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?

Why do we write?

Do we write to fictionalize reality or in the hopes of realizing the fiction? 

Living the story. Creating a destiny. The powers of imagination. Inflicting them upon our own lives. A game of make-belief. Believing there is indeed a plot. An outline.
Do we shape the protagonist of a story to resemble us, or do we try to adapt ourselves to these fictional characters? Something magical. A fairy-tale. Outstanding. Extraordinary. Sublime.  

Reading Paul Auster's Oracle Night for the second time got me thinking again. Let's hope I manage to write a good paper about it.

"This writer published a book-length narrative poem that revolved around the drowning death of a young child. Two months after the book was released, the writer and his family went on a vacation to the Normandy coast, and on the last day of their trip his five-year-old daughter waded out into the choppy waters of the English channel and drowned. The writer was a rational man, John said, a person known for his lucidity and sharpness of mind, but he blamed the poem for his daughter's death. Lost in the throes of grief, he persuaded himself that the words he'd written about an imaginary drowning had caused a real drowning, that a fictional tragedy had provoked a real tragedy in the real world. As a consequence, this immensely gifted writer, this man who had been born to write books, vowed never to write again. Words could kill, he discovered. Words would alter reality, and therefore they were too dangerous to be entrusted to a man who loved them above all else." (Oracle night 188) 

Deze week organiseerde Michiel een 90s feestje.



Een feestje met een thema : Kim verkleedt zich. Dit weekend begon ik dan ook naarstig te snuffelen in oude kasten, nachtkastjes en dozen, op zoek naar memorabilia. De speurtocht wikkelde me in een wolk van nostalgie, hoewel ik jammer genoeg noch mijn Doc Martens, noch mijn Kickers terugvond. Toch kon dit de pret niet bederven : jeansvestjes zonder mouwen, jeanshemden, fuchsia roze linten, diadeems en 'scrunchies', plastieken tutten rond mijn nek, plastieken armbanden, zwart rubberen bandjes, cassettes, Clouseau, greenpeace en take-that t-shirts; piepkleine kiplingrugzakjes etcetera. Ik kon naar het feestje gehuld in jeansjas en bodywarmer. Het behoeft geen commentaar : ik won de hoofdprijs (Willy Sommers-prijs voor beste Isabelle A-lookalike; Katrien ging met de Def Dames Dope-prijs voor de beste Marina aan de haal).

Maar het leukste teruggevonden item was zonder twijfel een doos vol oude brieven, postkaarten en polaroids. Plots viel het me te binnen dat ik inderdaad ouder word. Het eerste feestje waar je spullen uit een schijnbaar lang vervlogen jeugd vanonder het stof haalt om aan het thema te voldoen is slechts een teken aan de wand. Het feit dat ik met weemoed terugdenk aan tv-series waar de gemiddelde 18-jarige nog nooit heeft van gehoord, baart me ernstige zorgen.

Geïnspireerd door gemengde gevoelens begon ik een zoektocht op het internet.
Mijn gemiddeld leespubliek (aka mijn vrienden) bestaat uit generatiegenoten.
Voor jullie : een kleine terugblik naar spoken uit het verleden, beelden verborgen in de kelders van onze herinnering,
als kleine pauze tussen alle werkdruk van het jachtige leven dat onlosmakelijk verbonden is met de twintiger jaren...

( jeugdsentiment )

Sometimes it's time to go forward. Sometimes it's time to go back.






...and sometimes going back makes going forward a bit easier...



( Kimcelona REVISITED )

I just googled a bit and the results are quite disturbing. In classical Western beliefs, the fox is a symbol for 'cunning' and 'treacherous' (think: van den vos Reynaerde). But, Hegel already stated it, one of the characteristics of a symbol is that it's meaning can be quite ambiguous. A symbol needs to be translated in order to be able to read it and all depends on the type of 'dictionary' you choose to use. So, in some cultures the fox stands for the devil trying to tempt you into doing something (as it is in Western society), but the IChing reading is slightly more disturbing.

In the west the fox is a symbol of cunning. So also in the I but here the young fox symbolises lack of caution or the lack of mature judgement that its elderly relative symbolises. The young fox is seen crossing a river and although almost across yet sinks beneath out of inexperience and recklessness. Its traversing of nine tenths of the river is all for nothing because of its failure at the end. So also the bringing of human affairs to a successful end (the endgame) is perhaps the most difficult task especially in a world given to continuous change where no conclusion is absolute.

I think I'm gonna stick to : "Wow, I saw a fox in my driveway.....it looked kinda - I dunno- coooool or something." and leave the symbolism to the real philosophers.

A moment ago, I came back home from seeing a movie at Elke's place (long live digital tv). I was driving with CCR in the background (as usual). When turning onto the driveway I was surprised to see a fox! Yes, a real-live fox. Since lately I'm trying to read all the "magical" signs in everyday life I was wondering if anybody knows if seeing a fox has some sort of symbolic meaning. (like seeing a black cat). Hopefully it means something like 'prosperity' or 'good fortune'. Or maybe just : 'keep your chickens locked up tonight'. Thank God we don't have any chickens in the backyard to worry about...

My readers seem to have abandonned my blog. This however does not drive me to despair.

Virginia Woolf stated : "The truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial." ( from A Writer's Diary)

It is an intrinsic characteristic of the genious to be misunderstood by contemporary currents in criticism; remaining unread his inherent condition. La condition humaine or even : la condition écrivaine (vrije variatie :)). I understand that some subjects are more interesting to comment on. I also understand that my real-life anecdotes have a more adventurous edge to them than my contemplating meta-non-fiction (I truly apologise for the blabla choice of words...). In want of a new wave of inspiration I let myself get thoroughly soaked by my favourite writers. (And because I do not have a choice : Theodore Dreiser's Sister Carrie, (thank you prof. D'haen))

I do hope that some of you will stick around to read my forthcoming masterpieces, after all, William S. Burroughs sums it up perfectly : "There is no such thing as writing for yourself".

It just came to my attention that Medusa is one of the ancient world's most misunderstood and unappreciated characters!

I can hear you all wondering "What in heaven's name is Kim talking about!"
She was so ugly that everyone who looked her in the eye turned to stone. That for one is enough to conclude that she must have had a most miserable life. On top of that, she was the only one of her family to be mortal. The disadvantages of mortality became painfully clear when she was brutally slaughtered by the heroic Perseus. Decapitated, her head fell to the floor, and from it sprung Pegasus, the mythical flying horse. This horse did become a hero, taking care of all the Muses (and thus indirectly making sure we can still listen to music and read books haha!). In short : Medusa is another tragic heroin, killed by an alpha-male who wouldn't see her beautiful spirit through her ugly looks (or maybe the 'turning to stone' bit has to be read between quotation marks?) (and Perseus just felt a wee bit intimidated). Okay, I have to admit that I wouldn't be quite attracted to the head full of snakes either.

Anywho : Viva Medusa! More misunderstood historical figures will follow! Time has come for me to educate youth! :-)