Tag Archives: Confusion

Donald Duck rants and raves

For about two years, Friday night was the night where I’d write a post for this blog. I didn’t care too much about the quality at the time, – a little of course – what mattered was the process. Building. Moving forward. Adding words to my repertoire. In time, writers realise that it works in a similar way as fossilisation. You add layer upon layer, and somewhere in the depths, let’s call it subconscious, a pressure starts growing. A forgotten shape, a feeling, does not decompose down there. It gets solid. And one day some part of us will have the courage to break through it all, knowing that there is something waiting. Something demonstrable. Perhaps that wasn’t exactly how I saw it at the time, but I do now. Time gradually moved me forward.

What better moment to honour this freedom I apparently experienced, than on a Friday night? I’m listening to Stromae on KEXP at the same time. And what better subject to add to this meaningless pile of information than our dear friend and buddy, President Donald Trump? May I start this with the question: ‘for how long will people keep reciting the list of American presidents?’ And, you know what? Let me end it there as well. Or, instead, at a recommendation to listen to the New York Times’ Daily of today. If you’re into the media discussion, that is. They’re far better at wording all that than I am. And I’ll spare you Larsen C as well.

Which leaves me in a void. A similar freedom I used to envision myself to have. A blank canvas. The unthreaded snow I’ve seen recently, here in Amsterdam and in Vienna.

It’s scary in the void. It reminds me of a time when I was a kid. Several times. When I was ill, I’d see this infinite space of living links. In black and white. The worst was that I was one of them. And so was everybody else, regardless of their pretending. Their beliefs. It was terrifyingly real. So real that whatever my parents told me, I was six the first time, has never been as convincing. So real that I still believe in it.

Why is it that whenever we have the sense of being free, we are faced with our worst fears? Why do we keep carving our blank canvasses with vileness? For lack of a better word. Is the reason what they say it is? What who says? So many have spoken, so many have carved us as they have themselves. So few have been free, who taught the rules.

Someone once taught me that Friday night is no better than any other night. I don’t know if I can believe that.

Friendhopping – Part V: The ways of the Road

The holidays are nearing and it seems that there is some hitchhiking in store for me. In memory of my past trips, I decided to work through my old travellers’ blogs, take the mistakes out, change the names where necessary and post them here piece by piece, on Wednesdays. I’m starting with the final trip I took so far, written just after I finished my studies. The series contains a storyline about love and friendship. It has six parts. This is part five.

August 19th, 2011
“Bonjour! Je suis Gilles l’auto-stoppeur! Auriez vous encore une place pour m’emmener a Toulouse?”
Looking at my outfit – long hair and colourfull pants – I reckon it would complete the picture if I call myself a hitchhiker. It could help people get a grip on me. I hand them a box to put me in. This way they don’t need to be intimidated by my appearance.
“Je vais a Beziers. Je peut t’emmener jusqu’a la bas”
The way we start off defines the spirit in the communication for the rest of our trip together. Joy.

Hitchhiking always reminds me of the seemingly hazardous ways of life. Ways of nature if you will. Every single event has a specific value which makes it wonderfully unique. Events melt together in an almost obvious natural flow through space and time. A balance between the own decisions and the movements of destiny. I’m like a butterfly pushing myself of against the untamable force of the wind. Reaching my chosen destinations only when she allows me to. Blown off to others when she doesn’t.

The themes of these days are deep friendship and starting and broken love. Most of my drivers have recently had important changes going about in their lives. My current driver receives a hands free call from a friend he’s known for many years. It’s an expression of joyful madness. My next driver will receive a message of a good friend he hasn’t spoken for a while at the instant I get in the car. Curious little reminders of the precious bits of life. They make up for the hours in which you just stand there.

We are driving through Lourdes when I receive a message from K. She’s one of my housemates of the past months, and I have fallen terribly in love with her. They have just descended the mountains and are headed down to sea. She’s sorry that we couldn’t meet up. But they’ll be where I am in half an hour. I wait for them in the fountain in the middle of a roundabout. My heart feels like a thunderstorm.

The Czech car gives a different kind of honk than all others. In it sit E., the other old housemate, her boyfriend, K.’s sister, and herself, the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world. Fitting me is a challenge, but it works. I’m in. They have adjusted their destination to a small stream in the hills close by. We bathe, make a campfire and eat our food. Lentils. We play, we sing and we go to sleep. A hug.

The weather in the mountains is not so good next day. What better excuse to join these lovely people to the coast in their overfull car? We go to Carcassonne. I was here years ago, but this time I carry a drum instead of luggage. Instead of alone I am with the best company I could have wished for. More aware of places too. But I can’t tell how K. feels about me. Am I too pushy? I definitely don’t want to be too pushy. Just focus on the drumming. I feel like a cat held by its tail, yet at the same time I am the one holding the tail in an attempt to comfort the cat saying “it’s ok”. That never worked with a cat, but now I do manage to be around K. without running away while peeing in my pants. Back in the car, I write with my booklet on the drum. I have just invented that and it works perfectly. Two of my passions unite. Nothing unusual, but I feel like everything I do is inspired by her and done to impress her. As if her presence pushes me to be who I am just a little bit more. Is it her attention that I feel? Sometimes, definitely. But usually I’m not sure. Is that when it’s not?

At night, when we are finally alone again, we kiss under the eyes of a million stars. Perhaps it takes deep personal freedom to be able to believe in true romantic love. Or perhaps it’s the meeting with a great person. Grateful for the day I go back to my tent. Yet something in her hesitation did not fit.

Playing mind games with Soul