gemuts is het uiteraard toegestaan, maar geldgebrek is weer zo patserig westers en consumptiemaatschappij-achtig, daar houden mensen niet van). Ten tweede, en dat is heel belangrijk en zeker het vermelden waard; ik heb op één (of twee, dat moet nog blijken) na al mijn sint-cadeaus al aangeschaft. En dat, lieve mensen, zijn er heel wat. Ik ben hier heel trots op, zeker omdat ik echt voor alle cadeaus daadwerkelijk de stad in ben gegaan en bol.com dit keer links (of rechts) heb laten liggen. Ik zou uiteraard vol trots de lijst met presentjes [oh lord, wat een woord] tonen, maar dat is een beetje uit de context van het feest omdat er al jaren van iedereen verwacht wordt dat hij [of zij] zijn [of haar] cadeautjes tot de vijfde geheim weet te houden. Net zoals dat overigens van basisschoolklassen verwacht wordt met betrekking tot surprises en de bijbehorende getrokken lootjes. Maar dit terzijde, voordat mijn oprechte geloof in de waarde mensheid zich terug begint te trekken.
Hoe dan ook, novemberdrukte dus. Het zijn niet alleen de cadeautjes. Het dichten dat met de cadeautjes gepaard gaat (als ik de idioot die dat bedacht heeft te pakken krijg: ik zal zijn geraamte met ketchup eten, het zal mij smaken, en anders zal ik doen alsof, en ik zal een grote boer laten nadat ik het laatste botje door heb geslikt en de ketchup met gebloemd servet van mijn mondhoeken veeg), is ook best een hele klus. [dames en heren, u kunt uit de voorgaande bijzin tussen de haakjes opmaken dat dit wellicht functioneerd als een understatement]. Een normaal mens maakt slechts vier gedichtjes, haalt deze voor een groot deel van sinterklaasgedichtenpuntenel of gebruikt voor elke zin een rijmwoordenboek, en doet dit ook nog eens op vijf december, 3 uur 's middags [zodat rijmwoordenboek.nl overbelast raakt en iedereen zijn computer gaat slaan al roepend 'schiet op, schiet op!', maar dit terzijde], maar ik ben dan ook geen normaal mens [Ik leer u; De Übermensch!], en stop in de originaliteit, lengte, kwaliteit, humor, degelijkheid, cadans, logica en zelfs kwantiteit [11 geniale, goedlopende gedichten van 8 coupletten elk, dus] alle tijd die ik overhoud naast de bezigheden waarvan ik de aard niet genoemd heb maar waar ik in de bovenstaande paragraaf wel de aanwezigheid van vermeld heb. Kort samengevat; De Lat Ligt Hoog Dit Jaar.
Gelukkig ben ik met mijn gerijm al een eindje op weg en heb ik voor zes van de elf gedichten (shit, dat is net iets meer dan de helft! Ik dacht dat ik er maar een paar in mijn eentje hoefde te maken!) een compagnon gevonden. Het eerste gedicht [van zo'n 7 coupletten, red.] is er al, en het geraamte voor het tweede staat. Ik zal er niet bij vermelden hoe lang ik en mijn compagnon hier over gedaan hebben, want dat zou mijn volle vertrouwen dat ik het ga redden voor de vijfde mooi behoorlijk beschamen. Nu ik het er over heb, waarom ben ik ookalweer niet druk aan het dichten in plaats van aan het schrijven over novemberdrukte? Oja, ik ben ziek en moet aansterken. Morgen gaan we wel weer verder. Hoe dan ook, misschien herinnert u zich nog dat ik ergens zo wat verder naar boven [of naar onder, links, rechts, voren, achteren, ik weet niet hoe u uw computerscherm heeft staan natuurlijk] zei dat mijn creativiteit behoorlijk uitgeknepen was; ik doelde voor een deel uiteraard op de uitputtende sinterklaasgedichten-klus, maar het zit hem ook niet alleen daar in. Ik ben de laatste tijd sowieso behoorlijk bezig mijzelf creatief uit te putten, door snel door te willen na het UOP en gelijk weer liedjes te proberen te vinden om te arrangeren, een begin te maken aan de arrangementen en mijn stem (enzo) over te benutten [dit kan tevens een oorzaak van mijn keelpijn zijn, natuurlijk, en zo hangt alles weer met alles samen], maar ook door bijvoorbeeld het plan van een toneelstuk [eerst maar eens het schrijven, spelen komt later wel], het plan van de dichtbundel [en ik kan mijn sinterklaasjuweeltjes natuurlijk pas na de vijfde publiceren! Zo schiet het natuurlijk ook niet op] en dan ook nog alle losse ideeën die toch niet uitgewerkt gaan worden. Ik wil gewoon heel erg veel van mezelf, en dan nog alle reguliere afspraken, alle concerten die zich in de novembermaand settelen [daar moeten we het ook nog eens over hebben! Wat is dat toch!] en dat iedereen ineens enthousiast wordt om dingen te gaan doen. Het hele jaar kun je dingen doen, maar in november, als iedereen toch al doodgegooid wordt met dingen om te doen, willen mensen ineens nog meer dingen doen. Ik zelf ook, natuurlijk, maar -
Op dit punt worden mijn filosofieën bruut onderbroken door de aankomst op het net van degene waar ik op aan het wachten was. Tevens stelt mijn ingestortte gezondheid mij niet meer in staat ABN te produceren, en ik moet er helaas het bijltje bij neergooien.
Ik bid u vaarwel, en moge u een fijne winter tegemoet gaan.
[ik zal voor uw gemoed en vertrouwen niet citeren wat ik in eerdere ongepubliceerde berichten als openingsalinea opgesteld heb staan]
Creative writing is even niet aan de orde. Blog is blog, ik mag hem best weer eens misbruiken voor een niemandalletje. Mijn creatieve geest wordt de laatste tijd al zo uitgeknepen, dat ik niet op een rustig avondje als deze beloofd te worden nog eens ga proberen de laatste druppels er uit te wringen [metafoor!]. Dan zijn we reeds aanbeland op punt één; ik geloof dat ik nu echt ziek aan het worden ben. Wat op zich niet zo heel heel heel heel erg gek is, gezien de 'novemberdrukte' (laten we gelijk de titel meenemen). Ik zal het niet opnoemen, mijn drukke bezigheden van afgelopen week, maar ik vind wel dat ik officieel aan een instortmoment toe ben. Ik heb het ook goed gepland, want mijn afspraak van vanavond heeft afgezegd (ingestortte gezondheid was ook hier de reden), terwijl ik morgen moet werken, overmorgen een dikke party heb en mijn weekend ook niet bepaald rustgevend genoemd mag worden. De week daar na dacht ik rustig gehouden te hebben, maar ook in deze week hebben zich ondertussen op de drie vrijgehouden dagen drie afspraken gevestigd. Nu zal iedereen zich in deze novemberdrukte herkennen en terwijl zij instemmend knikken en murmelen dat ze dan ook tussendoor nog eens die sinterklaarcadeautjes (en gedichten!) uit hun mouw zullen moeten schudden, ach en wee, hoe ze dat in vredes naam ooit gaan doen, en dat hun salaris deze maand er alweer doorheengejaagd is. Uiteraard ben ik voor zulke verdere klaagzangen niet vatbaar. Allereerst schrijf ik deze blog heel handig de dag voordat mijn salaris over mijn rekening leeggekieperd wordt, zodat ik niemand met mijn gemuts over geldgebrek kan vervelen (met ander gemuts is het uiteraard toegestaan, maar geldgebrek is weer zo patserig westers en consumptiemaatschappij-achtig, daar houden mensen niet van). Ten tweede, en dat is heel belangrijk en zeker het vermelden waard; ik heb op één (of twee, dat moet nog blijken) na al mijn sint-cadeaus al aangeschaft. En dat, lieve mensen, zijn er heel wat. Ik ben hier heel trots op, zeker omdat ik echt voor alle cadeaus daadwerkelijk de stad in ben gegaan en bol.com dit keer links (of rechts) heb laten liggen. Ik zou uiteraard vol trots de lijst met presentjes [oh lord, wat een woord] tonen, maar dat is een beetje uit de context van het feest omdat er al jaren van iedereen verwacht wordt dat hij [of zij] zijn [of haar] cadeautjes tot de vijfde geheim weet te houden. Net zoals dat overigens van basisschoolklassen verwacht wordt met betrekking tot surprises en de bijbehorende getrokken lootjes. Maar dit terzijde, voordat mijn oprechte geloof in de waarde mensheid zich terug begint te trekken.
Hoe dan ook, novemberdrukte dus. Het zijn niet alleen de cadeautjes. Het dichten dat met de cadeautjes gepaard gaat (als ik de idioot die dat bedacht heeft te pakken krijg: ik zal zijn geraamte met ketchup eten, het zal mij smaken, en anders zal ik doen alsof, en ik zal een grote boer laten nadat ik het laatste botje door heb geslikt en de ketchup met gebloemd servet van mijn mondhoeken veeg), is ook best een hele klus. [dames en heren, u kunt uit de voorgaande bijzin tussen de haakjes opmaken dat dit wellicht functioneerd als een understatement]. Een normaal mens maakt slechts vier gedichtjes, haalt deze voor een groot deel van sinterklaasgedichtenpuntenel of gebruikt voor elke zin een rijmwoordenboek, en doet dit ook nog eens op vijf december, 3 uur 's middags [zodat rijmwoordenboek.nl overbelast raakt en iedereen zijn computer gaat slaan al roepend 'schiet op, schiet op!', maar dit terzijde], maar ik ben dan ook geen normaal mens [Ik leer u; De Übermensch!], en stop in de originaliteit, lengte, kwaliteit, humor, degelijkheid, cadans, logica en zelfs kwantiteit [11 geniale, goedlopende gedichten van 8 coupletten elk, dus] alle tijd die ik overhoud naast de bezigheden waarvan ik de aard niet genoemd heb maar waar ik in de bovenstaande paragraaf wel de aanwezigheid van vermeld heb. Kort samengevat; De Lat Ligt Hoog Dit Jaar.
Gelukkig ben ik met mijn gerijm al een eindje op weg en heb ik voor zes van de elf gedichten (shit, dat is net iets meer dan de helft! Ik dacht dat ik er maar een paar in mijn eentje hoefde te maken!) een compagnon gevonden. Het eerste gedicht [van zo'n 7 coupletten, red.] is er al, en het geraamte voor het tweede staat. Ik zal er niet bij vermelden hoe lang ik en mijn compagnon hier over gedaan hebben, want dat zou mijn volle vertrouwen dat ik het ga redden voor de vijfde mooi behoorlijk beschamen. Nu ik het er over heb, waarom ben ik ookalweer niet druk aan het dichten in plaats van aan het schrijven over novemberdrukte? Oja, ik ben ziek en moet aansterken. Morgen gaan we wel weer verder. Hoe dan ook, misschien herinnert u zich nog dat ik ergens zo wat verder naar boven [of naar onder, links, rechts, voren, achteren, ik weet niet hoe u uw computerscherm heeft staan natuurlijk] zei dat mijn creativiteit behoorlijk uitgeknepen was; ik doelde voor een deel uiteraard op de uitputtende sinterklaasgedichten-klus, maar het zit hem ook niet alleen daar in. Ik ben de laatste tijd sowieso behoorlijk bezig mijzelf creatief uit te putten, door snel door te willen na het UOP en gelijk weer liedjes te proberen te vinden om te arrangeren, een begin te maken aan de arrangementen en mijn stem (enzo) over te benutten [dit kan tevens een oorzaak van mijn keelpijn zijn, natuurlijk, en zo hangt alles weer met alles samen], maar ook door bijvoorbeeld het plan van een toneelstuk [eerst maar eens het schrijven, spelen komt later wel], het plan van de dichtbundel [en ik kan mijn sinterklaasjuweeltjes natuurlijk pas na de vijfde publiceren! Zo schiet het natuurlijk ook niet op] en dan ook nog alle losse ideeën die toch niet uitgewerkt gaan worden. Ik wil gewoon heel erg veel van mezelf, en dan nog alle reguliere afspraken, alle concerten die zich in de novembermaand settelen [daar moeten we het ook nog eens over hebben! Wat is dat toch!] en dat iedereen ineens enthousiast wordt om dingen te gaan doen. Het hele jaar kun je dingen doen, maar in november, als iedereen toch al doodgegooid wordt met dingen om te doen, willen mensen ineens nog meer dingen doen. Ik zelf ook, natuurlijk, maar -
Op dit punt worden mijn filosofieën bruut onderbroken door de aankomst op het net van degene waar ik op aan het wachten was. Tevens stelt mijn ingestortte gezondheid mij niet meer in staat ABN te produceren, en ik moet er helaas het bijltje bij neergooien.
Ik bid u vaarwel, en moge u een fijne winter tegemoet gaan.
vrijdag, augustus 29, 2008
This Is A Short Story.
This is the Prologue of the Short Story
Brother sis
ter brother
mother sist
er brother s
ister mothe
r brother (f
ather) brot
her sister si
ster mother.
This is the Actual Short Story
Jonathan took a deep breath and moved his Horse.
“Checkmate.”
His oponent stared at the chessboard for another three minutes. He would simply not believe this unpleasant surprise. He had not seen it coming. Jonathan smiled and, looking very pleased, sat back in his chair, lighting a cigarette. He took another one out of the pack and tried to hand it to his brother, but the fellow didn’t notice, being too busy now furiously staring at the chessboard.
“Oh, give up, brother. You have lost again. Just take your cigarette, will you. It’s not like I’m going to hold it out to you forever.”
He didn’t speak in an annoyed tone. In fact, pride was dripping from his voice. His brother sighed and took the cigarette. He did speak in an annoyed tone.
“Well, I must congratulate you, brother. You did it again. I am still sure there must be some way out for my poor king, but I don’t feel like staring over this chessboard for another hour.”
He would perfectly love to do so but would not do so because he knew Jonathan would think it childish. Jonathan inhaled deeply from his cigarette and – still smiling – looked out of the window, his eyes fixing on something that apparently made him smile even more. Walter looked a trifle miserable, still looking at the chessboard from the corner of his eye, but pretending not to. Someone entered the room.
“Jane, sister! I have not seen you for about a hundred years! But no, maybe it have been months only... Or a hundred days? Just perhaps hours. But Jane, dear, how glad I am to see you!”
“You silly brother you are!” said Jane, “But I have missed you too. How has the battlefield been?”
“Oh, as battlefields shall be forever. I am glad to be home. I missed playing the piano.”
“I think we all missed the sound of you playing the piano. Haven’t we, Walter?”
Walter nodded vaguely, his mind still fixed on the chessboard. He did not pray to hear this conversation.
“I shall get you a drink. You must be tired after such a journey!”
Jane was a person that spoke in lots of exclamationmarks, when she spoke to her brother. That is, when she spoke to Jonathan. Jonathan nodded.
“I am quite tired indeed. I shall go to bed early tonight. Won’t you get dear Walter a drink too?”
Walter could puke at the tone in which he said this, but was rather thirsty, so he asked Jane to bring him a cup of tea instead.
“No Brandy for you, brother? Come on, won’t you join me?”
He shook his head and tried to sound calm;
“No, not today, brother. A cup of warm tea on a winters day would do me good.”
Jonathan looked very much like he didn’t understand this at all, but still nodded and said to Jane (as if she hadn’t heard it, still standing in the door):
“A cup of tea and a Brandy it will be, then.”
Walter didn’t like to drink alcohol. It made him feel sick and dizzy. Jonathan loved alcohol; Jonathan thought every man should drink alcohol. Especially Brandies. The hour didn’t matter.
“So, tell me, have you written anything interesting lately?”
Jane had gone to the kitchen to get the drinks and Jonathan had turned to Walter again. Walter did not feel like answering, because the way Jonathan had asked the question it sounded like he had asked a little kid of about six years. Walter didn’t like it when Jonathan spoke to him like that, but he couldn’t help it. Still looking a bit miserable he answered:
“I published a book. It is about two children growing up during WWI. A brother and a sister.”
“Oh” said Jonathan, looking out of the window again. He took another drag from his cigarette and then placed it on the side of the chessboard. Jane entered again with the drinks.
“So, here you are, brother, something to warm you.”
Sometimes Jane spoke to Jonathan as if she were his wife. Sometimes everyone spoke to Jonathan as if they were his wife.
“Thank you, sister. It is most kind of you.”
Sometimes Jonathan spoke as if he were very old and wise and polite. Walter watched Jonathan’s cigarette burn a hole in the chessboard, but made no attempt to pick it up. He thought that it would be better not to have a chessboard at all, so that Jonathan couldn’t ask him to play checkers with him. Jane and Jonathan were now discussing Politics. He made no attempt to take part in the conversation. He thought if he wouldn’t take part in their discussion they would forget about him and he could pick up his book again. Before Jonathan came home, he was reading a very interesting book. He thought of his book for while and wondered if they would noticed if he picked it up again, and would that be rude. Jonathan was now preaching Politics and Jane was nodding at him very seriously all the time. It made him feel very lonely.
“Now see, if all the priests and bisshops in the world would live like that... You understand that there would be nothing left to rely on.”
Walter didn’t understand what Jonathan was talking about, because he had not paid attention to the part where Jonathan had explained like what exactly all the priests and bisshops in the world shouldn’t live. Jonathan looked over at him for his opinion, and he nodded seriously, just like Jane had nodded. He still felt lonely and wanted to go away.
“But I suppose none of you is really interested in this. I’ve made my point. Walter, could you ask mother when dinner is ready?”
Walter was very relieved to have an excuse to leave the room. He went to the kitchen and asked his mother when dinner was ready. She answered half an hour. He told her okay.
He wondered if he should get back now to tell Jane and Jonathan half an hour. He didn’t want to, but he was asked to leave the room just because they wanted to know when dinner was ready, so he decided he had to, and went back in.
“Dinner will be ready within thirty minutes” he told them.
They nodded.
“Thank you, Walter” said Jonathan, and Walter wondered for a moment if Jonathan would now give him a cookie for he had obeyed. He shook his head at the silly thought, then nodded. Jane looked at him a trifle worried. He got himself together and looked back at her all polite smiles. Then the phone in the hall rang and he hurried to take it up.
“House of the Percey family.”
He always answered the phone like that, because no one ever wanted to talk to him anyway so it would be no use to say his name.
“Walter! Oh how long it has been that I spoke to you on the phone! It is always Jane or Jonathan answering.”
Walter wanted to say that this was most easily explained and that it was no use for him to pick up the phone as nobody ever called for him, but this sounded very lonely and sad, so he said nothing.
“Well how are you!” said the voice. It was a ladies voice, but he hadn’t quite recognized it and the lady hadn’t told him her name. He was ashamed for not recognizing this lady whoever she was, so he didn’t dare ask.
“I’m quite fine, thank you. The book is being sold very good.”
“Which book?” said the lady. He thought it couldn’t be someone his family knew well, for she would have known about his book.
“I published a book.”
“Oh dear, did you! I never knew you were a writer. I thought you were in the army like Jonathan!”
He smiled at himself in the mirror, thinking of himself marching off to war, with his weak legs. This woman just could not be a close friend of the family.
“No, lady, I am not. I have been a writer for a very long time indeed.”
“Oh I must be confusing you with someone else then, my dear. Won’t you get your mother on the phone, please. Is she able to get to the phone?”
“She is cooking. I will ask her if she has a moment.”
He placed the phone next to his book, decided to remember that his book was in the hall, and went into the kitchen again. His mother looked very busy, and because Walter guessed she would ask who was on the phone, he decided not to ask her and thus tell the lady she was very busy cooking and could not get on the phone. He went back into the hall, picked up the phone again and, looking at the cover of the book laying next to it, told the lady his mother could not get on the phone. The lady told him she would call another time and said goodbye. He didn’t quite listen to what she said because he was trying to find the last page he had read. She waited for a moment, but as he didn’t say anything like ‘goodbye’, she just hung up. Still holding the phone to his ear but not noticing the long ‘bleeeeeeep’ coming out of it, Walter had found the last page he had read. He read it over, then realized he was still holding the phone, replaced the phone and went into the living room again, reading the book as he walked.
Jane and Jonathan were now talking about their big family and didn’t notice him coming in. He saw Jane was drinking his tea, but didn’t mind because he wasn’t quite as thirsty as he was before anymore. He couldn’t concentrate on the book with Jane and Jonathan talking in the background, so he set himself on the couch and looked out of the window instead, the book in his lap. He thought of his childhood and how Jane used to say she was going to marry Jonathan when she would be older. He would say that she couldn’t marry Jonathan because he was her brother, and then she used to look just as miserable as he had looked after losing checkers from Jonathan that afternoon, and would look up to him and ask why that made a difference. She was about five or six years old then and he wondered if she had really loved her brother and wanted to marry him when she was older. He thought she might have, because she didn’t look like she was very happy with her life and her husband and hang around Jonathan a lot. Then he thought she in fact did look happy, but that this wasn’t real happiness but fake happiness. He thought that Jonathan looked happy too, and then wondered if he really was. He couldn’t come to a conclusion, because he couldn’t quite identify with Jonathan. It was hard to imagine being Jonathan, even though Jonathan was only two years older than he was. He looked over at the two of them and how Jane would laugh at everything Jonathan said. It was strange to watch them without paying attention to the words, and he made up a little game for himself in guessing from their faces and gestures what they were talking about. Once he had made a game of this for himself, however, he couldn’t help paying attention to the words anyway. This would of course spoil the game, so he quit it. He picked up the book again, but couldn’t shut their voices out. He decided that it was no use and listened to their conversation.
“No but Jonathan, tell me, when are you going to get married? You are so handsome and smart, you must be able to get a thousand women.”
“Oh sister, don’t be silly” said Jonathan, but you could see from his face that he thought he could get a thousand women indeed. Walter thought of Jane loving Jonathan, really loving him, and thought they would make a great couple. Then he thought of sisters and brothers having love affairs and why that was wrong, except of course because their babies would be ill. He thought of a book he had read in which a brother and a sister had a love affair. He wondered if it was worse to love someone of the same sex or if it was worse to love your brother, but because he didn’t know why any of those were bad in the first place he couldn’t decide which was worse. He felt like talking to Jane about what she had said to him about marrying Jonathan when she was a child, but he knew Jane wouldn’t talk to him about it anyway, so he would not do it because it was no use. He didn’t know his brother and sister very well, not well enough to talk about such things perhaps. But they were so different to him that they were like strangers.
Then Mrs. Percey called them for dinner. Jonathan said hmm and that he was hungry. Jane laughed at that, but Walter didn’t quite understand why, because it wasn’t quite meant as a joke. It was probably more meant as a giggle then a laugh anyway.
“Walter, you have been so silent today. Why not tell us about your interests and Political views?”
Walter stared at his plate like a child does when it’s shy.
“Because my interests don’t interest you and because I have no Political views.”
Jonathan nodded. “
“Well, then, still. Tell us about your interests. Of course we want to hear about your interests.”
Walter wanted to say that if they were really interested in his interests they would have known them already, him being their brother for about many years now, but he didn’t want to argue so he said he was interested in Literature and the World Wars and in learning Japanese some day. And that he liked cats. He felt like he was talking to complete strangers. It was very strange to tell such simple things about yourself to your close family. Jonathan nodded very seriously all the time but you could see he was not listening. Jane just looked out of the window. The atmosphere was really very uncomfortable. He prayed to God someone would interrupt him, because he didn’t know how much he should tell them about his interests, for they didn’t seem to care, but Jonathan was still nodding very gravely and his gestures of nodding seemed like encouragement to go on, which was in strong contradiction with them not seeming to care about what he was telling them. This confused him and he started to look more and more puzzled as he spoke. Then Jane, still looking out of the window, finally interrupted him.
“Look, a cat! What a nice cat it is, there, sitting on our windowsill, just like that! I never saw that cat before.”
“It is the neighbours cat. They have had him for years already” said mother, looking a little tired. Jane seemed sort of hit by this comment and started to pretend she had not said anything, pouring sauce over her plate. Walter felt sorry for her making such a stupid comment, but she had sort of saved him from his talk about his interest, so he thanked her in silence, even though she had never intended to save him from anything. When Jonathan started to him again – probably to save Jane this time – she took a big bite from his bread to make sure he couldn’t answer immediately.
“But yes, Walter, I think Japanese is a very interesting language. I don’t know very much about it, however.”
Walter wanted to say that things always seem interesting when you don’t know much about them, but again thought this wasn’t a nice thing to say, so tried to think of a better answer, slowly chewing away the bread. As he couldn’t think of anything and had just swallowed his bread, he just said:
“Yes.”
Jane giggled and looked at him as if he had just told a very funny joke. The silence was very uncomfortable. No one had eaten much, but still Mrs. Percey took their plates and asked them if they would like a desert. He didn’t like the table-situation so he wanted everybody to decline so that they could leave the table, but that would be rude to mother, who had worked on a desert. The other two thought the same, as their expressions showed, but they all nodded enthousiastically. So out went Mrs. Percey with their plates, to get the desert.
Jonathan looked over at Walter again and wanted to say something, but Walter wanted to avoid a conversation and looked over at Jane, who was again looking out of the window. He thought he caught her looking a little sad.
“You know,” said Jonathan, “I have missed playing checkers with you, Walter. We used to play checkers so often when we were young.”
He tried to sound melancholic or sentimental or hit by nostalgia or something similar, but he failed to do so and Walter just smiled at him. He just would not say he missed it too because he absolutely hated playing checkers with anyone, especially with Jonathan.
Mother came in with the deserts and placed them in front of them. Walter ate fast because he wanted this situation to end fast, just like Jonathan, probably, as Walter saw him eating very fast too, but Jane ate very very slowly and was still looking out of the window with an absent mind. Walter wanted to exchange a look with Jonathan about Jane eating so slowly and being so absent minded, but that would be strange and Jonathan wouldn’t have understood the look anyway. Jonathan had now started to talk to mother about good old times, thanking her for many things. It sounded very much like he was speeching on her burial, and Walter laughed at that inside. Jane now looked very tired and very much as if she were about to cry. They ate their desert in silence. Then they waited until Jane said that she didn’t want it any more and then waited until mother had took the empty plates to the kitchen. Walter knew that it wasn’t very polite to get to his book on the couch again, but he knew that they all wanted to end dinner, so he did it anyway, without a word. He found the last page he had read easily and started to read, there being no background noises this time, because Jonathan and Jane were still sitting at the table, Jane now nearly crying. He got into his book and didn’t notice Jane and Jonathan getting up from their seats and Jonathan going to the kitchen to help mother. He didn’t notice Jane taking a seat by the window, and he didn’t notice Jonathan and Mrs. Percey entering the living room again and sitting down to play checkers. He vaguely noticed Mrs. Percey telling Jonathan not to leave his cigarettes at the edge of the chessboard again and vaguely smiled at that through the story of his book. He didn’t notice Jane going to bed, Mrs. Percey going to bed, and Jonathan going out to meet a friend. When he has finished his book he found himself alone in the livingroom with only one light on. He liked that. He walked over to the chessboard and then softly broke it.
It was midnight now. He went to bed, very softly and with a strange content feeling. He would not play checkers with Jonathan any more.
Brother sis
ter brother
mother sist
er brother s
ister mothe
r brother (f
ather) brot
her sister si
ster mother.
This is the Actual Short Story
Jonathan took a deep breath and moved his Horse.
“Checkmate.”
His oponent stared at the chessboard for another three minutes. He would simply not believe this unpleasant surprise. He had not seen it coming. Jonathan smiled and, looking very pleased, sat back in his chair, lighting a cigarette. He took another one out of the pack and tried to hand it to his brother, but the fellow didn’t notice, being too busy now furiously staring at the chessboard.
“Oh, give up, brother. You have lost again. Just take your cigarette, will you. It’s not like I’m going to hold it out to you forever.”
He didn’t speak in an annoyed tone. In fact, pride was dripping from his voice. His brother sighed and took the cigarette. He did speak in an annoyed tone.
“Well, I must congratulate you, brother. You did it again. I am still sure there must be some way out for my poor king, but I don’t feel like staring over this chessboard for another hour.”
He would perfectly love to do so but would not do so because he knew Jonathan would think it childish. Jonathan inhaled deeply from his cigarette and – still smiling – looked out of the window, his eyes fixing on something that apparently made him smile even more. Walter looked a trifle miserable, still looking at the chessboard from the corner of his eye, but pretending not to. Someone entered the room.
“Jane, sister! I have not seen you for about a hundred years! But no, maybe it have been months only... Or a hundred days? Just perhaps hours. But Jane, dear, how glad I am to see you!”
“You silly brother you are!” said Jane, “But I have missed you too. How has the battlefield been?”
“Oh, as battlefields shall be forever. I am glad to be home. I missed playing the piano.”
“I think we all missed the sound of you playing the piano. Haven’t we, Walter?”
Walter nodded vaguely, his mind still fixed on the chessboard. He did not pray to hear this conversation.
“I shall get you a drink. You must be tired after such a journey!”
Jane was a person that spoke in lots of exclamationmarks, when she spoke to her brother. That is, when she spoke to Jonathan. Jonathan nodded.
“I am quite tired indeed. I shall go to bed early tonight. Won’t you get dear Walter a drink too?”
Walter could puke at the tone in which he said this, but was rather thirsty, so he asked Jane to bring him a cup of tea instead.
“No Brandy for you, brother? Come on, won’t you join me?”
He shook his head and tried to sound calm;
“No, not today, brother. A cup of warm tea on a winters day would do me good.”
Jonathan looked very much like he didn’t understand this at all, but still nodded and said to Jane (as if she hadn’t heard it, still standing in the door):
“A cup of tea and a Brandy it will be, then.”
Walter didn’t like to drink alcohol. It made him feel sick and dizzy. Jonathan loved alcohol; Jonathan thought every man should drink alcohol. Especially Brandies. The hour didn’t matter.
“So, tell me, have you written anything interesting lately?”
Jane had gone to the kitchen to get the drinks and Jonathan had turned to Walter again. Walter did not feel like answering, because the way Jonathan had asked the question it sounded like he had asked a little kid of about six years. Walter didn’t like it when Jonathan spoke to him like that, but he couldn’t help it. Still looking a bit miserable he answered:
“I published a book. It is about two children growing up during WWI. A brother and a sister.”
“Oh” said Jonathan, looking out of the window again. He took another drag from his cigarette and then placed it on the side of the chessboard. Jane entered again with the drinks.
“So, here you are, brother, something to warm you.”
Sometimes Jane spoke to Jonathan as if she were his wife. Sometimes everyone spoke to Jonathan as if they were his wife.
“Thank you, sister. It is most kind of you.”
Sometimes Jonathan spoke as if he were very old and wise and polite. Walter watched Jonathan’s cigarette burn a hole in the chessboard, but made no attempt to pick it up. He thought that it would be better not to have a chessboard at all, so that Jonathan couldn’t ask him to play checkers with him. Jane and Jonathan were now discussing Politics. He made no attempt to take part in the conversation. He thought if he wouldn’t take part in their discussion they would forget about him and he could pick up his book again. Before Jonathan came home, he was reading a very interesting book. He thought of his book for while and wondered if they would noticed if he picked it up again, and would that be rude. Jonathan was now preaching Politics and Jane was nodding at him very seriously all the time. It made him feel very lonely.
“Now see, if all the priests and bisshops in the world would live like that... You understand that there would be nothing left to rely on.”
Walter didn’t understand what Jonathan was talking about, because he had not paid attention to the part where Jonathan had explained like what exactly all the priests and bisshops in the world shouldn’t live. Jonathan looked over at him for his opinion, and he nodded seriously, just like Jane had nodded. He still felt lonely and wanted to go away.
“But I suppose none of you is really interested in this. I’ve made my point. Walter, could you ask mother when dinner is ready?”
Walter was very relieved to have an excuse to leave the room. He went to the kitchen and asked his mother when dinner was ready. She answered half an hour. He told her okay.
He wondered if he should get back now to tell Jane and Jonathan half an hour. He didn’t want to, but he was asked to leave the room just because they wanted to know when dinner was ready, so he decided he had to, and went back in.
“Dinner will be ready within thirty minutes” he told them.
They nodded.
“Thank you, Walter” said Jonathan, and Walter wondered for a moment if Jonathan would now give him a cookie for he had obeyed. He shook his head at the silly thought, then nodded. Jane looked at him a trifle worried. He got himself together and looked back at her all polite smiles. Then the phone in the hall rang and he hurried to take it up.
“House of the Percey family.”
He always answered the phone like that, because no one ever wanted to talk to him anyway so it would be no use to say his name.
“Walter! Oh how long it has been that I spoke to you on the phone! It is always Jane or Jonathan answering.”
Walter wanted to say that this was most easily explained and that it was no use for him to pick up the phone as nobody ever called for him, but this sounded very lonely and sad, so he said nothing.
“Well how are you!” said the voice. It was a ladies voice, but he hadn’t quite recognized it and the lady hadn’t told him her name. He was ashamed for not recognizing this lady whoever she was, so he didn’t dare ask.
“I’m quite fine, thank you. The book is being sold very good.”
“Which book?” said the lady. He thought it couldn’t be someone his family knew well, for she would have known about his book.
“I published a book.”
“Oh dear, did you! I never knew you were a writer. I thought you were in the army like Jonathan!”
He smiled at himself in the mirror, thinking of himself marching off to war, with his weak legs. This woman just could not be a close friend of the family.
“No, lady, I am not. I have been a writer for a very long time indeed.”
“Oh I must be confusing you with someone else then, my dear. Won’t you get your mother on the phone, please. Is she able to get to the phone?”
“She is cooking. I will ask her if she has a moment.”
He placed the phone next to his book, decided to remember that his book was in the hall, and went into the kitchen again. His mother looked very busy, and because Walter guessed she would ask who was on the phone, he decided not to ask her and thus tell the lady she was very busy cooking and could not get on the phone. He went back into the hall, picked up the phone again and, looking at the cover of the book laying next to it, told the lady his mother could not get on the phone. The lady told him she would call another time and said goodbye. He didn’t quite listen to what she said because he was trying to find the last page he had read. She waited for a moment, but as he didn’t say anything like ‘goodbye’, she just hung up. Still holding the phone to his ear but not noticing the long ‘bleeeeeeep’ coming out of it, Walter had found the last page he had read. He read it over, then realized he was still holding the phone, replaced the phone and went into the living room again, reading the book as he walked.
Jane and Jonathan were now talking about their big family and didn’t notice him coming in. He saw Jane was drinking his tea, but didn’t mind because he wasn’t quite as thirsty as he was before anymore. He couldn’t concentrate on the book with Jane and Jonathan talking in the background, so he set himself on the couch and looked out of the window instead, the book in his lap. He thought of his childhood and how Jane used to say she was going to marry Jonathan when she would be older. He would say that she couldn’t marry Jonathan because he was her brother, and then she used to look just as miserable as he had looked after losing checkers from Jonathan that afternoon, and would look up to him and ask why that made a difference. She was about five or six years old then and he wondered if she had really loved her brother and wanted to marry him when she was older. He thought she might have, because she didn’t look like she was very happy with her life and her husband and hang around Jonathan a lot. Then he thought she in fact did look happy, but that this wasn’t real happiness but fake happiness. He thought that Jonathan looked happy too, and then wondered if he really was. He couldn’t come to a conclusion, because he couldn’t quite identify with Jonathan. It was hard to imagine being Jonathan, even though Jonathan was only two years older than he was. He looked over at the two of them and how Jane would laugh at everything Jonathan said. It was strange to watch them without paying attention to the words, and he made up a little game for himself in guessing from their faces and gestures what they were talking about. Once he had made a game of this for himself, however, he couldn’t help paying attention to the words anyway. This would of course spoil the game, so he quit it. He picked up the book again, but couldn’t shut their voices out. He decided that it was no use and listened to their conversation.
“No but Jonathan, tell me, when are you going to get married? You are so handsome and smart, you must be able to get a thousand women.”
“Oh sister, don’t be silly” said Jonathan, but you could see from his face that he thought he could get a thousand women indeed. Walter thought of Jane loving Jonathan, really loving him, and thought they would make a great couple. Then he thought of sisters and brothers having love affairs and why that was wrong, except of course because their babies would be ill. He thought of a book he had read in which a brother and a sister had a love affair. He wondered if it was worse to love someone of the same sex or if it was worse to love your brother, but because he didn’t know why any of those were bad in the first place he couldn’t decide which was worse. He felt like talking to Jane about what she had said to him about marrying Jonathan when she was a child, but he knew Jane wouldn’t talk to him about it anyway, so he would not do it because it was no use. He didn’t know his brother and sister very well, not well enough to talk about such things perhaps. But they were so different to him that they were like strangers.
Then Mrs. Percey called them for dinner. Jonathan said hmm and that he was hungry. Jane laughed at that, but Walter didn’t quite understand why, because it wasn’t quite meant as a joke. It was probably more meant as a giggle then a laugh anyway.
“Walter, you have been so silent today. Why not tell us about your interests and Political views?”
Walter stared at his plate like a child does when it’s shy.
“Because my interests don’t interest you and because I have no Political views.”
Jonathan nodded. “
“Well, then, still. Tell us about your interests. Of course we want to hear about your interests.”
Walter wanted to say that if they were really interested in his interests they would have known them already, him being their brother for about many years now, but he didn’t want to argue so he said he was interested in Literature and the World Wars and in learning Japanese some day. And that he liked cats. He felt like he was talking to complete strangers. It was very strange to tell such simple things about yourself to your close family. Jonathan nodded very seriously all the time but you could see he was not listening. Jane just looked out of the window. The atmosphere was really very uncomfortable. He prayed to God someone would interrupt him, because he didn’t know how much he should tell them about his interests, for they didn’t seem to care, but Jonathan was still nodding very gravely and his gestures of nodding seemed like encouragement to go on, which was in strong contradiction with them not seeming to care about what he was telling them. This confused him and he started to look more and more puzzled as he spoke. Then Jane, still looking out of the window, finally interrupted him.
“Look, a cat! What a nice cat it is, there, sitting on our windowsill, just like that! I never saw that cat before.”
“It is the neighbours cat. They have had him for years already” said mother, looking a little tired. Jane seemed sort of hit by this comment and started to pretend she had not said anything, pouring sauce over her plate. Walter felt sorry for her making such a stupid comment, but she had sort of saved him from his talk about his interest, so he thanked her in silence, even though she had never intended to save him from anything. When Jonathan started to him again – probably to save Jane this time – she took a big bite from his bread to make sure he couldn’t answer immediately.
“But yes, Walter, I think Japanese is a very interesting language. I don’t know very much about it, however.”
Walter wanted to say that things always seem interesting when you don’t know much about them, but again thought this wasn’t a nice thing to say, so tried to think of a better answer, slowly chewing away the bread. As he couldn’t think of anything and had just swallowed his bread, he just said:
“Yes.”
Jane giggled and looked at him as if he had just told a very funny joke. The silence was very uncomfortable. No one had eaten much, but still Mrs. Percey took their plates and asked them if they would like a desert. He didn’t like the table-situation so he wanted everybody to decline so that they could leave the table, but that would be rude to mother, who had worked on a desert. The other two thought the same, as their expressions showed, but they all nodded enthousiastically. So out went Mrs. Percey with their plates, to get the desert.
Jonathan looked over at Walter again and wanted to say something, but Walter wanted to avoid a conversation and looked over at Jane, who was again looking out of the window. He thought he caught her looking a little sad.
“You know,” said Jonathan, “I have missed playing checkers with you, Walter. We used to play checkers so often when we were young.”
He tried to sound melancholic or sentimental or hit by nostalgia or something similar, but he failed to do so and Walter just smiled at him. He just would not say he missed it too because he absolutely hated playing checkers with anyone, especially with Jonathan.
Mother came in with the deserts and placed them in front of them. Walter ate fast because he wanted this situation to end fast, just like Jonathan, probably, as Walter saw him eating very fast too, but Jane ate very very slowly and was still looking out of the window with an absent mind. Walter wanted to exchange a look with Jonathan about Jane eating so slowly and being so absent minded, but that would be strange and Jonathan wouldn’t have understood the look anyway. Jonathan had now started to talk to mother about good old times, thanking her for many things. It sounded very much like he was speeching on her burial, and Walter laughed at that inside. Jane now looked very tired and very much as if she were about to cry. They ate their desert in silence. Then they waited until Jane said that she didn’t want it any more and then waited until mother had took the empty plates to the kitchen. Walter knew that it wasn’t very polite to get to his book on the couch again, but he knew that they all wanted to end dinner, so he did it anyway, without a word. He found the last page he had read easily and started to read, there being no background noises this time, because Jonathan and Jane were still sitting at the table, Jane now nearly crying. He got into his book and didn’t notice Jane and Jonathan getting up from their seats and Jonathan going to the kitchen to help mother. He didn’t notice Jane taking a seat by the window, and he didn’t notice Jonathan and Mrs. Percey entering the living room again and sitting down to play checkers. He vaguely noticed Mrs. Percey telling Jonathan not to leave his cigarettes at the edge of the chessboard again and vaguely smiled at that through the story of his book. He didn’t notice Jane going to bed, Mrs. Percey going to bed, and Jonathan going out to meet a friend. When he has finished his book he found himself alone in the livingroom with only one light on. He liked that. He walked over to the chessboard and then softly broke it.
It was midnight now. He went to bed, very softly and with a strange content feeling. He would not play checkers with Jonathan any more.
maandag, augustus 25, 2008
Over Het Postkantoor
Ik pak mijn huissleutels en lees de brief nog een keer door, scannend op benodigdheden. “Ophalen uiterlijk 24-(oeps!)04-(oh gelukkig)’08. Gelieve u te identificeren met (aha!) geldig identiteitsbewijs (check), pinpas en pincode (check) en betreffende afhaalbewijs (duh).”
Het is koud buiten (en dat NA Pasen!). Ik probeer niet te denken aan de handschoenen die in het voorvakje van mijn schooltas (die ik op mijn rug heb) zitten, en kijk strak naar het (eeuwig) rode stoplicht, treurig denkend aan de Groene Golf die de gemeente hier een paar jaar terug heeft geïnstalleerd (ik vermoed nog steeds dat ze gewoon een excuus wilden hebben om voor zoveel mogelijk mensen zo hinderlijk mogelijk te zijn met het blokkeren van belangrijke routes, Omgekeerd Utilisme, zegmaar). Een fietswiel duwt van achter tegen het mijne. “Punk”, hoor ik iemand twijfelend zeggen, en even vraag ik me af waar hij in God’s naam op doelt, totdat hij vervolgt; “Punk.. Caba.. ret.. Cabaret… Huh? Wat staat daar?”. Ik kan een glimlach niet onderdrukken, en draai mijn hoofd, zodat ik strak naar voren kijk (ik vermoed namelijk een misplaatste vertederde uitdrukking op mijn gezicht te hebben, een beetje wat ik ook krijg als mensen me vragen “of The Beatles niet van voor mijn tijd waren”). Nog een paar keer doen de jongens een poging om mijn schooltas te lezen (de woorden ‘is Freedom’ schijnen onleesbaar), en dan springt het stoplicht op groen.
Aangekomen bij het Postkantoor valt me op dat het ineens weer zonnig is. Op de een of andere manier is het altijd zonnig als ik een bezoek aan het Postkantoor breng, zelfs op verder regenachtige dagen. Maar ja, het is niet echt een representatief toevalsexperiment; zo vaak kom ik nou niet bij het Postkantoor. Ik stap naar binnen en trek een nummertje (ik staar het simpel uitziende nummertjesautomaat even zwijgend aan op zoek naar het knopje, want ja, nummertjes trekken doe ik ook maar een paar keer per jaar; namelijk bij het Postkantoor). Ik kijk rond; wat oudere mensen - van wie ik vermoed dat ze nog nooit van het begrip ‘internetbankieren’ hebben gehoord, laat staan zo slordig zijn hun wachtwoord te vergeten (de rede van mijn bezoek) – kijken terug. Ik kijk wat wazig op mijn nummertje; 410. Wat omslachtig zet ik mijn schooltas op de grond en haal er de brief en mijn portemonnee uit. Ik ga op een van de stalen wachtbankjes zitten en besef hoe sneu dat er uit moet zien; de oude mensen en armen in de ruimte zijn allemaal blijven staan. Een vrouw min of meer gekleed in een vuilniszak staat op en loopt naar balie 4. Hierna ben ik, als ik de gele neoncijfers mag geloven. Twee dames achter de balie hebben tussen het helpen van de klanten door een onsamenhangend gesprek, en wisselen tussendoor e-mail, adressen en telefoonnummers uit. Ik loop naar voren (want: 410, geven de gele cijfers aan) en kondig semi-enthousiast de rede van mijn bezoek aan. Semi-vriendelijk antwoordt een van de dames met “Dat kan. Heeft u pinpas en legitimatie?”. Nog voor haar zin af is zit ze alweer in het gesprek met haar collega. Deze verkondigt “haar e-mail eigenlijk nooit te checken”. De dame die me – min of meer – aan het helpen was giechelt even half in mijn richting. Ik wapper bemoedigend met mijn afhaalbewijs. Ze bedenkt zich weer wat ik kwam doen en gaat op zoek naar het desbetreffende wachtwoord. “Twaalf” verkondigt de man achter de balie links van me vastberaden. Hij kijkt er heel trots bij. Hij klinkt alsof hij ’s ochtends voor de spiegel het woord wel zo’n vijftig keer heeft herhaald en de beste toon heeft gekozen. En dan maar hopen dat hij vandaag de kans krijgt om nummer twaalf op te roepen. Gister was het niet gelukt; vandaag greep hij zijn kans. Als nummer twaalf vervolgens niet komt opdagen, kijkt hij wat sipjes. Ik glimlach bemoedigend naar hem. Na een korte stilte, waarin hij ongetwijfeld in zijn hoofd snel vijf keer het woord ‘dertien’ gezegd heeft, roept hij het volgende nummer op.
Als ik met wachtwoord en al naar buiten loop, schijnt de zon nog steeds. Het Postkantoor is net Den Haag Centraal in het klein, bedenk ik me. En over een paar jaar is het weg.
Het is koud buiten (en dat NA Pasen!). Ik probeer niet te denken aan de handschoenen die in het voorvakje van mijn schooltas (die ik op mijn rug heb) zitten, en kijk strak naar het (eeuwig) rode stoplicht, treurig denkend aan de Groene Golf die de gemeente hier een paar jaar terug heeft geïnstalleerd (ik vermoed nog steeds dat ze gewoon een excuus wilden hebben om voor zoveel mogelijk mensen zo hinderlijk mogelijk te zijn met het blokkeren van belangrijke routes, Omgekeerd Utilisme, zegmaar). Een fietswiel duwt van achter tegen het mijne. “Punk”, hoor ik iemand twijfelend zeggen, en even vraag ik me af waar hij in God’s naam op doelt, totdat hij vervolgt; “Punk.. Caba.. ret.. Cabaret… Huh? Wat staat daar?”. Ik kan een glimlach niet onderdrukken, en draai mijn hoofd, zodat ik strak naar voren kijk (ik vermoed namelijk een misplaatste vertederde uitdrukking op mijn gezicht te hebben, een beetje wat ik ook krijg als mensen me vragen “of The Beatles niet van voor mijn tijd waren”). Nog een paar keer doen de jongens een poging om mijn schooltas te lezen (de woorden ‘is Freedom’ schijnen onleesbaar), en dan springt het stoplicht op groen.
Aangekomen bij het Postkantoor valt me op dat het ineens weer zonnig is. Op de een of andere manier is het altijd zonnig als ik een bezoek aan het Postkantoor breng, zelfs op verder regenachtige dagen. Maar ja, het is niet echt een representatief toevalsexperiment; zo vaak kom ik nou niet bij het Postkantoor. Ik stap naar binnen en trek een nummertje (ik staar het simpel uitziende nummertjesautomaat even zwijgend aan op zoek naar het knopje, want ja, nummertjes trekken doe ik ook maar een paar keer per jaar; namelijk bij het Postkantoor). Ik kijk rond; wat oudere mensen - van wie ik vermoed dat ze nog nooit van het begrip ‘internetbankieren’ hebben gehoord, laat staan zo slordig zijn hun wachtwoord te vergeten (de rede van mijn bezoek) – kijken terug. Ik kijk wat wazig op mijn nummertje; 410. Wat omslachtig zet ik mijn schooltas op de grond en haal er de brief en mijn portemonnee uit. Ik ga op een van de stalen wachtbankjes zitten en besef hoe sneu dat er uit moet zien; de oude mensen en armen in de ruimte zijn allemaal blijven staan. Een vrouw min of meer gekleed in een vuilniszak staat op en loopt naar balie 4. Hierna ben ik, als ik de gele neoncijfers mag geloven. Twee dames achter de balie hebben tussen het helpen van de klanten door een onsamenhangend gesprek, en wisselen tussendoor e-mail, adressen en telefoonnummers uit. Ik loop naar voren (want: 410, geven de gele cijfers aan) en kondig semi-enthousiast de rede van mijn bezoek aan. Semi-vriendelijk antwoordt een van de dames met “Dat kan. Heeft u pinpas en legitimatie?”. Nog voor haar zin af is zit ze alweer in het gesprek met haar collega. Deze verkondigt “haar e-mail eigenlijk nooit te checken”. De dame die me – min of meer – aan het helpen was giechelt even half in mijn richting. Ik wapper bemoedigend met mijn afhaalbewijs. Ze bedenkt zich weer wat ik kwam doen en gaat op zoek naar het desbetreffende wachtwoord. “Twaalf” verkondigt de man achter de balie links van me vastberaden. Hij kijkt er heel trots bij. Hij klinkt alsof hij ’s ochtends voor de spiegel het woord wel zo’n vijftig keer heeft herhaald en de beste toon heeft gekozen. En dan maar hopen dat hij vandaag de kans krijgt om nummer twaalf op te roepen. Gister was het niet gelukt; vandaag greep hij zijn kans. Als nummer twaalf vervolgens niet komt opdagen, kijkt hij wat sipjes. Ik glimlach bemoedigend naar hem. Na een korte stilte, waarin hij ongetwijfeld in zijn hoofd snel vijf keer het woord ‘dertien’ gezegd heeft, roept hij het volgende nummer op.
Als ik met wachtwoord en al naar buiten loop, schijnt de zon nog steeds. Het Postkantoor is net Den Haag Centraal in het klein, bedenk ik me. En over een paar jaar is het weg.
maandag, augustus 18, 2008
Hij haalde zijn schouders op. “Nou, op dat soort momenten denk ik na over het leven.”
Hij zei het achteloos, alsof het voor hem de normaalste zaak van de wereld was. En dat was het waarschijnlijk ook. Ze keek niet-begrijpend in zijn richting.
“En seks dan?” ze keek een beetje verontwaardigd. “En tijdens de seks? Denk je dan ook na over het leven?”
Ze hield haar hoofd schuin en keek hem indringend aan, maar hij merkte het niet, want hij keek naar buiten. Hij aarzelde even, en antwoordde daarna dat hij soms ook tijdens de seks wel eens over het leven nadacht. Dat snapte ze niet, want, zei ze, hoe kun je nou klaarkomen en nadenken over het leven tegelijk? Daar wist hij zo snel ook geen antwoord op. “Misschien niet als ik klaarkom, maar daarvoor en daarna toch wel een beetje. Kan ik niks aan doen, geloof ik.”
“En wanneer denk je dan aan mij?” wilde ze weten, “denk je dan meer aan het leven dan aan mij?”
Dat wist hij ook niet precies, want, zei hij vertwijfeld, “Jij bent toch onderdeel van het leven?”
Daar wist ze even geen antwoord op, want dat was waar. Ze spreidde zich lui uit over het bed en liet haar hoofd op zijn schoot rusten. Hij streelde haar haren en keek nog steeds in gedachten verzonken naar buiten. Het was even stil.
“En waar denk je dan nu aan?”
“Het gaat zo heel hard regenen en ik moet nog naar huis fietsen.”
Hij zong zachtjes een liedje en keek nog steeds naar buiten, onverstoord.
“Oh.” zei ze, “Wil je dan naar huis?”
“Nee hoor. Maar je wilde weten waar ik aan dacht.”
“Oh” zei ze weer, “Oja.”
Ze herkende het liedje dat hij nog steeds zachtjes zong en wilde mee gaan neuriën, maar bedacht zich toen dat dat niet kon, omdat ze in discussie waren. Ze wist eigenlijk niet zeker of ze dat wel waren, maar toch leek het haar beter het maar niet te doen.
“En wil je dan niet weten waar ik aan dacht?”
“Ja hoor, dat wil ik best weten.”
Hij probeerde haar aan te kijken, maar nu keek zei naar buiten.
“Dat weet ik eigenlijk niet meer.”
“Wat?”
“Waar ik aan dacht, dat weet ik eigenlijk niet.”
“Oh. Oké.”
Ze waren weer een hele tijd stil. Hij wendde zijn hoofd weer naar het raam en dacht na over het leven. Toen hij na een hele tijd weer naar beneden keek, was ze in slaap gevallen. Hij glimlachte, leunde met zijn hoofd tegen de zijkant van haar boekenkast en zong weer zachtjes een liedje.
Hij zei het achteloos, alsof het voor hem de normaalste zaak van de wereld was. En dat was het waarschijnlijk ook. Ze keek niet-begrijpend in zijn richting.
“En seks dan?” ze keek een beetje verontwaardigd. “En tijdens de seks? Denk je dan ook na over het leven?”
Ze hield haar hoofd schuin en keek hem indringend aan, maar hij merkte het niet, want hij keek naar buiten. Hij aarzelde even, en antwoordde daarna dat hij soms ook tijdens de seks wel eens over het leven nadacht. Dat snapte ze niet, want, zei ze, hoe kun je nou klaarkomen en nadenken over het leven tegelijk? Daar wist hij zo snel ook geen antwoord op. “Misschien niet als ik klaarkom, maar daarvoor en daarna toch wel een beetje. Kan ik niks aan doen, geloof ik.”
“En wanneer denk je dan aan mij?” wilde ze weten, “denk je dan meer aan het leven dan aan mij?”
Dat wist hij ook niet precies, want, zei hij vertwijfeld, “Jij bent toch onderdeel van het leven?”
Daar wist ze even geen antwoord op, want dat was waar. Ze spreidde zich lui uit over het bed en liet haar hoofd op zijn schoot rusten. Hij streelde haar haren en keek nog steeds in gedachten verzonken naar buiten. Het was even stil.
“En waar denk je dan nu aan?”
“Het gaat zo heel hard regenen en ik moet nog naar huis fietsen.”
Hij zong zachtjes een liedje en keek nog steeds naar buiten, onverstoord.
“Oh.” zei ze, “Wil je dan naar huis?”
“Nee hoor. Maar je wilde weten waar ik aan dacht.”
“Oh” zei ze weer, “Oja.”
Ze herkende het liedje dat hij nog steeds zachtjes zong en wilde mee gaan neuriën, maar bedacht zich toen dat dat niet kon, omdat ze in discussie waren. Ze wist eigenlijk niet zeker of ze dat wel waren, maar toch leek het haar beter het maar niet te doen.
“En wil je dan niet weten waar ik aan dacht?”
“Ja hoor, dat wil ik best weten.”
Hij probeerde haar aan te kijken, maar nu keek zei naar buiten.
“Dat weet ik eigenlijk niet meer.”
“Wat?”
“Waar ik aan dacht, dat weet ik eigenlijk niet.”
“Oh. Oké.”
Ze waren weer een hele tijd stil. Hij wendde zijn hoofd weer naar het raam en dacht na over het leven. Toen hij na een hele tijd weer naar beneden keek, was ze in slaap gevallen. Hij glimlachte, leunde met zijn hoofd tegen de zijkant van haar boekenkast en zong weer zachtjes een liedje.
maandag, juli 14, 2008
Side-Note-Prose, Part One
Prologue.
I wish I was a prose writer, I wish I was able to twist language, I wish I wasn’t so goddam dramatic, I wish I was nice, I wish people understood me, I wish I understood people, I wish that I had acted a bit more rational, I...
I need to stop wishing. I could wish so many things; I could wish I was dead, I could wish for her to love me after all, I could wish for chocolate. It won’t get me anywhere.
Ok, then, I shall introduce myself. I am sixteen years old, Dutch (I guess confessing this is necessary to explain my inability of producing any Beautiful English Sentences), female, bi-sexual and dramatic. And I wish a lot. (I know that writers usually don’t introduce themselves in prologues. They should. It’s civil enough.)
I need to stop wishing. I could wish so many things; I could wish I was dead, I could wish for her to love me after all, I could wish for chocolate. It won’t get me anywhere.
Ok, then, I shall introduce myself. I am sixteen years old, Dutch (I guess confessing this is necessary to explain my inability of producing any Beautiful English Sentences), female, bi-sexual and dramatic. And I wish a lot. (I know that writers usually don’t introduce themselves in prologues. They should. It’s civil enough.)
-----
At first, I’d like to note; the prologue is over now. This is the Actual Book. I could have put ‘Chapter One’ on top of this, that would have made great sense, but I am quite bad at breaking stories to pieces (this sounds a little dramatic yet already, but by ‘pieces’ I of course just mean chapters), so I shall not use chapters, merily paragraphs. And, of course, sentences, complete with capitalizing, comma’s, semicolons (yes, semicolons, even though the great Orwell used to dislike them and think them unnecessary stops, I adore them to death, frankly, as I adore lots of unnecessary things), et cetera. Because, as you may have noticed, this is not Ulysses.
Once I have made this clear, I would like to state the following; I am an extremely egocentric person, and will therefore not at all (I repeat, not at all) try to save my reader from my Naturally Long Sentences and Other Obstacles. Thou must learn to live with it, I should say. Even though English is not my native language; I shall abuse it as I like. No rules here. Any spelling- or grammarmistakes are completely up yours, and will not in the slightest bother me.
I am aware that I’m not sounding very charming or anything writing this. I probably don’t sound charming because (yes, an actual reason, it’s not because I’m just not a charming person. I’m charming as hell, really. That is, if hell would be charming) – I repeat, I do not sound charming because of my current mood. This mood might as well be described as a trifle bitter, jealous, and, as I stated to a friend the other hour, I am feeling like someone just told me Santa Claus doesn’t actually exist. This is something I of course already knew, but that is of none importance now.
The Santa Claus in this case – my case – is not exactly to be described as a person, but rather as some fact I became aware of. I am hesitating to write it down now – aware that I’ll have to make a choice I haven’t quite made yet. That is to say, the choice between reality and imagination. This choice would of course be extremely painfully easy for any simple person with troubles in one’s life (imagination, the high drug use in our society is there to prove it), but for wannabe-prosewriters like me it’s important to have something to write about. I would love to describe my life as I would like it to be, of course, but I cannot escape from the simple fact that this would bore most anyone to death. I’ll have to make the choice fast, now, however, before a smart reader will become conscious of my dreadfully simple method of postponing said choice.
The funny thing is, though, that since no one knows what is going on inside my head (or at least I pretty much assume so), I can tell either truth or lies about my thoughts and feelings, or both, occasionally, without giving away any true secrets, any true keys to my heart. Which is, for the moment, perfect, and very effective indeed.
The Santa Claus, to pick up my metaphor again, that is affecting my mood at the moment, is a girl. Not a girl of whom someone just told me she doesn’t actually exist, as the whole Santa Clausness would suggest – this is not about murder, nor is it a wicked fantasy story or a story about heavy drug addiction or a psychotic someone with an imaginary friend – but a girl that just got me into some trouble.
NOTE: Within a few sentences relatives and friends will become aware which choice I made for this bit. Dare you read on, dear?
But before I tell you about that and get to these sentences, I’d like to elaborate this thought that just flew by quite randomly.
I once wrote a play (yes, a play), Oscar Wilde-style but with less characters, about a girl (a young woman, rather) in eighteen-hundred-something, who fell in love with another girl but was ashamed of it. She didn’t dare to tell anyone but her very best friend, male, who was in love with her deeply, which she knew. There were a lot of dramatical dialogues, mostly between those two, and even some (even more dramatic) monologues, and in the end this girl’s friend and only one she trusted, married the girl she loved. She never had the guts to tell this girl about her love. Tragic, no? When I first started to work on it, I was going to let the main character commit suicide (I must have been in a bad mood), but I made up my mind (suicide is perhaps a trifle too dramatic), and I don’t think I wrote the last scene at all, after that. This play was, however, not autobiographic at all (only slightly; I have loved girls, too, if that counts), so I am not entirely sure why this random interval just sort of wrote itsself down. Well then, is is the end of the random interval. On with the story. (Not that there is any, really, but I just like to pretend too much).
Right, where was I? Oh yes, I was going to get to the point where family and friends were going to know which choice I made – reality or imagination – for the part about this girl that apparently has been affecting my mood.
This girl was, at first, not quite someone I loved or yearned for, but merily a Public Friend. That is to say – I knew her and we were in the same ‘group’ of ‘friends’, but only with a group. We never had any dialogues or such. I had not quite thought of her as a potential lover – I did not know much of her indeed, and was way too busy killing myself over my First Female (unanswered, red.) Crush ever. I was all busy arranging my own coming-out towards some people, of course getting extremely dramatic, and really making a big deal out of everything. Everything - or rather everyone - seemed to make a big deal out of me, too; people reacted quite shocked. Politically correct, yes, and perhaps shocked is not quite the word, but they Big Deal-ed the thing massively. Which of course gave me a splendid excuse for more dramaticalizing of the matter. I found myself Alone On The Planet, Misunderstood and more such phrases. I was very busy with all of this – my very crush herself had just purchased a loving good boyfriend, to top the bill – when something happened. (because I can’t think of any senseless bridgy sentences, I am going to need a new paragraph here, however dramatic it may seem.)
Once I have made this clear, I would like to state the following; I am an extremely egocentric person, and will therefore not at all (I repeat, not at all) try to save my reader from my Naturally Long Sentences and Other Obstacles. Thou must learn to live with it, I should say. Even though English is not my native language; I shall abuse it as I like. No rules here. Any spelling- or grammarmistakes are completely up yours, and will not in the slightest bother me.
I am aware that I’m not sounding very charming or anything writing this. I probably don’t sound charming because (yes, an actual reason, it’s not because I’m just not a charming person. I’m charming as hell, really. That is, if hell would be charming) – I repeat, I do not sound charming because of my current mood. This mood might as well be described as a trifle bitter, jealous, and, as I stated to a friend the other hour, I am feeling like someone just told me Santa Claus doesn’t actually exist. This is something I of course already knew, but that is of none importance now.
The Santa Claus in this case – my case – is not exactly to be described as a person, but rather as some fact I became aware of. I am hesitating to write it down now – aware that I’ll have to make a choice I haven’t quite made yet. That is to say, the choice between reality and imagination. This choice would of course be extremely painfully easy for any simple person with troubles in one’s life (imagination, the high drug use in our society is there to prove it), but for wannabe-prosewriters like me it’s important to have something to write about. I would love to describe my life as I would like it to be, of course, but I cannot escape from the simple fact that this would bore most anyone to death. I’ll have to make the choice fast, now, however, before a smart reader will become conscious of my dreadfully simple method of postponing said choice.
The funny thing is, though, that since no one knows what is going on inside my head (or at least I pretty much assume so), I can tell either truth or lies about my thoughts and feelings, or both, occasionally, without giving away any true secrets, any true keys to my heart. Which is, for the moment, perfect, and very effective indeed.
The Santa Claus, to pick up my metaphor again, that is affecting my mood at the moment, is a girl. Not a girl of whom someone just told me she doesn’t actually exist, as the whole Santa Clausness would suggest – this is not about murder, nor is it a wicked fantasy story or a story about heavy drug addiction or a psychotic someone with an imaginary friend – but a girl that just got me into some trouble.
NOTE: Within a few sentences relatives and friends will become aware which choice I made for this bit. Dare you read on, dear?
But before I tell you about that and get to these sentences, I’d like to elaborate this thought that just flew by quite randomly.
I once wrote a play (yes, a play), Oscar Wilde-style but with less characters, about a girl (a young woman, rather) in eighteen-hundred-something, who fell in love with another girl but was ashamed of it. She didn’t dare to tell anyone but her very best friend, male, who was in love with her deeply, which she knew. There were a lot of dramatical dialogues, mostly between those two, and even some (even more dramatic) monologues, and in the end this girl’s friend and only one she trusted, married the girl she loved. She never had the guts to tell this girl about her love. Tragic, no? When I first started to work on it, I was going to let the main character commit suicide (I must have been in a bad mood), but I made up my mind (suicide is perhaps a trifle too dramatic), and I don’t think I wrote the last scene at all, after that. This play was, however, not autobiographic at all (only slightly; I have loved girls, too, if that counts), so I am not entirely sure why this random interval just sort of wrote itsself down. Well then, is is the end of the random interval. On with the story. (Not that there is any, really, but I just like to pretend too much).
Right, where was I? Oh yes, I was going to get to the point where family and friends were going to know which choice I made – reality or imagination – for the part about this girl that apparently has been affecting my mood.
This girl was, at first, not quite someone I loved or yearned for, but merily a Public Friend. That is to say – I knew her and we were in the same ‘group’ of ‘friends’, but only with a group. We never had any dialogues or such. I had not quite thought of her as a potential lover – I did not know much of her indeed, and was way too busy killing myself over my First Female (unanswered, red.) Crush ever. I was all busy arranging my own coming-out towards some people, of course getting extremely dramatic, and really making a big deal out of everything. Everything - or rather everyone - seemed to make a big deal out of me, too; people reacted quite shocked. Politically correct, yes, and perhaps shocked is not quite the word, but they Big Deal-ed the thing massively. Which of course gave me a splendid excuse for more dramaticalizing of the matter. I found myself Alone On The Planet, Misunderstood and more such phrases. I was very busy with all of this – my very crush herself had just purchased a loving good boyfriend, to top the bill – when something happened. (because I can’t think of any senseless bridgy sentences, I am going to need a new paragraph here, however dramatic it may seem.)
This is to be continued
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