Kim in Wonderland

Ik weet het. Ik val in herhaling. Een paar maanden geleden (volgens mij in het voorjaar van 2008) schreef ik een post over de belofte van een nieuw boek. Die mengeling van angst, hoop en opwinding net voor je de cover omplooit. En begint te lezen. Er ligt er weer eentje naast me te ademen. Een van vier nieuwe aankopen in de Waterstone's, de geweldige Engelse boekhandel slechts luttele meters verwijderd van mijn voordeur. Zo, nu weet u ook waar ergens in Brussel ik vertoef. Als u de Waterstone's weet liggen natuurlijk. Zie het anders als een queeste. Enkel de ingewijde vindt de weg.

Maar goed, het boek. Stephen Fry: Making History. Nog nooit een Stephen Fry gelezen, maar toch kocht ik er meteen twee. Ik verwacht veel van dit Engels genie. Men zou het haast vergeten tussen alle Alfie's die de pers verzuipen, maar op dat Eiland wordt ook wel wat moois afgeleverd. A bit of Fry and Laurie. Het spant hoge verwachtingen. We zullen zien.

Eigenlijk ben ik nog steeds een beetje anglofiel. Ik heb het wel voor Groot-Brittannië. Het taaltje - van Oxford E tot Schots of Welsh-, het pompeuze gedoe en tegelijkertijd de zelfrelativerende humor. De rebelse tv-detectives- een tikkeltje nijdig, eenzaam en nors, de ultieme underdogs: so loveable. De muziek. De literatuur, de literaire geschiedenis - Alleen jammer van de mensen, zei een collega gisteren. Tja. Je kan er niet naast. De bierzuipende trailer trashbevolking die op vakantie steevast voor ambiance - lees amok- zorgt. Maar zelfs Onslow lijkt knuffelbaar. Tienerzwangerschappen de nieuwe trend. En toch lezen we het allemaal. We kijken met veel plezier naar Engeland en denken dan 'hier is misschien toch zo slecht niet'. Ach, ik lig er allemaal niet meer van wakker. Ik hou waar ik van hou, en de rest is amusement, soms ergernis, soms woede. Maar goed. Elk huisje heeft zo zijn kruisje, mijmer ik dan. En ik leg nog een Beatlesplaat op.

I live for the night. I live at night. In those insomniatic trips waiting for dreams and darkness to fall on me like a warm blanket. There I find my peace. There I am me. There I explore the deepest caves of my inner self. Until it sleeps, Metallica sang... Until I sleep.

I live for the night. I write at night. The blank page looking at me, screaming and twisting, yearning for my words. For the ink of a long lost pen. It feels as though I'm the one person that hasn't discovered ballpoints yet. I still believe in the everlasting power of the pen. The wet ink sipping through its fine beak. Falling into place on the crisp paper. That's how a word feels. That's its taste. Ink and paper. Savouring.

I live for the night. I read at night. Words get new meanings when you meet them in your bed. All tuckled in beneath a heap of blankets, duvet cover and bed. Clouds of warmth surrounding me. A book in my hands. The thrill of living with a character you've come to love. Of enhabiting a world you prefer to your own reality. The excitement of finishing the last few pages...and then relief. A sigh escapes your closed mouth. Katharsis.
Or now, at this exact moment. The promise of a new book. I have a choice, it's tearing me apart. Which book should I start with?

1) A.M. Homes: "This book will save your life" : If the book fulfills its title's promise, I should start reading it right away!
2) Mark "E" Everett: "Things the grandchildren should know": The autobiography of Eels- genius Mark Everett.
3) Doris Lessing: "The Golden Notebook": For one reason or the other I am mysteriously drawn to books with 'notebook' in their title. Looking at the little black notebook on my nightstand, the explanation becomes quite obvious.

As you see, I buy books with interesting titles. I wonder why I still let covers decide what I buy.

I think tonight 3) will win...
I'll let you know how my enigma will find its solution. I'll keep you posted. The night is already well on its way... I should start living...reading...right......................................................................................................................................................................................................NOW!

One day in november last year, someone who was then still a stranger showed me a book. Apparently there's only 9 types of people in the world and I'm a number 9. I'm on the end of the scale, on the edge of a cliff, just a few millimeters between me and a vast abyss, a big whole of nothingness. According to the book, one of the characteristics of 'my type' is that we are always fully aware of the end of things, of the fact that things will one day stop, of the fact that there will be a goodbye, of the fact that we are mortal.

I can say that for me it's certainly true, but how can it not, if we're right there on the edge of the cliff, envisioning our fall? This has certain consequences. A moment of happiness is overshadowed by the cloud of temporality. Therefore, it's difficult to experience a moment of all- encompassing joy. This makes me a bystander. Someone who watches the fun, participates in it but is also most of the time a bit of an outsider. I don't come across that way, my friends say. People think I'm always happy, I'm always up for fun, I'm always very sociable, chit-chatting to people I met just seconds ago. I'm everyone's best friend. Perhaps it's because I keep a certain distance inside that my outside is so easily accessible.

According to the book, we react to this notion of endings by living life to the fullest in the here and now, not willing to wait for the future to be all roses and moonshine. But my defence meganism against an uncertain future seems to be somewhat different. Lately I've discovered that I constantly try to stop time altogether, looking back into the past. I'm a nostalgic person. Living in the past makes me feel safe and sad at the same time.

On the bright side : this only happens to me at night. When I can't fall asleep, it is often difficult to distinguish between being alone and being lonely. Past memories can be a good companion. Unfortunately, I know that only a part is true memory and most of it is pure fantasy, imagination. So maybe looking back is not so different from looking forward.

Life is a fantasy, a mirage. And while imagining, the now happens. But for me, present is for daytime use only. I'll stick to my dreamy nights, if that's okay.

Shakespeare's Hamlet sighs "Words words words..."
It seems simple enough. Words can heal. Words can kill. Words can help. Words can hurt. Words can lie. Words can be silent. I love words. I love crafting them. Putting them on a white screen. Or on a piece of paper. Thinking about them. Making them real. Savouring them. Tasting them in my mouth. Writing a perfect sentence is a truly orgastic pleasure. Every sound contributes to the poetry.

I used to write poetry. A long time ago. It started when I was only a child. Seven, maybe eight years old. Poetry was music for me. So as I grew older I continued to write poems.

We used to sing. I used to write. It was everything I lived for. My refuge. We entered the Free Podium when I was 17. We sang blues. we sang rock. We sang soul.

We sang from our souls.

The deepest caves of my imagination found their expression in every letter I scribbled onto a piece of paper. Every emotion found its way out. At night I crafted poems in my head.

One day I stopped writing.

Not consciously, it just happened, like a baby who learns how to speak, I lost my voice. Last year I decided that I needed to write again. I entered a creative writing course. I had assignments. and I wrote. But I was still looking for my voice.

I started a blog. Out of boredom, and as a preparation for my Erasmus. I wrote college papers on literature. In these small non-fictional outings I was able to put more of myself than in my fiction or my poetry. Blogging became an addiction.

Barcelona.

What a turning point! My blog became a means of communication, of keeping contact with the outside world. It became something functional.

In Barcelona I rediscovered music. All these years I continued listening to music and I'd already invested in an iPod before leaving. But I started singing again. The city gave me the signs.

Christmas.

Happy times.
At night, my mama gives me a small package.
I open the wrapping paper and find a small Moleskine-notebook. I always wanted to buy one. But I was very afraid of writing something stupid on the first page and thus ruining it. My mom gave it at exactly the right moment. On the plane back to BCN I wrote a first alinea. About things I hadn't said and wished I had. Slowly but steadily the Moleskine notebook starts to contain thoughts, anecdotes, loose frases and facts.

I've found my voice again, my own personal philosophy...

Life is a circle. Words - music - music - words...The end is always the beginning, and the beginning is always, unfortunately, the end.

Een stripfiguur loopt per ongeluk in een kast in plaats van door de deur. Je kent het beeld wel. Een zwart kadertje, en dan de dooddoener "Wie heeft het licht uitgedaan ?" Maar toch, ook nu voel ik dit eeuwenoud cliché op mijn bloedeigen lippen liggen.

Ik ben vatbaar voor clichés. Wie had het gedacht. Nu ik hier zit te tokkelen en zwoegen op mijn pc heeft de zon plots beslist dat het genoeg geweest is voor vandaag. En plots zit ik alleen. In het donker. Zonder enige waarschuwing. Is het licht van mijn beeldscherm het enige wat me scheidt van een zichtloos bestaan. Uitzichtloos. Maar ik ploeter door. Waar is die schakelaar? Want wie heeft het licht nu uitgedaan?