Down and out in Rotterdam

Ideas, meaning and a mind in motion

Category: Observations

  • Buikgriep

    Na een lichte buikgriep, of was het een verdomde voedselinfectie? Ik had zaterdag buiten de deur gegeten, ben ik weer op de been. Dinsdagen werk ik halve dagen en ga ik vaak naar de stad. Ik heb al twee dagen nauwelijks iets voedzaams gegeten dus ik nam de metro. Waarom is roken op de terrassen nog steeds niet verboden? Ik zit bij de Coffee Company en ik zit aan de lattè met havermelk. Ik snap dat de hipsters die er werken ook roken, want dat blijft hip, gek genoeg, want zuivel is wel echt not done, dat kan je dus niet meer maken anno 2022, maar iemand kanker geven op een terras met je stinksigaret dat is nog niet uit de mode. Ik voel me dus iets beter. Fysiek zwak zijn maakt dat je ook geen energie hebt om te piekeren.

    Dan besef je ineens weer hoe kwetsbaar je als mens bent als je een virus te pakken hebt en je lijf er van van slag is. Als je voeding nodig hebt voor energie, maar niks binnen kunt houden. Dan sterf je dus gewoon in het wild. Gelukkig leef ik niet in het wild en kon ik soep van mijn moeder krijgen en wat bouillon.

    Ik ben bezig met lezen in ‘Island’ van Aldous Huxley, zijn laatste werk (1962). Na het herlezen van zijn ‘Brave New World’ en mijn algehele dystopische stemming dacht ik laat ik nog wat doorpakken uit zijn Ouvre. Had ik dat maar niet gedaan. Hij schrijft gelukkig geen dikke boeken en dat spreekt voor een schrijver – als het goed is kan het ook in weinig woorden – maar hij is gewoon geen goede roman schrijver. Huxley is van de ideeën en essays, in ‘Brave New World’ kwam dat goed samen (ook dat leest niet echt lekker), maar Island is dodelijk saai.

  • The 6th of December

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    Winter has started and I am busy with my favorite pastime, a long sit in an espresso bar, anonymous among the crowd, observing, thinking, writing and being. I’ve got Lana del Rey on repeat, and I can hear the stir of the many people around me. I can quietly observe as I am seated in a comfortable brown leather armchair with my back to the wall, facing the crowd.

    I’ve been sitting like this for a while, initially busy with an attempt to write a review of Isaiah Berlin’s essays on Russia in the penguin classic edition ‘Russian Thinkers’, but as all to often happens, I lost my concentration, train of thought and general courage halfway.

    Again my thoughts are scattered and it annoys me that I can hardly keep any of them together for a sufficient amount of time. So I am writing this post instead. A general autobiographical post is better served by scattered thoughts than a serious review on a serious thinker like Isaiah Berlin, who I am glad to have discovered.

    Across from me I see many people busy on their laptops. One guy is seemingly busy designing some architectural plans on his. I am just pretending to be busy. How I sometimes wish I had learned some practical trade…

    And I see women. Always the main object of my desire, apart from books. Winter is no season to be single. Spring and summer are the seasons best suited for a single life, not winter. Winter is meant to be spent inside, huddled together under a blanket with a hot beverage and romantic thoughts and family.

    It’s no shame to admit these thoughts and feelings. I never particularly felt this way when I was younger. I had no fond memories of our own winter family holidays and I couldn’t understand those memories of others. But I guess that’s what getting older does to you. Life is not to be lived out alone, and winter is harsh on lonely people; my heart goes out to them this winter.

    Then Robert Walser’s short story ‘The walk’ came to mind. I just finished reading his little gem. Robert Walser was lonely most of his life. From his short bio on the back of the book;

    Robert Walser (1878-1956) lived his life in small rooms and stayed his final 23 years in a psych ward. He liked going on long walks and writing and despised fame.

    ‘The walk’ is just that, a description of one of his many walks, his thoughts and the people and scenes he encounters. Most memorable to me are the final pages which I want to translate and share (however crudely) when on the end of his walk he lies down and watches the sky;

    Watching earth, sky and heaven I was overwhelmed by a saddening, uncontrollable thought that made me convince myself that I was a poor prisoner caught between heaven and earth, that we were all miserably caught this way, that no other way existed for all of us to another world except the one that leads to that deep dark pit, the grave.

    And with these dark thoughts finally comes his remorse for a chance missed;

    …I might have been able to convince her that I had her best interest in mind. I should have told her in time that my affection was completely honest. It would have been simple and truly correct if I had openly confessed: ‘I love you. All your affairs are to me just as important as my own affairs. For many kind, beautiful reasons it is of utmost importance to me to make you happy.’ But she left, because I didn’t make any effort… I raised myself up to go home because it was late and everything was dark.

    With that I end this post. It’s also dark outside of the espresso bar. Time to go home.

  • What I talk about on a date

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    When dating women, I often come to think of myself as a rather boring person with nothing meaningful to say. I don’t have a job right now so that topic is of the table, but even if I had a job I don’t think I would like to talk about it at length.

    So what do I reply when asked ‘What do you do?’ Usually I start by saying that I read a lot, and then there is a slight pause. What dó I do? I mostly read and think. And sometimes I write. When I add  ‘I also write, I have a blog’, she will naturally ask what about. I cringe from the question even-though I have had plenty of practice answering, but the question always catches me off guard. ‘Ehm, autobiographical stuff, observations, reflections, ideas.’ Embarrassed I add that it’s nothing special, or serious and just for fun. So yes, what do I do? Mostly reading, thinking and writing.

    But of course I do experience a lot just by reading. I recently finished Kotkin’s excellent first volume of three about Stalin; ‘Stalin: Volume I: Paradoxes of Power, 1878-1928’ which more than just offering insights into the life and character of Stalin offers a well written overview of the revolution and its key personalities and historical events all factors contributing to his rise to power. It ends (spoiler alert) with a discussion and conclusion that without Stalin the revolution and Leninism would have died, because from all the heirs of Lenin he was the only man orthodox and ruthless enough to be able to collectivize the peasantry – making an end to the compromise NEP policy – no matter what the cost of human life.

    Right now I am really thoroughly enjoying ‘A Guide to the Good Life {the ancient art of stoic joy} by William B. Irvine, about living the good life with Stoïc philosophy as a practical guide (on which I will definitely write a blog, as to me Stoïcism might be an easier alternative to Zen Buddhism, but with the shared benefits for living the good life.)

    Anyhow; I find it hard to converse with people with little to no interest in history or literature or philosophy but (this is no judgement) few people nowadays do. Inside of me there exists a vast world of ideas, topics and opinions, and yet I seem to find few people that can relate. While most people can go on for hours about their travels and travel destinations, most popular destinations are of little interest to me. I want to visit the Ukraine to discover the historical locations of my ancestors and the battlefields that changed the 20th century. I want to visit the places Hemingway visited, and experience Europe, because I am an European and have little feeling for Asian territories no matter how picturesque on film or photos. And when people tell me that travel enlightens I always reply that the Buddha mostly sat underneath his tree. I maintain that one travels farther in literature and the imagination than in miles by airplane. I know I learned more about India by reading Kipling’s ‘Kim’ and E.M. Foresters ‘A passage to India’ than a few weeks of physical presence in India would have taught me. And of-course in literature there is the added dimension of travelling in time and in the thoughts of characters. But I digress…

    Sometimes I try to discuss my spiritual growth as a person, and my philosophical outlook on life and with it (how else) my doubts. But often expressing doubt invites some to think you don’t know and are looking for answers, answers which then are promptly offered, often with little regard to the Original problems posed. So sooner or later you choose to reveal less and you stop expressing your doubts out loud because your doubts are only just that; doubts, contrary ideas long thought through inside -sometimes for years- and they wouldn’t be doubts if any easy answer would do. They might well remain doubts forever. There are no easy answers, but sometimes you just want to share those doubts nonetheless, but soon you become careful expressing them.

    So what remains? You end up talking about the weather and about some silly item in the news, you ask ‘How was last weekend’, about the bills, about the general mood; ‘I am fine thank you’, and on you go until hopefully, finally you will find the girl who goes week in the knees when you tell her about Stalin or Zeno of Citium.

  • A Serious Man

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    I felt like writing about the Coen Brother’s ‘A serious man’. I think it is perhaps their best movie yet and I like it especially because of its Jewish setting and story-line. More important it is a profoundly philosophical and existential movie which though labeled a comedy, could just as easily have been labeled a tragedy. It’s a movie that can make you laugh out loud but is just as likely to make you sob and binge on alcohol, all depending on the mood you’re in while watching it. It’s a real tragicomedy, like life itself.

    The movie opens with a quote from Rashi:

    Receive with simplicity everything that happens to you.

    The main character Larry Gopnik gets introduced in the movie while trying to explain the math behind Schrödingers Paradox on a large chalkboard. Shortly after the professor gets a visit from Korean exchange student Clive, who complains about failing his midterm exams.

    “Uh, Dr. Gopnik, I believe the results of Physics Mid-Term were unjust.
     “Uh-huh, how so?”
     “I received an unsatisfactory grade. In fact: F, the failing
    grade.”

    “Uh, yes. You failed the mid-term. That’s accurate.”
    “Yes, but this is not just. I was unaware to be examined on
    the mathematics.”

    “Well-you can’t do physics without mathematics, really, can you.”
    “If I receive failing grade I lose my scholarship, and feel
    shame. I understand the physics. I understand the dead cat.”

    “You understand the dead cat?”

    “But… you… you can’t really understand the physics
    without understanding the math. The math tells how it
    really works. That’s the real thing; the stories I give you in
    class are just illustrative; they’re like, fables, say, to help
    give you a picture. An imperfect model. I mean-even I
    don’t understand the dead cat. The math is how it really
    works.”

    This dialogue is crucial for understanding the movie. Larry Gopnik isn’t certain at all and admits he doesn’t really understand the dead cat. He only knows the math. It’s a funny scene, but important in that it offers insight into the mindset of the main character.

    Soon Larry discovers Clive tries to bribe him into passing his midterm when he finds an envelope with dollar bills on his desk. At first this causes outrage with Larry, but as further unfortunate events unfold in the movie he starts to seriously consider passing Clive.

    As the movie progresses, Larry experiences ever more setbacks and soon imagines himself like the biblical character Job, and while perhaps initially laughing at him, you honestly start to feel sorry for Larry. At least I did. But the true tragedy of ‘A Serious Man’ is how Larry deals with his setbacks. His whole life is seemingly falling apart and think as he might as a physicist, he finds no sense behind it. And so he acts like a deer caught in the headlights, he freezes.

    In another scene we witness a dream Larry is dreaming. He dreams that he is in front of his class writing out the math behind the ‘uncertainty principle’. He has written an enormous equation covering the whole of the chalkboard.

    . and that means… so that… from which we derive…
    and also.. which lets us… and…

    Okay?
    The Uncertainty Principle. It proves we can’t ever
    really know… what’s going on.
    So it shouldn’t bother you. Not being able to figure
    anything out. Although you will be responsible for this on
    the mid-term

    His dream tries to speak to him, but he ignores his dream. In a quest for answers Larry visits three consecutive rabbi’s for advice. What should he do, why are all these setbacks coming at once and why him?  We’ve all asked these questions. Well, most Jews certainly did. Like I said, it’s a very Jewish movie.

    Does he find an answer with the Rabbi’s? Does he take the bribe from Clive at the end of the movie?

    Here’s the lesson I took from the movie:

    In life, you can choose to be good and do good deeds, but there is no reward, or you can choose to be bad and you might get away without punishment. We can live careful and responsible lives making minor mistakes, but one minor mistake can end up being of great consequences and we all make mistakes. Just as easily we can choose to live life dangerously and make all the mistakes in the book, and die without regrets in old age.

    Some of us (blessed are the ignorant…) look for a meaning to our misery, especially if we feel we don’t deserve it, but no matter how hard we try we will never get the answers and die clueless. All we can hope for is that our life was somehow meaningful and rewarding, but there are no guarantees. No guarantees. At all. That’s the scary part. Yet even if life is hard on you, you can still choose to do good regardless, you can always choose for good.

    And Rashi was probably right; ‘receive everything that happens to you with simplicity’. Easier said than done. Good luck to all of us.

    The serious man is in all of us. I’ve felt like him a lot. In fact, my advice; don’t watch this movie when you’re down. A Serious man painfully illustrates the feelings of impotence we can encounter in our day to day struggle with life.

  • Always third rate

    Failure

    Damn writing and damn my stupid dreams.

    I wrote around a thousand words today, and with it I reached the half-way point of my nanowrimo challenge, but I didn’t believe a word of it. It was mediocre at best, and my inner-editor now wants to throw it out together with the other 24.000 words. Well, what my inner-editor is literally saying is this; ‘Hey asshole, so you think you’re a writer? You’re never gonna be anything more than second or third rate. Better stop fooling yourself and cut the crap. Keep to reading other people’s work’.

    Stupid inner-editor, Ruler of self-doubt, Master of self-hate.

    It felt like such a good idea writing about the past, but it has proven difficult to remember events and characters and I haven’t even started on the truly traumatic part.

    Nothing makes sense. What’s the point of anything really?

    Dammit.

  • Writing my first novel with NANOWRIMO

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    It is with great joy that I can update this blog with an uplifting post and the news that I am well on my way with writing my first novel (20.000 words and counting) and I couldn’t have done it without ‘nanowrimo’, the national novel writing month event which supports and motivates writers.

    To be honest many work has been done before november started, but it stagnated and it is with nanowrimo backing me that I am finally pushing myself further than I ever did, regularly updating my word count and seeing my novel grow day by day.

    I had an aborted attempt on a novel last year when I discovered nanowrimo for the first time. That time I had an idea for a coming-of-age novel based on actual biographical events during my exploratory years as a undergrad and graduate student in Leiden featuring many of my ex-girlfriends, friends, lost dreams, failures and successes and still remains shelved for a future attempt.

    No, this time my first 50.000 word draft will precede the Leiden years, and it will be more fundamental and dramatic and deal with my years in Israel. Talk – again – about coming of age. It was more falling from grace, or waking up from a pleasant dream after a car crash. Well that’s a bit over dramatic. The words are coming, it’s biography, fiction and non fiction all in one. I had the opportunity of growing up in Israel during the roaring ’90’s, roaring meaning a decade combining hope, peace, assassinations and suicide attacks. These roaring 90’s will provide the background to my personal story and army experiences.

    For now I have no illusion of publishing it. It’s foremost a personal story, but it has an ambitious scope. It starts with a foreword about my Jewish ancestors and their Zionism which led them to leave Europe for Palestine, and an afterword/conclusion about my experience and the future of Zionism in general based on my growing political thoughts about the matter and my experiences post-Israel, ever since I’ve come back to live in Europe, and witnessing Europe changed and ever changing and with it the European views on Israel.

    I discovered a great novel writing tool which has a free 30 day trial period for the nanowrimo period of november, which I will definitely purchase afterwards because it has already been of great help, it’s called ‘Scrivener’. It helped me bring structure into my story, which helps me focus on specific parts of the story I want to have told.

    The writing is keeping the creative juices flowing that much that I felt like posting this update on my blog. I had to take a pause from my novel for a moment seeing I was writing about the murder of Jitzhak Rabin (1 march 1922 – 4 november 1995) which was probably the single biggest tragedy I experienced growing up in those years.

    But writing is always therapeutic and thank god I am writing!

    This novel will be the novel for which I can use my favorite Hemingway quote as an opening motto;

    Let those who want to save the world if you can get to see it clear and as a whole. Then any part you make will represent the whole if it’s made truly. The thing to do is work and learn to make it.

  • De overbodige man

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    ‘The superfluous man (Russian: лишний человек, lishniy chelovek) is an 1840s and 1850s Russian literary concept derived from the Byronic hero. It refers to an individual, perhaps talented and capable, who does not fit into social norms. In most cases, this person is born into wealth and privilege. Typical characteristics are disregard for social values, cynicism, and existential boredom’.

    Hoewel, ik heb natuurlijk geen rijkdom nog privilege. Toepasselijk vond ik wel de volgende verklaring van criticus Belinsky over de oorsprong van de term;

    Russian critics such as Vissarion Belinsky viewed the superfluous man as a by-product of Nicholas I’s reactionary reign, when the best educated men would not enter the discredited government service and, lacking other options for self-realization, doomed themselves to live out their life in passivity.

    Mooiste voorbeelden daarvan in mijn optiek Oblomov (roman door Ivan Goncharov) die in de eerste honderd pagina’s van zijn roman twijfelt of hij uberhaubt uit bed wil komen en Prins Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky uit Oorlog en Vrede. Prachtig beschreef Tolstoy hoe deze ambitieuze talentvolle man snel gedesillusioneerd raakt en politiek en oorlog de rug toekeerd om in rust op het platteland te leven. Had ik maar de middelen, dan keerde ik de maatschappij ook direct de rug toe. Ik kijk al geen tv meer. Ik wil eigenlijk zonder Facebook. Als het kon vertrok ik met de noorderzon en leefde ik met een gelijkgestemde partner samen in een staat als Montana, zonder directe buren en zonder gezeik over bootvluchtelingen, zonder de regeldrift van de Nederlandse en EU overheid, zonder hipsters in het straatbeeld, zonder de alomtegenwoordige geestelijke armoede waar je mee besmet raakt en je handen in vuil moet maken om te functioneren in het dagelijkse menselijke verkeer van een grote stad. Een overbodig man. Ik herken me er wel in. Nog cynischer, kritischer en misschien eerlijker wel ben ik een typisch voorbeeld van iemand die spreekwoordelijk wel de klepel kan horen luiden maar hem niet ziet hangen. Uit een arbeidersmilieu met alle gemak en zonder noemenswaardige problemen scholing doorlopen, afgestudeerd aan een universiteit dat de naam universiteit niet mag dragen (in klassieke zin), heb ik mogen ruiken aan een intellectueel leven, aan privilege en kon ik me even als uitverkoren wanen, denken dat ik iets noemenswaardig had gepresteerd om vervolgens rap van mijn imaginaire troon te vallen en losgelaten te worden in een maatschappij die zo egalitair is ingericht dat er geen behoefte, nog ruimte is voor vreemde eenden met een hunkering naar meer met een eigenaardige voorkeur voor zaken die geld kosten en niks opleveren en zonder gram praktisch benul. Mijn laatste illusie dat mijn denken nog van toegevoegde waarde is zal sterven zodra ik de virtuele facebook dood sterf, geld leverde het me toch al nimmer op. Nee, was ik bemiddeld of presenteerde zich vandaag een excuus om voor goed te verdwijnen naar een stille uithoek van de wereld om daar mijn leven eerbiedig uit te zitten, dan was ik weg, gisteren nog. Of is ook dit slechts grootspraak? Kijk ik krabbel alweer terug.

  • Rokjesdag

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    Het was vrijdag en de eerste warme dag van het jaar, rokjesdag. Werkloos en vrij liep ik in de vroege ochtend over de Erasmugbrug. De zon scheen fel en warm in mijn rug en weerkaatste in het wit van de brug, de lucht heiig en vrij van wolken. In het oosten aan de horizon de Willemsbrug, het noordereiland en de hef, in het westen ver aan de horizon de haven en haar vele kranen en fabrieken en het af en aan varen van grote schepen met vracht.

    Wat een mooie stad toch mijn Rotterdam. Wat een voorrecht om in het hier en nu over deze brug te mogen lopen en om de Maas in al haar glorie en glinstering te zien stromen op deze prachtige lentedag.

    Mijn geluk kon niet op want ik werd deze ochtend wakker naast haar en eerder die nacht momenten voor ik zelf insliep lag ze in een kokkonetje tegen me aan en was ik me bewust van mijn geluk. Nu, op weg van haar studentenkamer over de brug naar hartje Rotterdam op deze rokjesdag wilde dit gevoel van gelukzaligheid niet weggaan.

    Ik was toe aan dit gevoel, toe aan de lente, toe aan wat vrouwelijke genegenheid.

    Een tijd terug had ik met veel bewondering Narcissus en Goldmund gelezen en een prangende vraag hield me sindsdien al weken bezig, was ik als Narcissus of Goldmund? Terwijl ik zo over de brug liep denkend aan haar en aan het vooruitzicht van een volle dag schrijven en lezen in de zon wist ik het antwoord.

    Ik was Goldmund. Sterker nog, net als de Goldmund in het verhaal was ik er heel vroeg in mijn jonge jaren van overtuigd dat ik geboren was voor het vergaren van kennis en het zoeken naar antwoord op vragen. Toen had ik eigenlijk ook een Narcissus nodig die me had moeten wijzen op mijn ware aard en roeping. Lang heb ik tevergeefs naar een Narcissus gezocht, maar ik wist eigenlijk al langer dat ik een aantal verkeerde paden had bewandeld. Als ik het eerder had geweten had het me een hoop frustratie en energie gescheeld in een zoektocht naar antwoorden die ik toch niet zou vinden, tijd die ik beter had kunnen besteden in het ontwikkelen en verfijnen van de expressievormen die ik nu nodig had.

    Ik de eeuwige twijfelaar. Echte intelligentie was zo wist ik al langer niet leidend. Ik was een Goldmund omdat ik moest ervaren, moest proeven, vrij moest zijn. De universiteit was een teleurstelling die me nog steeds verdrietig stemde. Het was niet de baken van kennis die ik me er in mijn voorstelling als kind van maakte, er liepen weinig heldere lichten en leraren om een voorbeeld aan te nemen. Hiervoor moest je denk ik toch in het klooster, de kerk of Jeshiva zijn. Ik was een ongeleid projectiel op zoek naar richting en nu halverwege mijn baan moest ik zelf richting vinden en ik was al vaart aan het minderen.

    Zowel kennis als kunst leiden naar de waarheid, maar de waarheid is weinig permanent en tastbaar, vaker ongrijpbaar zo niet onzichtbaar. Voor een glimp van de waarheid hoef je niet geleerd te zijn. De waarheid is alomvattend, voor een ieder voelbaar en aanschouwbaar, mits iemand er voor open staat. Wij zijn onderdeel van haar, het zit in ons DNA.

    Het lag er al die jaren zo dik op. Hoe vaak leek de maatschappij niet slechts als een necessary evil, hoe vaak leken conventies niet meer dan een beperking, een teugel, een riem? Nooit was ik gemaakt voor een carriere, ik was te onrustig, te eigenwijs, te bijdehand. De maatschappij probeert me wijs te maken dat ik ongelukkig moet zijn of op zijn minst ernstig bezorgd want ik heb zoveel potentie (als in intelligentie) en ik maak er zo weinig gebruik van (als in een mooie functie) en deels maak ik dat ook mezelf wijs want ik ben niet graag onverantwoordelijk en neem niet graag risico’s, en toch. Is er geen groter risico in het niet doen, in het hardnekkig verplichtingen aangaan die ik voor mijn gevoel toch niet kan waarmaken?

    En er is natuurlijk die verdomde keerzijde. De dalen zijn diep en soms lijk ik er moeilijk tegen bestand en wil ik alles opgeven. Dan helpt alleen de zon en een vrouwenlichaam, zo ook bij Goldmund.

    Afgelopen nacht had ik die geborgenheid en vandaag scheen de zon en meer kon ik me op dat moment niet wensen. Het was rokjesdag. Ik heb eindelijk weer kunnen schrijven en ik had weer twee boeken gekocht. Ik was gelukkig en het stond op papier om te herlezen op donkere dagen, want geluk en ongeluk zijn nooit permanent en als de seizoenen, een cyclus waar we als gewone stervelingen geen vat op hebben.

  • Back from the future

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    Before I left Holland for Israel in 1993 I knew little of Islam. I was a Jewish boy in a Christian primary school and Catholic High School and I learned Christian songs. I simply can’t remember anything about Islam in Holland during my childhood years. I got introduced to Islam in Israel. My first introduction to terrorism and suicide bombings was only a year after I moved to Israel when bus line 5 exploded on Dizengoff street Tel-Aviv. It was 1994, I was 14. I didn’t associate the terror directly with Islam. To me it was a rude awakening into Israeli reality, and to what I naively considered enemies of the peace proces, an introduction to Hamas. Eight years onward, after many more terrorism and army service I knew better.

    Then I moved back to Holland in 2001 and I can remember how shocked I was to see that many headscarves, I thought I had left those behind me in the Middle East, only to discover a changed reality in my country of birth. Next, soon to-be Dutch prime minister Fortuyn got assasinated bringing back memories of the murder of Rabin in 1995, who was also killed by one of his own, followed by the murder of Dutch filmmaker Van Gogh by an Islamic extremist.

    Ten years flew by with Islamic terror attacks in London and Madrid, and the brutal terror attacks against Jewish schoolchildren in Toulouse and the Jewish museum in Brussel, finally culminating in last weeks terror-attacks in Paris and the shootout tonight with terrorists killed in Belgium during a counter terrorism operation.
    I must say it’s one big surreal experience for me. I was used to terrorism in Israel and thought I came back to civilization, only to discover terrorism came back with me, like a virus incubating in my luggage. I feel like a time traveller back from the future living a horror déjà vu.

    The good thing is I can’t be bothered by the attacks. I survived worse and I’ve got eyes in my back and a nose for suspicious situations. Still, if it’s my time so be it. The bad is to see Europe going to pieces with a leadership and population still naively thinking everything is gonna be alright. I know better, just consider my personal story. This much has already changed in twenty years.

  • Nessun dorma

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    At Urban Espresso Bar with ‘Nessun dorma’ by Pavarotti on repeat, sipping a small latte, I am waiting for time to pass.

    Tonight I wont be alone. Tonight I will hold someone. I wait.

    I promised myself I wouldn’t go to Urban today, I wouldn’t spent money I promised myself. I failed.

    Just one latte, to sooth my anguish.

    I have spent half my day at the Rotterdam library, initially looking for carreer opportunities, not long after just reading while listening to classical aria’s.

    I finished reading ‘Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind’ by Shunryu Suzuki. I finished it on a cloudy day amidst other people studying on the third floor and the people moving up and down the escelator opposite me.

    Beautifully he describes nirvana. We are like a drop of water falling from a waterfall. As a drop we are afraid, we are alone and have feelings that make us confused, we are mid-air, with no solid ground. Eventually we become one again with the river from which we fell. The fall is only temporary, but even in our fall we are part of a larger body of water falling and a river streaming.

    It comforted me a little.

    The clock was still ticking slowly, I was done searching for carreer opportunities, I was finished reading and I became self-conscious about having no direct purpose, while around me people seemed purposefully busy.

    I packed my stuff and walked to the philosophy section. I’ve searched the shelves innumerable times already, no new additions. I held a book on Schopenhauer by Safranski, but the pages were dirty and yellow and just didn’t feel right. Next I held his ‘Parerga und Paralipomena’. What was I looking for? I was just feeling restless, empty and purposeless and I needed something to comfort me, anything. Schopenhauer is comforting, but I was looking for something else, a more immediate gratification with less pages.

    I looked further. I passed the mindfullness section. Many titles, but nothing with my name on it.

    It was still a long while before I would see her. More time to kill. With no purpose I was standing and looking at endless booktitles, none of direct interest.

    Then amidst the self-help books I found another Schopenhauer, a tiny little pocketsize Schopenhauer. It was his ‘Die kunst , glücklich zu sein’ in a Dutch translation. A second of gratification, a short feeling of excitement, I took it with me and looked further. I never looked through these shelves before, more books about Buddhism, Judaïsm, Zen. A Dutch translation of ‘The Zen teachings of Bodhidharma’, I took it with me.

    Downstairs I scanned my library card and scanned the two books. I owed the library five euro’s. I never brought back my books on time. I payed what I was due, reluctantly. Again empty, with no direct destination I walked out of the library. Still another hour to kill. Still that empty feeling inside.

    Fuck it, I need a latte.

    It’s half pas five. I can go see her. I can have dinner with her. I can tell her about my day, about my worries, about my empty feeling. I can show her the books I took out from the library. I can hold her.

    Shunryu Suzuki says it’s alright. If it rains, it rains. Feelings come and feelings go.

    I sat down at the Urban Espresso Bar, with Nessun Dorma on repeat, writing this post, and now it’s time to leave. Time to finish and publish this post. Time to eat. To eat with her.

    It’s ok.