"Het spijt me zo"

Zijn kopje ligt op de grond. Het oog dat ik kan zien open, geheel zwart. Zijn pupillen zijn wijd open en niets ziend. Ik streel zijn vacht en mijn handen worden nat van zijn bloed. De auto staat een paar meter verder, de lichten knipperen. Het stel staat achter me, zij huilt ook. Ik weet niet meer hoe ze eruit zien.  Ik zie alleen maar dat kleine lichaam op straat. Het bloed is rood op het asfalt.

"Het spijt me zo," zeg ik zachtjes tegen Pippin, door het huilen heen. Wat het is dat me spijt weet ik niet. Dat ik hem naar buiten heb gelaten zoals elke avond? Dat hij dit moest ondergaan? Dat hij zo jong was?

***

Pippin is dood.

Gisteravond is mijn jongste kat aangereden en hij is dood.

De eerste die zegt "het was maar een kat" doe ik wat aan. Het was een wezen dat me dagelijks gezelschap hield. Dat hele dagen bij me spendeerde als ik ziek was. Dat ik naast me kon verdragen op momenten terwijl ik de meeste mensen niet meer zag zitten. Dat als ik echt verdrietig was me kroelde en liet zien dat het leven mooi en zacht en fijn was. Het was een draak, een dondersteen en een meest geliefd monster.

the (introvert) dancer

"You are really not a party-person are you? You just like dancing."

When I left a party recently a friend of mine recently remarked this, as once again I left earlier than everybody else. They were just about to go out and I was quite eager to dodge that bullet. It's entirely true. I don't do well in big social gatherings when I don't see a direct purpose. Parties are one of those events.  

Now dancing....

Dancing is different. 

Dancing is me. Sometimes dancing is us, but the us is relative. Dancing is doing and not thinking. As soon as I start dancing I switch to something I feel happy and confident in doing. The switch is turned and I go. 

Bloggity loggity

Today, I discovered I had a blog. Namely this one. And when I say discovered, I actually mean discovered. It’s existence had drifted away from my day to day consciousness. I was going through my gmail and found the link to blogger. It was a moment of pleasant surprise. (A similar surprise you have when you’re clearing up your house and find the hidden treasures you had tucked away somewhere in a corner, cupboard or folder.) I suppose it’s called nostalgia.

It’s like I get to talk a bit with the me from more than a year ago. Or she gets to talk to the present me, because I can say very little back. I can’t reassure about choices or paths. Past-me wonders about the now-me. Just like the now-me wonders about the future-me and feels a certain tenderness towards Past-me.

Past-me was uncertain of where she would be a year later. She is scared of the inevitable changes en she is scared that with the choices she makes, she excludes so much other possibilities (see previous blogs vertigo, and the road not taken) . I remember the bouts of anxiety I had, where I’d wake up at night and the future would be the most terrifying things imaginable. I remember sweaty palms and hyperventilation. I can even awake the feeling when I think about it too much. However, now I am at the place I worried about so much. I find the road is a pleasant hilly road, with every now and then a bump. I keep a steady pace and don’t take too much time to look behind. I look forward to my future adventures. It’s no wonder Past-me got a little out of sight.

I’d like to tell Past-me she’s right in the sense that it isn’t always easy. Sometimes I have to work really hard, but that she is and I am, capable of that. And that even though the choices at that point seem definite, there are always degrees of freedom (and more scary choices up ahead which haven’t even crossed her mind yet).

Oh and future-me, when you read this, please try not to laugh. I’m sure I sound very childish by then. Have a good one!

Almost Happy

Like every Thursday morning at rush-hour the station was filled with people running from here and there, dressed for work, bustling about. More people in suits than she dared to count. She watched the businessmen walking in a determined pace, steady, back straight and goal directed. Some were already talking in their phones in loud convincing voices, waving their hands agitatedly. The more anxious the less dignified they seemed. Those who were running appeared even less so, but the worst were those who walked with slumped shoulders. Their step lagged a little slow. Their eyes at the ground. Their impression meek. They made her smile curiously: the failures, the weak. She supposed it was because they made her feel like she belonged. She understood them.

Dora was sitting just outside the coffee shop watching people come and go. The people seemed to come like waves, rushing in when a train arrived and then the hall thinned again, She felt oddly weightless with no set path or direction. Being at the station was oddly pointless. She was surrounded by those who had a destination in mind, or those who were waiting for someone to arrive. They had a purpose. Not everyone might love their purpose, but at least they had one. Behind her people were filing up in line to get their morning coffee shot. There was barely any talking among the customers even though the baristas shouted orders and chattered while doing their job. She supposed it was because the line consisted out of individuals, rather than pairs or groups. There was an outside common connection necessary to talk, more than the connection of waiting together in line to get coffee. The baristas were a group, they saw each other often, they had a purpose together. The individuals on the other side of the counter were mere singulars in the large number of people that passed through every day. In a small town coffee shop in it would be different. There the regulars would be familiar faces and greeted with a smile or a nod. Here getting coffee was mass production. Don’t worry, we are just passing through, purposeful.

She held her cup tighter, as she sipped it, She missed a cigarette to complete her breakfast, but sadly at train stations smoking was prohibited. Thus, she simply remained still while she drank and observed the people and let her thoughts meander further in a comfortable pace. She felt stripped of all hurry as she watched the minutes pass on the large clock. As her gaze wandered she caught sight of a couple holding hands. Something about them struck her deeply. To her it seemed that the rest of the world ought to be grey and motionless around them. As it could never compare to them. The girl had long curled blonde hair which lay loosely over her shoulders and a tall slender built. Her face was shaded by her hat which had a large round rim. She wore long, beige ,flared trousers and a light-brown jacket. The girl was holding hands with a guy equally tall with long hair and dressed in black. He had a serious looking face which looked handsome and demure. The couple stood out from the rest. One reason being simply their beauty. Both were exceptionally beautiful. There are a lot of pretty people around, but true beauty is a rarity, and yet now there were two standing hand in hand, looking quite lost together. Which was the second reason they stood out. There was a certain sadness about these two beautiful people together. They stood close held together, because of their uncommonness they seemed afraid of wandering too far. Truly beautiful people can only end up together. Everyone else struck in their will both admire them and will be pushed away. It feels like a reminder of their own inadequacy and imperfection. It is the unachievable. The light that shines too brightly that is painful to see. And if two truly beautiful people found each other they best not let go, as no-one else again will meet their standards. And that was how they stood, alone together, scared and lost.

Dora watched them pass and breathed out. She unclenched her fists. Her cup was empty and she got up. As she passed by a window she glanced at her reflection. She was well aware of her mediocre face. Her eyes were fairly deep that she seemed tired very often. People would never stare at her both in awe and fear. She felt grateful for that at least. In the right sort of light she could be pretty, but no more than that. She smiled at herself, and slowly felt the sadness that had built up subconsciously wash away.

** Title is borrowed from the song "Almost Happy" by K's choice.

The road not taken

(my last post about paths or futures in a while, promise ;))

Sometimes I am struck by a sense of nostalgia when looking back at choices made. I wonder about “what if”. These fantasies are not painful. I do not regret.

Well, that is a lie. I do regret. Saying that I don’t wish I had been more sensitive or less sensitive at occasions, that I had done certain things differently, that I had made different choices every now and then would be speaking falsehood. So, let me rephrase that and re-explain the previous statement.

Every now and then in life you have the feeling to stand at a crossroad. With several different defining choices. You have no idea where these choices will lead you. Personally, I feel that at this moment I’m nearing one of those crossroads, where you have to make choices. And like I usually do while progressing forward, I am looking back. In my life I have made choices which I cannot return to. I cannot re-choose my highschool and how that environment there has shaped me. I have already walked one road and with that experience it has changed the second road too. However, I do wonder, what if I’d gone to a different educational environment, met different people, found myself inspired by other persons. How different would I be? I remember that in the Harry Potter series once remarked that our abilities are not what defines us, but our choices. I see some truth in that. Yet the unknown of the road not taken raises questions. You can never test yourself. You can never know which would have been a better option. There is no chance of rehearsal. This idea is beautifully expressed by Milan Kundera.

I hope sometimes that my path does not define me, I just don’t really have a second chance to walk a different one. So in the end, I better enjoy the one I walk, and when looking back I can only look with nostalgia, but it is smarter not to regret. I get to make my choices, I get to choose a path and that’s a gift. The forest is dense, I can’t see what is ahead, but I’ll try and enjoy the scenery as much as I can, and not reminiscence too much over lost paths.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference

The eye of the beholder

“Gelukkige mensen zijn mooi, zelfs als ze anders lelijk zijn.”

Dat werd mij gisteren opgemerkt toen ik vertelde dat ik graag keek naar de gezichten van mensen die net gefeliciteerd werden in een restaurant. Dit keer een man omringt door familie die een taart met kaarsjes aangeboden kreeg.

Men heeft gelijk, ik liep in de zon langs mijn flat en keek naar boven en werd getroffen door het mooiste dat ik vandaag kon zien. Mevrouw Nijhof, onze flatoma zat in de zon. Een klein en tenger oud vrouwtje wiens rimpels op haar gezicht niet te tellen zijn. Als ik haar op de trap tegen kom spreekt ze me steevast aan met goudhaartje. Ze zat in de zon op haar balkon, ogen gesloten en content. Haar vingers gevouwen op haar schoot en een kleine glimlach op het gezicht. En voor mij op dat moment was ze de mooiste vrouw waar ik naar kon kijken.

But then again, I also just like small talk.

I remember very clearly that my mother once educated me on this. She said to me it was a skill to do small talk. It’s a skill to keep conversations running and show interest. Back then I didn’t think much of it, but nowadays I feel she’s right. This applies especially in public transport, where a lot of people are confined to a small space for a short amount of time. Then, I can find myself itching for conversation. However, the convention is silence. I often wonder why. Why are people so terrified to talk to each other? Partially I assume it’s the Dutch culture. We are known to have a slight reservation and to mind our own business (Actually, I am writing this in public and really would not appreciate being interrupted now, which is not going to happen as look focused and busy), but I also think it’s fear of social rejection.
I have a habit of occasionally striking up conversation, and when I do I am often met with pleasant surprise, and enthusiasm. You just have to get over the initial awkward phase, this is the tricky bit. I bet everyone has had this conversation a thousand times:

“hi”
“hi.”
“how are you?”
“I’m fine, you?”
“also.”
“….”
“so…. Ehm, nice weather huh?”
“yes, it is…”
“…”

Awkward, such things are simply awkward. This is a conversation I find very unpleasant to have, and I suppose the lack of having something to talk about will make each party feel boring and in a way socially rejected. I found that by just jumping into conversation you can very easily tackle it. Small talk, yes! Yesterday I found myself talking about religion, Janis Joplin and reality images with someone I never had met before in this very bus line I am driving in now. The subjects really don’t matter, as long as you can keep seeming genuinely interested in the other person (People like being listened to, or being found interesting). I tend to keep the questions personal too, even when talking for about the weather. “what do ‘you’ think about the weather.” Add a friendly smile, and the occasional search for eye-contact and you have a very effective mix. (I suppose, being genuinely interested and a new people junkie helps too). It works in networking, work education, and generally makes my trips a lot more enjoyable.

So yes, mom, small talk = awesome!