Friends, pt 1

Today, I’m happy to show you the first post send to me by some of my friends. the author is Trevor, probably the only person I know who can be called a movement even when he’s alone. Enjoy.

Italy, July, how we tramped away from the beach after nightfall, the eight of us, up a slight hill, past a hotel, descending carefully as our eyes adjusted to the starlight to a small clearing off a garbage-rife path next to a rocky beach. Some splashes of sambuca down our throats, sleeping mattresses laid out, shedding clothing, hastening to the waters. Counting constellations and satellites, floating naked on our backs.

Italy, July, how we tramped away from the beach after nightfall, the eight of us, up a slight hill, past a hotel, descending carefully as our eyes adjusted to the starlight to a small clearing off a garbage-rife path next to a rocky beach. Some splashes of sambuca down our throats, sleeping mattresses laid out, shedding clothing, hastening to the waters. Counting constellations and satellites, floating naked on our backs.How we spoke, how we laughed, how we feared the cops who never came – we watched a blinking light drive across the cliffs across the inlet, hoping it wouldn’t head our direction, we saw spotlights shine from the boats out at sea (they’d checked our documents once already, earlier).

How we spoke, how we laughed, how we feared the cops who never came – we watched a blinking light drive across the cliffs across the inlet, hoping it wouldn’t head our direction, we saw spotlights shine from the boats out at sea (they’d checked our documents once already, earlier).The heat, gone, the rocks still warm from the sun. Zlatka, by my side, telling me to stay away and talk, the darkness makes conversation better, truer, more profound. Nodding in the darkness, muttering agreement, hoping she’d sleep soon so I could put away the pantomime of wakefulness.

The heat, gone, the rocks still warm from the sun. Zlatka, by my side, telling me to stay away and talk, the darkness makes conversation better, truer, more profound. Nodding in the darkness, muttering agreement, hoping she’d sleep soon so I could put away the pantomime of wakefulness.The crinkling of sleeping bags’ zippers as we adjusted positions, one leg stuck out into the nighttime air to combat the heat. The sounds of slumber, heavy slow breathing, occasional snores resonating softly. Mosquitoes.

The crinkling of sleeping bags’ zippers as we adjusted positions, one leg stuck out into the nighttime air to combat the heat. The sounds of slumber, heavy slow breathing, occasional snores resonating softly. Mosquitoes.Waking – or, rather, agreeing to accept consciousness – early, the sun beating down, sitting up to see the sea. Breakfast of bread, cheese, tomatoes and red wine, sparse conversation, swimming and packing and walking to town for coffee and another day in a coastal Italian village.

Waking – or, rather, agreeing to accept consciousness – early, the sun beating down, sitting up to see the sea. Breakfast of bread, cheese, tomatoes and red wine, sparse conversation, swimming and packing and walking to town for coffee and another day in a coastal Italian village.You smile – reader – but you shouldn’t. You read these words, you imagine the scene. But you’ll never understand the way I squinted across the table, studying the atlas with Jonas while drinking a cappuccino, or the almost frightening way the water glistened in the starlight, or the sublime ravenousness in Lisa’s expression as we eyed the foccacia behind the counter.

You smile – reader – but you shouldn’t. You read these words, you imagine the scene. But you’ll never understand the way I squinted across the table, studying the atlas with Jonas while drinking a cappuccino, or the almost frightening way the water glistened in the starlight, or the sublime ravenousness in Lisa’s expression as we eyed the foccacia behind the counter.See, the jar will never be full; I can continue cramming details, glimpses into it as long as I want. Like any ephemeral gas, its volume is indefinite. I can add images, dialogue, exposition in amounts approaching infinity, and like the infinite, you will never have enough information to understand why and how that moment, for me, remains a .

See, the jar will never be full; I can continue cramming details, glimpses into it as long as I want. Like any ephemeral gas, its volume is indefinite. I can add images, dialogue, exposition in amounts approaching infinity, and like the infinite, you will never have enough information to understand why and how that moment, for me, remains a . There are moments that pass, and there are moments that are moments. I try to cultivate the latter.

. I try to cultivate the latter.And I fail when I write about them. These moments, they’re impossible to jar like jam or fireflies, they’re slippery, the light’s never right, obstructions everywhere.

And I fail when I write about them. These moments, they’re impossible to jar like jam or fireflies, they’re slippery, the light’s never right, obstructions everywhere.But occasionally I try.

But occasionally I try.

Nesfe Jahan pt 1

3 days of windsurfing in Holland. Tons of Germans, and tons of blisters on my hands. I didn’t manage to surf more than a minute straight, but I had a great time nonetheless. There is always something very appealing about new things, at least for me. I love trying thing I haven’t done before, much more than I like to get better at them. This is probably not good iin the long term, but at least I know what makes me happy.

After that a slightly discombobulated hitch to Berlin. I’ll spare you the details, but it involves beer at 11 am, an obsessive compulsive truck driver, a very laid back and comfortable 350 km ride, and of course polish people.

And then home again, or at least one of them.  Berlin in summer, rainy and cloudy. Most of my time here is spendtwith friends, it doesn’t have anything to do with the city. Apart from the fact that it’s semi-on-my way.

I’m not sure how to document this trip yet. I think it will definitely pick up once I have more time alone and can spend more time thinking about it. We’ll see. After Berlin, Prague, but no idea about dates or further destinations.

Who cares

Frantic packing. Not sure when I’m leaving, but I’ll be living out of my backpack in about an hour. Foreign languages from Monday on. The great unknown in a week of 2. It feels ridiculous packing longjohns in this kind of weather, especially as I’m aiming to migrate South with the birds. And to be as free as one.

Join me somewhere.

The book of Rob

Dear congregation. I stand here in front of you today to tell you a story. The story of a man that lost something. Something very dear and precious to him. And that man had to lose it, just to find out how precious it actually was. It’s a story about belief, belief and care for the things we value the most. Belief in the Lord, and a belief in Vespa.

This is the story of Rob. Rob was a honest man. Rob was a hard working man. But Rob was not a god fearing man. Rob, ladies and gentle man, had lost his faith in God a long time ago. So, on the birthday of his youngest son, God decided to test Rob by taking away his most prized possession: his Vespa. And this was no ordinary Vespa people! Oh no! This Vespa was brand new. Only 141 miles on the dial. 141 miles! That’s not even enough for him to go to any of his brothers and sisters, and back! Just plain disappeared, ladies and gentleman.

Rob was distraught. He was brought to rock bottom, as he saw his hard work had led to nothing. He did not work for God! And he could not talk God either. So Rob talked to the place. He talked to his sons and daughter. He talked to his brothers and sisters. He talked to his uncles and aunts. He talked to stranger on the internet. Talk? Talk is not strong enough people. Rob lamented.

The day before his birthday, Rob had come to his darkest hour. At the low point of his despair. And it was because of this that he was visited by his sister. A kind hearted, god fearing woman. And she tried to console him. Make him feel good. Make him feel, that this was not permanent. That he could get God back on his side. To be a player on his divine team. So she looked at her brother. Looked him right in the eye. And she said “I will talk to God”. She told him, that if he could no talk to God, she could talk to God on his behalf. And not only her! Also his 2 aunt’s, who had lived long enough to see the influence God has on all of our lives. And they would talk to God on his behalf that very night, so God could feel himself that Rob had come as far as he could. And, ladies and gentleman, God listened. God listened to these kind woman. God understood his plan had worked. God understood it was time to make things right. So the very next day, yes, not even 24 hours later, God send out one of his agent. God send out a policeman, a servant man, to Rob’s door. On his birthday! And this servant showed Rob exactly what he was missing. The Vespa was delivered to him, not half a kilometre from his door. That’s very close ladies and gentleman, that’s not even 10 minutes walking. And in this way, God showed Rob that he was also close, and that he could easily reach out if he just BELIEVED. So, go home now, and carry this story close to your heart. No matter how hard you may grieve, no matter how high your bills stack, no matter how hard it may seem to find a job, or find a partner, no matter how insurmountable your problems may seem, the solution might be very close. Maybe just as close as a simple talk with God.

Experiment

Just had the idea that it might be nice to open up this blog for you. Basically, you know what kind of things tend to come here, so if you ever felt the need to publish something (article, picture, whatever), feel free to do so. I would especially love to recieve some short essays, or pieces of fiction. You will, of course, recieve full credit. Send me an email if you’re interested.

Some idea’s

• Why you travel, and how* How to do the dishes properly (I’m looking at you, H,T,C and J. You thaught me so much)* Anything at all that can be related to hitchhiking

The Battle of Karbala

I encountered this painting in the Brooklyn Museum of Arts, a wonderful, eclectic museum. A bit like a mall, just as the Met. It has a nice ethnographical collection, and I’m a sucker for that. It depicts the battle of Karbala, a very important historical event in the history of Shiism. It’s also know as an important example of chivalry, and self-sacrifice

These kinds of paintings (and there are many more just like it) were used by travelling story tellers.  The canvas could be stored by rolling it around a pole, and could be deployed in the main square of the town. Don’t be fooled by the pictorial qualities and perceived lack of perspective: this work is from the end of the 19th century.

Iman Husayn was the grandson of Muhammed (theimam

The main scene depicts Husayn’s half-brother Al-Abbas ibn Ali killing a random soldier. Note the water skin in the lower left corner. Legend goes that Husayn’s army was cut off from the river Euphrates, and they could not find any other sources of water for at least a day. During the battle, Abbas penetrated the enemies blockade in order to get some supplies for his brother. He managed, and legend goes that he filled his skin, but did not drink any, for he wanted it only for his brother. Legend also goes that he lost both arms during his return, and that he carried the skin between his teeth. Before he arrived however, it was punctured (visible through the water spray) by an arrow. A few moments later, he was thrown from his horse by a hit on the head. His last wish was that his body would not be returned to camp, as he had promised to bring back water and didn’t want to return without success.

*** Technical

Stitched together in Photoshop from 16 smaller pictures. I did this because I had to take the pictures from a grazing angle to avoid reflections from the display lights. After that, compensated from lens and perspective distortion. The upside is the resolution of the final result : a whopping 9795 x 4612. However, this is misleading as there is not enough detail in the picture to justify that. The main reason for that is that I shot on a high ISO range, and try to mask the noise with a strong bilateral filter with a big threshold (smart blur in Photoshop). It would have worked with just decreasing the resolution, but it does add a bit to the painterly quality of the picture. Probably I could have spend that time better by making sure the brightness was better matched between the different scenes. Oh well…

Roskilde, pt 1 (iCUP movie)

I actually don’t remember hoe it got started. Something undefined was mentioned during a humid afternoon spend in the shade, it lingered over the empty cans of Tuborg for a while, and was then laid to rest in everyone’s imagination. It was at the point where most ideas die, not strong enough to carry their own weight, or not interesting enough to inspire the next idea.. but 2 days later I found D diligently constructing our first piece of equipment: the Can-on 1 P. Materials: cardboard, duct tape, a felt tip pen and some empty cans. Pretty soon T was making her own model, and in no time after that we had an extra DSLR, a film camera, a video camera, boom mic, sound panel with headphones and a director’s cap. Pretty much everything a mockumentary crew could hope for. I remember being amazed at what the Berlin crew could come up with in a few idle hours, as well as by the expressive power of duct tape.

That was the first step. After that, we didn’t need a lot of encouragement to go and roam the festival site with our brand new toys. We headed to an area know colloquially know as the Penis Gallery. To be precise, it’s one side of a fence, only accessible with a special badge, that has an exquisite view on the other side of the fence, which sees heavy service as an ersatz toilet for the camping ground. Because people tend to pee with their backs to the area they live in, this side of the fence has a great panorama on the variety and colourfulness of male genitalia. Hence the name “the Penis Gallery”. I tried to name it “Dick Alley”, but was colloquially voted down.

So we prowled this area at night, interviewing drunks and eccentrics, lovers and partiers, and other floatsam. People reaction to our fake equipment were pretty hilarious. I think having a boom mic made out of grass shoved in your face makes the whole situation more surreal, and makes for better interviews. what we didn’t tell them though, was that we snuck in a real camera disguised as a 4 times bigger scale model of itself. Maybe not a nice thing to do, but I’ll increase my karma at the next oppurtunity.

For now, I am proud to present to you the fruits of labor of my crowd in Berlin. Half a day of arts and craft, a night of audacious gonzo journalism, and a night of editiing with a dear friend in rainy Leuven. iCUP movie.

In the loop

Belgium, after Roskilde.

Roskilde was pretty great, I had some noteworthy experiences that deserve a dedicated post. I’m just waiting to lend some photographic material from other people. Watch this space.

Right now I’m just yelloweyeing[1] in Leuven. The heat is a convenient excuse for laziness, and the only concrete thing I’m doing here is looking to the future. Seeing friends, seeing family. The Gentse Feesten, a ten day festival in the city centre of Gent, with a huge attendence and eclectic offerings of techno music, street theatre and general rowdiness. Starts next Saturday, and you have a place to sleep if you are so inclined. Maybe a couple of days of Paris or Amsterdam. La boheme.

And in August, I’m getting lost. Seriously lost. I hope to spend a couple of months East. Balkans, Greece, Turkey. Maybe Caucasus, maybe further East. The only things I know for sure is that I want to learn how to hike in the mountains for several days, and visit a friend in the North if Greece. Apart from that, everything is dedicated to the whim of the moment, with a small eye on my dwindling money. I know when to quit, but I’m not looking that far. I hope this is not a recipe for disaster, but at least the road there will be interesting.

• Typical Dutch expression from the Campine, Belgium. To kill time, do nothing. In my best guess, it comes from the fact that chronic hepatitis patients experience yellowing of the skin and eyes, as well as fatigue and weakness. Thanks H for continually expanding my native language.the Campine, Belgium. To kill time, do nothing. In my best guess, it comes from the fact that chronic hepatitis patients experience yellowing of the skin and eyes, as well as fatigue and weakness. Thanks H for continually expanding my native language.

Just around the corner, actually

When I passed the corner, and our eyes met, I was hit with the force of recognition. But, as it tends to happen in these cases, the conscious realization of what had happened only came to me a couple of streets later. When I returned fifteen minutes later, he had left his table, and was smoking outside. I approached him, and it was immediately understood that we both knew the connection.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name. I usually remember students by their face.” “No worries. I barely remember half of my teachers. But somehow you stuck. Maybe because the last time I met you was at my final exam, and you were watching the world cup while I was presenting.” “Isn’t it wonderful? Now it’s the world cup again, and here we are. And last time the fascists won the elections, and this time the nationalists.” “I admire you chose the worst place in the world to be a French teacher. Why did you never leave?” “You don’t quit a government job. And, besides, I consider myself a writer, not a teacher. Where did you end up?” “In unemployment. I usually work as a game programmer. I’ve lived in Berlin the last 2 years.” “Seriously? Ahh, I love Berlin. I’ve been there at least 5 times the last years, always in winter.” “That’s exactly why I left. They’re horrible!” “My father fought on the fascist side, on the Eastern Front. He was severely shell shocked during the Battle of Smolensk. I never knew the person he was before, and I like to wander the cold streets so I can feel close to him in his last hours of sanity.” “Did you ever manage to get published?” “Not yet.” I left him there, with his little table overflowing with books and a month’s supply of rolling tobacco. He still wrote in bars, every day between 9 pm and 2 am. He’ll be there any time I want to talk French or World War 2. And he’ll be there whenever I need to pull a stereotypical poete maudit character out of a hat.

This is part three in the series “Random Encounters I try to pass off as fiction”. Part one. Part two.Part one. Part two. This is part three in the series “Random Encounters I try to pass off as fiction”. Part one. Part two.Part one. Part two.

anti-disposophobia / book-o-phile

I’ve arrived safe and surprisingly comfortable ( considering I was carrying my heaviest load hitchhiking yet ) in Leuven. And, as a first priority, I’ve given myself the task of junking(1) most of the stuff I had left here. If I didn’t needed it since I’ve been away, I doubt it’s important enough to worry about. I think my favourite physical things are all edible.

My top priorities to go:

• Furniture. There’s enough  Ikea in the world, I think I can manage finding some without renting a van for my personal copy.* DVD’s, legal computer game copies, printed pictures. Previous century stuff.* About enough computing equipment to start a small business.* Kitchenware. People die all the time, so I’m sure I can find it wherever I go. Exception made for my demi-chef.* And clothes. Yeah, I’m surprised too. I’m no Imelda Marcos, but I could still clothe myself for a couple of weeks. And I would love to see a documentary on Nigeria with a background character wearing one of my several (!) shirt with “Porn Star” written on the front of itI love this process. I think that for people who like stuff, they get a tiny bit of satisfaction from acquiring new trinkets. But when they have to move, or throw away, it’s one big traumatic experience. I’m exaggerating, but I once helped a woman reduce her wardrobe by 30 percent. For me, it feels more like being locked up inside for too long. I can cope with it fine, and it seems necessary. But dissatisfaction creeps in slowly, and once I’m able to get rid of it in a flurry of energy, it feels extremely exhilirating.

Despite all this retoric, there’s one I would really would like to put there, and if I did I would be selling my soul. I’m talking about books, of course. Even though eReaders are getting better, I still consider them far inferior to the real thing. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about it, as my computer perfectly reproduces the scratches on old blues records, but somehow I feel like holding on. Maybe it’s because I like to bring one as a gift, and it wouldn’t be the same to send it in an email. Maybe because I secretly like to snoop around people’s bookshelf to see their private life (not having one counts too!). Or maybe it’s because taking an electronic device into the toilet is kind of a milestone.

Happy junking this summer everyone!

If you have some time to spare, be sure to check out the story off the Collyer brothers, the only recorded instance of death by too much stuff. A cautionary tale.

Have you ever noticed that your shit is stuff, and other people stuff is shit?

Bill HicksBill Hicks

(1) Junking in this context means give a way for free if it’s worth it. Probably I could put a couple of things on ebay, but I doubt my possessions are any better than yours.