You can only start all over when you leave the old behind.
By suddenly renaming something the Old, that for years had been the Present - my job, it feels like my life turned upside down. My job had determined who I was over the last few years. I committed my time, energy and love to a place, the people, the work. When I told strangers about my job, I also told them about me.
Of course, not everyone sees it that way. People have jobs that don't say a thing about what they like or find important in life. People who work at IKEA don't necessarily like to arrange or build things or love Scandinavia. But in my case, by leaving my job, I now don't belong there anymore, I'm not a part of a place that felt like home for such a long time.
There's no better way to separate the New from the Old than leaving. In this case by traveling to the other side of the world for a few weeks (which lead to envy from people at home who have to work and to pity from other travelers who are on the road for months).
The problem with traveling though, is that you are constantly determining your identity. The first things people ask when you meet them are: who are you and what do you do? I still have to get used to talk about my new occupation, and I always feel a little insecure when I tell them. But it is a relief to see that no-one questions me and everyone just accepts it when I tell them.
They already believe me. Now I have to start believing it.
Showing posts with label text. Show all posts
Showing posts with label text. Show all posts
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Rituals
People love rituals. We are creatures of habit, who like to know what is coming, so we can live our lives quietly and without any hassle. Everything that disrupts the ordinary has to be normalized as quickly as possible, because we want to feel safe.
When you want to start again, you need to change your rituals and habits. You have to break with existing patterns, to make place for new ones. Resigning your job means that work rituals will disappear: snoozing in the morning, getting a coffee when you arrive at the office, incoming emails that will determine your work, time ticking away too slow, but more often too fast so it's too late for lunch and almost time to go home, chats with your colleagues about life after work. A new job will replace some of the stress. because even though the coffee cups and your lunch buddies will look different, the snoozing and chats will probably still be a part of your life.
Without having a new job, without lunch buddies or coffee in the morning, your new life feels like a huge black hole of unknown depths. Sure, you can make yourself a coffee at home, you can have lunch with potential partners and force yourself to start snoozing early in the morning. But facing the unknown nature of your work, which only gradually will become clear, goes against all human behaviour.
It's frightening not to know what is going to happen over the coming months and eventually years.
I regularly feel like I'm jumping into a pool of icecold water, that takes my breath away. It's like that typical sauna feeling when every fiber in your body cries out: WHY? Why jump into this bath, when we were having such a great time in the eucalyptus scented heat? But you know, while the fibers in your body keep shouting at you, that although the heat was indeed lovely and safe, once you'll climb out that cold bath, those little screaming fibers will start purring like kittens because the next feeling will be so much better than if you hadn't jumped.
So whenever I am mentally catching my breath in the cold, I imagine the wonderful feeling that will come next, and I try to be confident that everything will turn out right. The lack of rituals can only mean that there are endless possibilities and anything that will happen might become a new ritual in time.
When you want to start again, you need to change your rituals and habits. You have to break with existing patterns, to make place for new ones. Resigning your job means that work rituals will disappear: snoozing in the morning, getting a coffee when you arrive at the office, incoming emails that will determine your work, time ticking away too slow, but more often too fast so it's too late for lunch and almost time to go home, chats with your colleagues about life after work. A new job will replace some of the stress. because even though the coffee cups and your lunch buddies will look different, the snoozing and chats will probably still be a part of your life.
Without having a new job, without lunch buddies or coffee in the morning, your new life feels like a huge black hole of unknown depths. Sure, you can make yourself a coffee at home, you can have lunch with potential partners and force yourself to start snoozing early in the morning. But facing the unknown nature of your work, which only gradually will become clear, goes against all human behaviour.
It's frightening not to know what is going to happen over the coming months and eventually years.
I regularly feel like I'm jumping into a pool of icecold water, that takes my breath away. It's like that typical sauna feeling when every fiber in your body cries out: WHY? Why jump into this bath, when we were having such a great time in the eucalyptus scented heat? But you know, while the fibers in your body keep shouting at you, that although the heat was indeed lovely and safe, once you'll climb out that cold bath, those little screaming fibers will start purring like kittens because the next feeling will be so much better than if you hadn't jumped.
So whenever I am mentally catching my breath in the cold, I imagine the wonderful feeling that will come next, and I try to be confident that everything will turn out right. The lack of rituals can only mean that there are endless possibilities and anything that will happen might become a new ritual in time.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Again
Once, I did this theatrecourse of a week, that was titled 'Again'. You had to repeat things, but each time like it was the first. So I jumped for half a day like I hadn't jumped before, and I had to sink to the ground and stand up again in slow motion for at least one and a half day. We were given a time frame (the duration of a song, five minutes starting now) and couldn't change our pace. It probably won't sound all that exciting, but I still have fond memories of that week. It was when I found out that there are numerous ways to do something that seems the same in a different way.
It feels like I'm starting over again. I'm not talking about the New Year and the twelve empty months that lie ahead and that I get to colour. Ten years ago, I graduated and got my first job. Slowly, I found my way: I found what I liked to do and what I didn't like so much. I had several temporary jobs untill I decided to err on the side of caution and take a 'real' job. And by a nice twist of fate, I got the job I knew would be mine when I applied for it.
Now, after working at this amazing place for six years, I choose the unsafe path and step into the unknown. I am going to try to do something I'm not so good at: to follow my heart. I am going to try to do the things I really want to do, but that actually scare me too much. And more and more, I am reminded of the course I did years ago and the fun I had finding new ways to go down and push myself up again. Whenever my daily panic attack hits me and I feel like jumping into a pool of icecold water, I try to focus on how I pushed myself up again. I guess it will be like that in real life too.
I will start again
It feels like I'm starting over again. I'm not talking about the New Year and the twelve empty months that lie ahead and that I get to colour. Ten years ago, I graduated and got my first job. Slowly, I found my way: I found what I liked to do and what I didn't like so much. I had several temporary jobs untill I decided to err on the side of caution and take a 'real' job. And by a nice twist of fate, I got the job I knew would be mine when I applied for it.
Now, after working at this amazing place for six years, I choose the unsafe path and step into the unknown. I am going to try to do something I'm not so good at: to follow my heart. I am going to try to do the things I really want to do, but that actually scare me too much. And more and more, I am reminded of the course I did years ago and the fun I had finding new ways to go down and push myself up again. Whenever my daily panic attack hits me and I feel like jumping into a pool of icecold water, I try to focus on how I pushed myself up again. I guess it will be like that in real life too.
I will start again
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Time
Time seems to fly. Has wings. Or disappears into a black hole. Is lost on indefinable 'things'. Slips away unnoticed. Time, in other words, goes too fast. Hours turn into days, and those days suddenly were weeks ago.
For three years, I regularly wrote down my thoughts. In recent months, I just could think them. Because the time to write them down, just didn't present itself. Or because I did not make the time to write them down. Since that's the course of time: you have to make it. And then, it might be there.
So I took the time to visit Berlin. And to work. To go to see films with friends. To drink coffee. To get inspired. To sit in theatres. I took, in other words, the time to do the things I wanted to do. And writing was just not one of those things.
But that is not entirely true. Because I did write. In my head. A whole series of writings still awaits for the moment that they appear on the screen in front of me. Once in a while, they fight their way forward and suddenly loom in my mind. If they are lucky, they turn into a few words, that one day have to lead to a story. But they are in a long line with other thoughts, that also managed to manifest themselves, and are just as important and scream just as loud for attention. And in the mean time, the strides striding forward, and another week passed, in which still no thoughts are being written down, and the line of stories to write has grown because of new adventures.
Then, suddenly, there is something that makes you realise that you really need to take the time, and that the time is now. The inspiration this time, is not a book by Eckhart Tolle, or a TED Talk about spending valuable time. The inspiration comes from Woody Allen and is wonderful latest film, Midnight in Paris. Where the desire for another time magically becomes a reality, but where the present seems to win. Paris in the Fin the Siecle or in the twenties of last century, opposite the Paris of today. Which is not less good, but maybe less romantic. Because, in the end, some people always long for lost times. Two days before seeing the film, I was in the Van Gogh Museum, and looked at paintings from that same period of the end of the ninteenth century. I saw how Van Gogh painted dark and gray apples in the Netherlands, and how, two years later, influenced by exactly the same Paris, he burst out in colour and feelings.
It's time to get back to work. To choose for the things that are important. It's time to write. To share.
For three years, I regularly wrote down my thoughts. In recent months, I just could think them. Because the time to write them down, just didn't present itself. Or because I did not make the time to write them down. Since that's the course of time: you have to make it. And then, it might be there.
So I took the time to visit Berlin. And to work. To go to see films with friends. To drink coffee. To get inspired. To sit in theatres. I took, in other words, the time to do the things I wanted to do. And writing was just not one of those things.
But that is not entirely true. Because I did write. In my head. A whole series of writings still awaits for the moment that they appear on the screen in front of me. Once in a while, they fight their way forward and suddenly loom in my mind. If they are lucky, they turn into a few words, that one day have to lead to a story. But they are in a long line with other thoughts, that also managed to manifest themselves, and are just as important and scream just as loud for attention. And in the mean time, the strides striding forward, and another week passed, in which still no thoughts are being written down, and the line of stories to write has grown because of new adventures.
Then, suddenly, there is something that makes you realise that you really need to take the time, and that the time is now. The inspiration this time, is not a book by Eckhart Tolle, or a TED Talk about spending valuable time. The inspiration comes from Woody Allen and is wonderful latest film, Midnight in Paris. Where the desire for another time magically becomes a reality, but where the present seems to win. Paris in the Fin the Siecle or in the twenties of last century, opposite the Paris of today. Which is not less good, but maybe less romantic. Because, in the end, some people always long for lost times. Two days before seeing the film, I was in the Van Gogh Museum, and looked at paintings from that same period of the end of the ninteenth century. I saw how Van Gogh painted dark and gray apples in the Netherlands, and how, two years later, influenced by exactly the same Paris, he burst out in colour and feelings.
It's time to get back to work. To choose for the things that are important. It's time to write. To share.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Protest
I cycle through Berlin. It's warm, the sun shines brightly, and I've spend hours already, in search for the perfect place to sip some coffee and read. I cycle past large buildings that carry memories of times that I can't recall. The Reichstag, the Brandenburg Gate. All of East Berlin. I stop at the Topography of Terror, a corridor where once the headquarters of the SS and the secret State Police stood and where now the remains of the walls still bear witness to remind us of that time. A few blocks away I wander through the maze of pillars of the Holocaust Memorial, where silence comes and goes between the heavy concrete blocks. The diaries and letters that are displayed below recall familiar images that are still intriguing, sickening and disturbing.
Later, on a terrace in the sun, I loose myself into the harsh world of José Saramago, who describes in his book Blindness how, after an unexplained blindness epedimic first the government, and then the crowd reacts. The nasty, degrading and violent world he describes makes me forget about the sun. The fear that governs and that accepts inhuman behavior so easily, the power that is abused as quickly as possible by anyone who holds it, the indifference and brutal violence that people apply when they apparently feel forced to do so, it's all not really encouraging. The few attempts of compassion can not compete with the trouble that is accepted by the masses, but also implemented by them. It's every man for himself.
When I go online a little later I see the images of New York. Here, a big mass of people makes its voice heard, to challenge systems that are larger than they are. While the media is silent I see police officers with sticks strike bystanders, I see how people are dragged over the ground, how the crowd talks with one voice. I'm looking for coverage online, but time and again, I can only find videos and personal stories that seek their way to the rest of the world through modern media.
Afterwards, it's always easy to talk about such things like who is the villain and who is the hero. As is presented in films too. I wonder how the resistance during the Second World War was seen by the masses back then. As heroes? Or as crazy people, who did not know what they were doing? I think of the woman who stands up against the abuses in the city of the blind: the only one who can see when the rest has been blinded. The protests in the Middle East were seen as a new, fresh and hopeful movement, but no-one speaks about what is happening right now. First, thousands of people have to get arrested, beaten and humiliated. Only after more people move to the streets, and all around the world they raise their voices, the media start talking about it. I wish I could already look back on these times.
Later, on a terrace in the sun, I loose myself into the harsh world of José Saramago, who describes in his book Blindness how, after an unexplained blindness epedimic first the government, and then the crowd reacts. The nasty, degrading and violent world he describes makes me forget about the sun. The fear that governs and that accepts inhuman behavior so easily, the power that is abused as quickly as possible by anyone who holds it, the indifference and brutal violence that people apply when they apparently feel forced to do so, it's all not really encouraging. The few attempts of compassion can not compete with the trouble that is accepted by the masses, but also implemented by them. It's every man for himself.
When I go online a little later I see the images of New York. Here, a big mass of people makes its voice heard, to challenge systems that are larger than they are. While the media is silent I see police officers with sticks strike bystanders, I see how people are dragged over the ground, how the crowd talks with one voice. I'm looking for coverage online, but time and again, I can only find videos and personal stories that seek their way to the rest of the world through modern media.
Afterwards, it's always easy to talk about such things like who is the villain and who is the hero. As is presented in films too. I wonder how the resistance during the Second World War was seen by the masses back then. As heroes? Or as crazy people, who did not know what they were doing? I think of the woman who stands up against the abuses in the city of the blind: the only one who can see when the rest has been blinded. The protests in the Middle East were seen as a new, fresh and hopeful movement, but no-one speaks about what is happening right now. First, thousands of people have to get arrested, beaten and humiliated. Only after more people move to the streets, and all around the world they raise their voices, the media start talking about it. I wish I could already look back on these times.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Fifteen Minutes
The concept is simple, the idea inspiring, but then you have to execute it. Put a number of people, who may or may not know each other, together for a weekend and give each one fifteen minutes to say something.
Once, I had a conversation with a friend about how little we actually knew about the work of each other and and our friends. After our time at university, when we talked a lot about classes and research, we became increasingly removed from substantive conversations about our daily activities. When we were studying, we spend more time in the pub and had less to do during the days, so logically, after ten beers we eventually started talking about our thesis subjects. After graduating, we all disappeared in different directions and hid behind doors and walls to work at computers, doing work that we liked but that we wouldn't talk about a lot. Most of my friends know I do 'something' at CREA that also involves organizing summer courses, for which I have to make long hours. What this organization exactly involves and what I do in those hours, they don't know. Just as I know little of other friends. What does M do as an assistent to a professor? And why is J traveling through Europe for the mediainstitute that he works at? I know V. works online a lot, but why exactly? And S. conducts research, and coaches people, but in what? The idea was born to gather together and talk about it. But even though we're still interested, apparently there was no energy to actually organize it. And who would we invite? Do I want to know about L.'s brothers work at his high school?
In the end, the idea evolved with another friend into Fifteen Minutes of Fame. A weekend where you get fifteen minutes to talk about anything you like. It can be about your job, but also about the book you recently read, or your favorite computer game. The only restriction is that it should be done in fifteen minutes.
Last weekend was the third edition, with twelve people, of whom not one knew everyone. With strangers, acquaintances and friends, we drank, we danced and we ate. We swam in the sea, we walked through the dunes. But mostly we listened, and we anticipated. We brainstormed on projects, we learned about associative thinking. We judged different products on their taste instead of brand, we improvised, we discussed.
What is special about these weekends is that everyone talks about their passion or about what's on their mind. Even though the presentations can be incredibly different, they always lead to further talks in the remaining time. Even though we didn't know each other in the beginning, we parted as friends. Because when someone shares something personal and show his or her vulnerability, you can no longer be strangers.
I love bringing people together and share things with my friends. But I am very grateful that friend A. decided to actually start organizing these weekends. Now we have parted and thanks to the social media, we can stay in touch with eachother. And guess what? We all write about our experience and keep sharing.
Once, I had a conversation with a friend about how little we actually knew about the work of each other and and our friends. After our time at university, when we talked a lot about classes and research, we became increasingly removed from substantive conversations about our daily activities. When we were studying, we spend more time in the pub and had less to do during the days, so logically, after ten beers we eventually started talking about our thesis subjects. After graduating, we all disappeared in different directions and hid behind doors and walls to work at computers, doing work that we liked but that we wouldn't talk about a lot. Most of my friends know I do 'something' at CREA that also involves organizing summer courses, for which I have to make long hours. What this organization exactly involves and what I do in those hours, they don't know. Just as I know little of other friends. What does M do as an assistent to a professor? And why is J traveling through Europe for the mediainstitute that he works at? I know V. works online a lot, but why exactly? And S. conducts research, and coaches people, but in what? The idea was born to gather together and talk about it. But even though we're still interested, apparently there was no energy to actually organize it. And who would we invite? Do I want to know about L.'s brothers work at his high school?
In the end, the idea evolved with another friend into Fifteen Minutes of Fame. A weekend where you get fifteen minutes to talk about anything you like. It can be about your job, but also about the book you recently read, or your favorite computer game. The only restriction is that it should be done in fifteen minutes.
Last weekend was the third edition, with twelve people, of whom not one knew everyone. With strangers, acquaintances and friends, we drank, we danced and we ate. We swam in the sea, we walked through the dunes. But mostly we listened, and we anticipated. We brainstormed on projects, we learned about associative thinking. We judged different products on their taste instead of brand, we improvised, we discussed.
What is special about these weekends is that everyone talks about their passion or about what's on their mind. Even though the presentations can be incredibly different, they always lead to further talks in the remaining time. Even though we didn't know each other in the beginning, we parted as friends. Because when someone shares something personal and show his or her vulnerability, you can no longer be strangers.
I love bringing people together and share things with my friends. But I am very grateful that friend A. decided to actually start organizing these weekends. Now we have parted and thanks to the social media, we can stay in touch with eachother. And guess what? We all write about our experience and keep sharing.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Social Network Friends
I can devide my friends into many different groups: based on how long we know each other, the frequency in which we see each other or the corresponding level of interests. More and more, however, the devision that seems to be emerging is that of the social media. Relatively few of my friends are not a member of one of the social network sites. The few who distant themselves from these things, often bring it as a statement: "I do not participate in that sort of nonsense" or "I'm way too busy for those things". It's all fine by me, I don't really care. But I have been noticing a few things.
First, the people who are supposedly rebelling against "those things", are often people who do not work at the computer. Often they teach in high schools, are traveling artists or doctors who work their way through patients charts. When you work at least eight hours a day behind a computer, doing work that mainly get generated by receiving and processing emails, it's lovely to get distracted by status updates from friends. Of course, it's another matter how ethical it is to check your private email on your bosses time, but it's relatively easy to open Facebook, Twitter or whatever site in another tab in your browser.
Secondly, and I actually think this is more important, brings Facebook (in my case) a whole lot of pleasure. In fact, I believe it has enriched my life. Of course I'm not interested in every single status update of each of the people I've befriended online. (It's a social experiment in itself to examine the criteria people use whether or not to befriend others). I also suspect that not all of those people are eagerly waiting for the things I decide to share.
But I think it's a very easy and nice way to be aware of the things that are going on in my friends lives. People who I cannot all meet with on a very regular basis. By reading their updates and watching their photo's, I keep up with their lives a little and it makes it much more easier to catch up during our half-yearly talks. Of course it doesn't replace the real conversations in the bar, but it is an addition to our friendship.
Also, over the last few years, I have enjoyed all the little gifts I got from my Facebook Friends: the funny, touching and beautiful films, links, websites and thoughts they have posted and on which I decided to click. I discovered new bands, inspiring websites and had to laugh out loud a lot over funny or bizarre comments, discussions and links.
On other words: I think Facebook is a gift. And I don't mind spending time on that.
First, the people who are supposedly rebelling against "those things", are often people who do not work at the computer. Often they teach in high schools, are traveling artists or doctors who work their way through patients charts. When you work at least eight hours a day behind a computer, doing work that mainly get generated by receiving and processing emails, it's lovely to get distracted by status updates from friends. Of course, it's another matter how ethical it is to check your private email on your bosses time, but it's relatively easy to open Facebook, Twitter or whatever site in another tab in your browser.
Secondly, and I actually think this is more important, brings Facebook (in my case) a whole lot of pleasure. In fact, I believe it has enriched my life. Of course I'm not interested in every single status update of each of the people I've befriended online. (It's a social experiment in itself to examine the criteria people use whether or not to befriend others). I also suspect that not all of those people are eagerly waiting for the things I decide to share.
But I think it's a very easy and nice way to be aware of the things that are going on in my friends lives. People who I cannot all meet with on a very regular basis. By reading their updates and watching their photo's, I keep up with their lives a little and it makes it much more easier to catch up during our half-yearly talks. Of course it doesn't replace the real conversations in the bar, but it is an addition to our friendship.
Also, over the last few years, I have enjoyed all the little gifts I got from my Facebook Friends: the funny, touching and beautiful films, links, websites and thoughts they have posted and on which I decided to click. I discovered new bands, inspiring websites and had to laugh out loud a lot over funny or bizarre comments, discussions and links.
On other words: I think Facebook is a gift. And I don't mind spending time on that.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Legitimacy
In my opinion, in the Dutch society, it's all about your education and the job you're doing.
When first meeting someone, the first question usually is: "what do you do?", which you are supposed to answer by telling about your profession, and not with the things that you're actually doing at that time (well, I just shook your hand, we're talking, I'm at a party, I'm in a bar). And by talking about your profession, you tell them who you are. "I'm a doctor' means: I make a good living, I own a nice house, I have a subscription to the magazine 'Doctors and cars', I have a high endurance, I'm very good at remembering Latin words, I chose chemistry in high school and if necessary, I can save someone. "I'm a cashier at the supermarket" can either mean that you're a middle aged woman, who's older husband suddenly drove her crazy when he retired, which made her decide to leave the house and get a job herself, or you're a teenage girl, who works on Saturdays and who checks out less beers for her boyfriend so they both can drink enough before going to a party later that night.
I know that I'm modest in using prejudices.
But that's because these are the prejudices that torture me when I try to define what I do and therefor who I am. When I answer hesitantly that "later, when I'm a grown-up, I want to make films", people always ask next: "Oh, did you go to film school?". No, dear, I didn't. I've studies long enough and worked even longer since to not wanting to return to school and have classes with nineteen year olds. This answer doesn't help the conversation. Neither does elaborating about how this legitimacy of my efforts to creativity is exactly what is on my mind for years now, and that this is what is keeping me from choosing it so I can be who I want to be.
A dear friend of mine in New York - the city where everyone can be who they want to be and where people react to my first answer (later, grown-up, film making) with the comment: "that's great, what kind of films?", after which a nice conversation about film making can start - I learned that I have to reply in a simple way: "No, I did it differently, I did it on my own terms and just started filming".
The next video was very inspiring to me, where Shea Hembrey talks about the hundered artists he invented. After deciding to organize an international art show, and then realizing how difficult it was to find good artists, he decided to make up the artists himself and make their art. Especially the way he talks about his characters is great: for him, they are all alive.
As long as you convinced yourself, and believe in it, I think it comes down to that. So, starting now, when someone asks me what I do: I make films, I write and I make collages. What about you?
When first meeting someone, the first question usually is: "what do you do?", which you are supposed to answer by telling about your profession, and not with the things that you're actually doing at that time (well, I just shook your hand, we're talking, I'm at a party, I'm in a bar). And by talking about your profession, you tell them who you are. "I'm a doctor' means: I make a good living, I own a nice house, I have a subscription to the magazine 'Doctors and cars', I have a high endurance, I'm very good at remembering Latin words, I chose chemistry in high school and if necessary, I can save someone. "I'm a cashier at the supermarket" can either mean that you're a middle aged woman, who's older husband suddenly drove her crazy when he retired, which made her decide to leave the house and get a job herself, or you're a teenage girl, who works on Saturdays and who checks out less beers for her boyfriend so they both can drink enough before going to a party later that night.
I know that I'm modest in using prejudices.
But that's because these are the prejudices that torture me when I try to define what I do and therefor who I am. When I answer hesitantly that "later, when I'm a grown-up, I want to make films", people always ask next: "Oh, did you go to film school?". No, dear, I didn't. I've studies long enough and worked even longer since to not wanting to return to school and have classes with nineteen year olds. This answer doesn't help the conversation. Neither does elaborating about how this legitimacy of my efforts to creativity is exactly what is on my mind for years now, and that this is what is keeping me from choosing it so I can be who I want to be.
A dear friend of mine in New York - the city where everyone can be who they want to be and where people react to my first answer (later, grown-up, film making) with the comment: "that's great, what kind of films?", after which a nice conversation about film making can start - I learned that I have to reply in a simple way: "No, I did it differently, I did it on my own terms and just started filming".
The next video was very inspiring to me, where Shea Hembrey talks about the hundered artists he invented. After deciding to organize an international art show, and then realizing how difficult it was to find good artists, he decided to make up the artists himself and make their art. Especially the way he talks about his characters is great: for him, they are all alive.
As long as you convinced yourself, and believe in it, I think it comes down to that. So, starting now, when someone asks me what I do: I make films, I write and I make collages. What about you?
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Routine
The alarm goes at eight, for half an hour of snoozing. Too warm. Too cosy.
Too late. Douche, tea, down the stairs with wet hair.
Two blocks to Lafayette, take a left to Bedford. Hi men at the bodega. Hi men at the bus stop.
Down the stairs. To the fright down stairs. Walk to the end because the train only stops there. Waiting.
Getting in. Standing at the door on the other side.
Myrtle-Willoughby. Flushing. Broadway. Metropolitan.
Watch other people.
Walk up the stairs, against the line of people trying to get down. Running along with the rest.
Down and up the stairs. Listening if the train is coming already.
Walk to the second posters on the platform.
Getting in. Trying to find a seat.
Bedford. 1st Ave. 3rd Ave. Union Square. 6th Ave.
Getting out and take the stairs to the left. Hoping the F is about to arrive.
Walk up to the wooden bench. Maybe see a subway performer to film.
Getting in. Standing in the isle.
23rd.
Get out and walk up the stairs on the left.
Fresh air. Rain or sun? Right turn to 6th Ave.
Cross the street halfway down the block if the traffic allows it.
A large earl grey tea with milk please.
$2.45
Cross 24st
Walk towards the green canopy. Paws in Chelsea.
Leave the barking dogs down stairs and take the elevator to the second floor.
Let the day begin.
Too late. Douche, tea, down the stairs with wet hair.
Two blocks to Lafayette, take a left to Bedford. Hi men at the bodega. Hi men at the bus stop.
Down the stairs. To the fright down stairs. Walk to the end because the train only stops there. Waiting.
Getting in. Standing at the door on the other side.
Myrtle-Willoughby. Flushing. Broadway. Metropolitan.
Watch other people.
Walk up the stairs, against the line of people trying to get down. Running along with the rest.
Down and up the stairs. Listening if the train is coming already.
Walk to the second posters on the platform.
Getting in. Trying to find a seat.
Bedford. 1st Ave. 3rd Ave. Union Square. 6th Ave.
Getting out and take the stairs to the left. Hoping the F is about to arrive.
Walk up to the wooden bench. Maybe see a subway performer to film.
Getting in. Standing in the isle.
23rd.
Get out and walk up the stairs on the left.
Fresh air. Rain or sun? Right turn to 6th Ave.
Cross the street halfway down the block if the traffic allows it.
A large earl grey tea with milk please.
$2.45
Cross 24st
Walk towards the green canopy. Paws in Chelsea.
Leave the barking dogs down stairs and take the elevator to the second floor.
Let the day begin.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Choreography
People are standing, spread out. Some sit on wooden benches. Everyone seems to be in their own world, staring in front of them, playing a game on their phone. Some people are wearing head phones, that produce parts of music. All those different songs create a new sound in which some songs sometimes are better heard then others.
Then, a loud sound. Two lights that come closer. The sound of doors opening. The mass moves. All the different positions move to one and the same place, they mingle with others, passing characters in a life.
Speed takes over and gives a rhythm to the people. Together, they move to the left, to the right. Little movements, perfectly coordinated, at the same time. Every one holds on, some sit, others lean to doors or poles. But they share the rhythm. It seems uncontrolled, sudden.
Every one keeps staring. In front of them, or down, in books or phones. They try not to touch and move away when people get to close. But sometimes, with or without purpose, they touch. A foot touches a leg, a hand touches a back. Small signs of solidarity, of being part of a group. Confirmations of each others existence. Sometimes, looks cross. One nods, sometimes smiles.
When the doors open, the ritual repeats itself. Old passengers leave the group, new ones arrive and blend in with the rhythm of the speed.
Then, a loud sound. Two lights that come closer. The sound of doors opening. The mass moves. All the different positions move to one and the same place, they mingle with others, passing characters in a life.
Speed takes over and gives a rhythm to the people. Together, they move to the left, to the right. Little movements, perfectly coordinated, at the same time. Every one holds on, some sit, others lean to doors or poles. But they share the rhythm. It seems uncontrolled, sudden.
Every one keeps staring. In front of them, or down, in books or phones. They try not to touch and move away when people get to close. But sometimes, with or without purpose, they touch. A foot touches a leg, a hand touches a back. Small signs of solidarity, of being part of a group. Confirmations of each others existence. Sometimes, looks cross. One nods, sometimes smiles.
When the doors open, the ritual repeats itself. Old passengers leave the group, new ones arrive and blend in with the rhythm of the speed.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Bike Lane War
Buying a bike, a couple of weeks ago, was accompanied by a lot of good advice of fellow bikers about cycling without a helmet and the urgency of good locks - which I answered with cynical looks. Don't tell a girl from Amsterdam about locks (although I must admit, my laziness has led to the use of a single lock without any problems so far), and especially don't tell them to wear a helmet. I'd rather be found dead. Over and over again, people told me I couldn't compare New York with that lovely little town called Amsterdam. No, here in the city of crime and lunatics, cycling is a life threatening experience that has to be taken seriously, just as one should do with safety and theft.
So far, I enjoy my helmet-less bike rides a lot. The craziness is far less crazy then I suspected, although I do pay a little more attention while paddle from Ave to Ave. But a wilderness? No. On the contrary: nothing beats feeling the wind in your hair while crossing the Brooklyn Bridge from Brooklyn to Manhattan (be aware of the tourists!), or getting a coffee in Williamsburg without taking the train to get there.
While doing the last thing, I recently discovered a hidden history that was totally new to me.
To get to the hipster part of Williamsburg, where the nice cafe and restaurants are, I have to cycle from Bed-Stuy through the neighbourhood of the Hassidic Jews. Men with high black hats and ringlets, women with wigs, head scarfs, long skirts and similar jackets and children with the same ringlets and clothes from the eighteenth century. They're everywhere. On one of my walks, I felt out of place. I realized that my short skirt was ruining the streetscape, so I could imagine - with a little effort - that this not only made them ignore me completely while passing me, but that it also made them cross the street before encountering me at all. Cycling through that neighbourhood made me realize that their behavior was a hazard for my own safety, because their urgency of ignoring me led to dangerous situations in which they quickly tried to cross the street or run over me and my bike. I literally was their blind spot, as an outsider of their community.
I got very frustrated about religion, tolerance, superiority and more of the like. While rambling about this to a friend, she told me about the bike lane war that happened in 2009.
New York creates more and more bike lanes and bike routes, among which the Bedford bike lane, that crosses through Brooklyn and that safely brought me to the Williamsburg Bridge, cafes and yoga. The Hassidic community took it upon themselves to complain about this bike lane because of the dangers for safety and religion. The first because of their children that had to cross the lanes after departing the school busses, the latter because the dress code of the hipsters was conflicting their religious rules of not looking at uncovered skin. The Department of Transportation decided to remove the bike lane, but forgot about the hipsters, who repainted the lane in the night themselves and organized a Freedom Ride to enforce their dissatisfaction. A heavy snow storm prevented a topless bike ride through the neighbourhood, but could't stop the hipsters from cycling around with plastic breasts over their winter coats.
The result? A better and safe bike lane a few blocks away and a busy, often used and visible bike lane on Bedford. You would suspect that in a city like New York, the city of immigrants, different people choose to live together. If it's not possible here, then how can we have hope for all those other places of intolerance in this world?
So far, I enjoy my helmet-less bike rides a lot. The craziness is far less crazy then I suspected, although I do pay a little more attention while paddle from Ave to Ave. But a wilderness? No. On the contrary: nothing beats feeling the wind in your hair while crossing the Brooklyn Bridge from Brooklyn to Manhattan (be aware of the tourists!), or getting a coffee in Williamsburg without taking the train to get there.
While doing the last thing, I recently discovered a hidden history that was totally new to me.
To get to the hipster part of Williamsburg, where the nice cafe and restaurants are, I have to cycle from Bed-Stuy through the neighbourhood of the Hassidic Jews. Men with high black hats and ringlets, women with wigs, head scarfs, long skirts and similar jackets and children with the same ringlets and clothes from the eighteenth century. They're everywhere. On one of my walks, I felt out of place. I realized that my short skirt was ruining the streetscape, so I could imagine - with a little effort - that this not only made them ignore me completely while passing me, but that it also made them cross the street before encountering me at all. Cycling through that neighbourhood made me realize that their behavior was a hazard for my own safety, because their urgency of ignoring me led to dangerous situations in which they quickly tried to cross the street or run over me and my bike. I literally was their blind spot, as an outsider of their community.
I got very frustrated about religion, tolerance, superiority and more of the like. While rambling about this to a friend, she told me about the bike lane war that happened in 2009.
New York creates more and more bike lanes and bike routes, among which the Bedford bike lane, that crosses through Brooklyn and that safely brought me to the Williamsburg Bridge, cafes and yoga. The Hassidic community took it upon themselves to complain about this bike lane because of the dangers for safety and religion. The first because of their children that had to cross the lanes after departing the school busses, the latter because the dress code of the hipsters was conflicting their religious rules of not looking at uncovered skin. The Department of Transportation decided to remove the bike lane, but forgot about the hipsters, who repainted the lane in the night themselves and organized a Freedom Ride to enforce their dissatisfaction. A heavy snow storm prevented a topless bike ride through the neighbourhood, but could't stop the hipsters from cycling around with plastic breasts over their winter coats.
The result? A better and safe bike lane a few blocks away and a busy, often used and visible bike lane on Bedford. You would suspect that in a city like New York, the city of immigrants, different people choose to live together. If it's not possible here, then how can we have hope for all those other places of intolerance in this world?
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Socks
Socks
There is a world of socks. Socks with a story and a character. They live in a world in which one sock is incomparable to the other. Because no sock is the same.
This world of socks is similar to our world. There is music, there is television, and of course, they are on Facebook and Myspace. And this sock world has a god. Whose name is Marty Allen. And who creates characters of ordinary socks. After which he films them, and composes music for them. And he sells their pictures, in frames that he bought in China. That have a description of the sock puppets personality. Portraits that will tell you a lot about the sock in the front.
Talking to Marty, at his stall on Union Square, is a challenge. He's a fast talker. Really fast. And he uses the words sock puppets several times per sentence. Anyway, these socks are his live. And they make his living.
It might have been the charm and energy of their creator or their great appearance, either way, I walked away with one of the portraits. Carefully wrapped in bubble wrap, because Marty wouldn't let me take them without it. He wanted to take care of them before they left his house.
My sock-portrait-adoption-friend chose Lillith Lollybottom, who gazed at him in a sensual and slightly drunk way. I had to chose between Plim and Zimmy Zambini. Plim looked cool, like a rock star, with hair that was blown to one side in a very nonchalant way. Zimmy on the other hand looked like she just saw a ghost, or maybe just herself in a mirror. Her hair stood straight up, her mouth was still open after a loud and scary scream. It felt like I had to save her.
Marty assured me: Zimmy is Plim and Ploms smart sister. Together, they are The Fabulous Flying Zambinis: a very famous acrobat family, whose parents were crushed by an elephant when the children were still small. The other circus artist took care of them and now they take care of each other. Zimmy is the virtuous sibling but as a tender soul.
The choice then was easily made. Plim could take care of himself. I choose Zimmy.
There is a world of socks. Socks with a story and a character. They live in a world in which one sock is incomparable to the other. Because no sock is the same.
This world of socks is similar to our world. There is music, there is television, and of course, they are on Facebook and Myspace. And this sock world has a god. Whose name is Marty Allen. And who creates characters of ordinary socks. After which he films them, and composes music for them. And he sells their pictures, in frames that he bought in China. That have a description of the sock puppets personality. Portraits that will tell you a lot about the sock in the front.
Talking to Marty, at his stall on Union Square, is a challenge. He's a fast talker. Really fast. And he uses the words sock puppets several times per sentence. Anyway, these socks are his live. And they make his living.
It might have been the charm and energy of their creator or their great appearance, either way, I walked away with one of the portraits. Carefully wrapped in bubble wrap, because Marty wouldn't let me take them without it. He wanted to take care of them before they left his house.
My sock-portrait-adoption-friend chose Lillith Lollybottom, who gazed at him in a sensual and slightly drunk way. I had to chose between Plim and Zimmy Zambini. Plim looked cool, like a rock star, with hair that was blown to one side in a very nonchalant way. Zimmy on the other hand looked like she just saw a ghost, or maybe just herself in a mirror. Her hair stood straight up, her mouth was still open after a loud and scary scream. It felt like I had to save her.
Marty assured me: Zimmy is Plim and Ploms smart sister. Together, they are The Fabulous Flying Zambinis: a very famous acrobat family, whose parents were crushed by an elephant when the children were still small. The other circus artist took care of them and now they take care of each other. Zimmy is the virtuous sibling but as a tender soul.
The choice then was easily made. Plim could take care of himself. I choose Zimmy.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Card
Je are who you want to be.
At least, in New York.
In an ideal world, you can be who you want to be and get accepted by others. But in an ideal world, there's world peace, no global warming and chocolate's growing on bushes, so you can reach it easily.
There is no ideal world. But New York comes close to it. Depending on the subject.
On the matter of global warming, I messed up my ten years of turning-of-lights-when-i'm-not-in-the-room and recycle-paper-and-plastic and don't-shower-too-long and getting-chargers-out-of-the-outlet-when-you're-not-charging-anything in about three weeks. Everything here is served in plastic trays, with plastic forks and plastic knives, preferably packed in plastic bags and put together in a bigger plastic bag. Sorry, earth.
I wouldn't pick chocolate from bushes here, but the sweets that can be found - organic chocolate cakes, freshly baked muffins, home made cookies as my personal favorites - are delicious.
And then there's peace on earth. Which ain't here either. Like the kid on the packed train in the morning, who attacked someone who accidentally touched him while walking out, and gave that person an extra push and said: 'don't touch me'. Honey, if you don't want to be touched, don't take a train at this part of the day. Ride your bike. I have admired people who were standing in inhumane positions, trying to hold on to one of the poles or even the ceiling, while peacefully reading their book. And I myself have experienced some interesting situations in which I didn't know where my limbs were in between that pile of bags, legs and bodies, hoping I would retrieve them undamaged.
New York does offer a part of an ideal world. Everyone can be who he or she wants to be. I met a girl who told me: "I'm a singer, and that's why I came to New York, but I really need to start doing that." After which she admitted she'd been working at a hair dresser for the past five years. In this city, everyone who serves you your coffee, takes your order or checks out your groceries is an artist. It doesn't matter if they actually do something in the arts or just think about being an artist. You are who you want to be.
Depending on the location though, you also are what you do. At an event of the Netherlands-America-Foundation, I couldn't get away with: I'm just enjoying myself. People were working at banks, were graduating at well known universities or were working at important businesses. Luckily, I just found an activity to keep myself busy, which meant I was a somebody. The only problem was I didn't have a card.
You can be who you want to be, you can do what you want to do and still want to be something different and become that person, you can not think about who or what you are, as long as you have a card. Everyone who calls themselves something, has a card that can prove it. Every day, I walk home with at least two new cards, of people who put the to prove their existence in my hands.
In other words: I need to go to Kinko's..
At least, in New York.
In an ideal world, you can be who you want to be and get accepted by others. But in an ideal world, there's world peace, no global warming and chocolate's growing on bushes, so you can reach it easily.
There is no ideal world. But New York comes close to it. Depending on the subject.
On the matter of global warming, I messed up my ten years of turning-of-lights-when-i'm-not-in-the-room and recycle-paper-and-plastic and don't-shower-too-long and getting-chargers-out-of-the-outlet-when-you're-not-charging-anything in about three weeks. Everything here is served in plastic trays, with plastic forks and plastic knives, preferably packed in plastic bags and put together in a bigger plastic bag. Sorry, earth.
I wouldn't pick chocolate from bushes here, but the sweets that can be found - organic chocolate cakes, freshly baked muffins, home made cookies as my personal favorites - are delicious.
And then there's peace on earth. Which ain't here either. Like the kid on the packed train in the morning, who attacked someone who accidentally touched him while walking out, and gave that person an extra push and said: 'don't touch me'. Honey, if you don't want to be touched, don't take a train at this part of the day. Ride your bike. I have admired people who were standing in inhumane positions, trying to hold on to one of the poles or even the ceiling, while peacefully reading their book. And I myself have experienced some interesting situations in which I didn't know where my limbs were in between that pile of bags, legs and bodies, hoping I would retrieve them undamaged.
New York does offer a part of an ideal world. Everyone can be who he or she wants to be. I met a girl who told me: "I'm a singer, and that's why I came to New York, but I really need to start doing that." After which she admitted she'd been working at a hair dresser for the past five years. In this city, everyone who serves you your coffee, takes your order or checks out your groceries is an artist. It doesn't matter if they actually do something in the arts or just think about being an artist. You are who you want to be.
Depending on the location though, you also are what you do. At an event of the Netherlands-America-Foundation, I couldn't get away with: I'm just enjoying myself. People were working at banks, were graduating at well known universities or were working at important businesses. Luckily, I just found an activity to keep myself busy, which meant I was a somebody. The only problem was I didn't have a card.
You can be who you want to be, you can do what you want to do and still want to be something different and become that person, you can not think about who or what you are, as long as you have a card. Everyone who calls themselves something, has a card that can prove it. Every day, I walk home with at least two new cards, of people who put the to prove their existence in my hands.
In other words: I need to go to Kinko's..
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Mask
We got on the train together, but I didn't see him.
It was eleven pm and I just left the theatre where I had been working in the dark all day, to get into the warm subway. We were sitting opposite from each other. Only when I sat down, my bag on my lap, arms folded around it to rest a little, and looked around, I saw him.
He was wearing jeans, worn down sneakers. A tight jacket and a ladylike leather bag that could fit a phone, keys and more things girls stuff their bags with. And he was wearing a mask. No balaclava, but a golden burlesque mask.
His whole face was covered by it, there was only a little whole for his mouth. On the edges, it was decorated with golden knobs and the rest was covered in shiny coloured sequins. On the left side, at the level of his eyebrow, there was a little horn, golden of course, that curled upwards. The other horn, that I expected on the right side, appeared right under his nose.
His eyes were also hidden, behind little holes that reminded me of C3PO from Star Wars. His hands were knuckled, old. One held a lighter, the other aggressively ticked on his phone, on which he was playing a game as if his life was depending on it.
Once in a while he looked up, looked around and then focussed on his phone again. People around us couldn't stop looking at him. They did it though in the normal way of looking at people in the train: they would glance a little, but then turn away and stare in front of them like nothing strange was going on.
I just looked ahead, and therefor at him. His hair was short and bleached and was styled in some sort of David Bowie coupe. Sometimes he would couch a little, and put the hand with the lighter in front of his mouth.
I wondered if he might be going to a party, or if he just wanted to wear his mask today. Or maybe someone told him to do so. I would like to take his picture, but you shouldn't state the obvious. I hoped he would get out at my stop, which he did, but he headed in the other direction. He might live in the neighbourhood, so I might run into him again.
I can't wait.
It was eleven pm and I just left the theatre where I had been working in the dark all day, to get into the warm subway. We were sitting opposite from each other. Only when I sat down, my bag on my lap, arms folded around it to rest a little, and looked around, I saw him.
He was wearing jeans, worn down sneakers. A tight jacket and a ladylike leather bag that could fit a phone, keys and more things girls stuff their bags with. And he was wearing a mask. No balaclava, but a golden burlesque mask.
His whole face was covered by it, there was only a little whole for his mouth. On the edges, it was decorated with golden knobs and the rest was covered in shiny coloured sequins. On the left side, at the level of his eyebrow, there was a little horn, golden of course, that curled upwards. The other horn, that I expected on the right side, appeared right under his nose.
His eyes were also hidden, behind little holes that reminded me of C3PO from Star Wars. His hands were knuckled, old. One held a lighter, the other aggressively ticked on his phone, on which he was playing a game as if his life was depending on it.
Once in a while he looked up, looked around and then focussed on his phone again. People around us couldn't stop looking at him. They did it though in the normal way of looking at people in the train: they would glance a little, but then turn away and stare in front of them like nothing strange was going on.
I just looked ahead, and therefor at him. His hair was short and bleached and was styled in some sort of David Bowie coupe. Sometimes he would couch a little, and put the hand with the lighter in front of his mouth.
I wondered if he might be going to a party, or if he just wanted to wear his mask today. Or maybe someone told him to do so. I would like to take his picture, but you shouldn't state the obvious. I hoped he would get out at my stop, which he did, but he headed in the other direction. He might live in the neighbourhood, so I might run into him again.
I can't wait.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
China
Yesterday, I walked in the pooring rain at ten thirty with two people through Chinatown. We were hungry and we figured it should be possible to get something in this exiting part of New York at this time of the day. However, while walking through the narrow streets, the only thing we saw was the closing of one rolling shutter after the other and Chinese men cleaning their steps. The rain made it all even more desolate. Then, we saw a light and seven waiters who just cleaned the place, sitting together after a hard days work. When we asked them if it would be possible to get some food, they quickly talked in Chinese and then gave us a short nod. Enter. While seven waiters, and the five cooks that were also free now, sat on the table next to us, we ate our Foe jong hai. Back in the rain we talked about the Chinese work ethics: if there's a chance to make money, you have to take it.
Today, I saw a documentary about the The Chinese bubble, in which a cab driver concludes that he has to work for two hundred years to be able to buy a house and a real estate magnate decides to buy a piece of land in, of course, New York to built an Asian city. "I will call it Asian Star or New Asia." They are all so positive, those Chinese. Or at least, the wealthy ones. they have big dreams, want to reach the skies. The cab driver just hopes the economy won't collapse, because less people will take a cab when it does. The builder longs for the past in which everything was better than it is now. He works way up high and "even in my dreams I'm in the air".
The documentary reminded me of the Go West Project, by journalist Michiel Hulshof and architect Daan Roggeveen. They are researching the development of the new Chinese cities, which, due to the stagnant growth of the metropolises in the East, increasingly extends westward. In a presentation of their project, which ultimately results in a book, they showed how China is slowly filling up with empty cities, with empty apartments, empty roads and huge empty shopping malls, where no one walks yet, but that are waiting for millions of people who are about to leave the countryside.
According to the economist in The Chinese Bubble, real estate is the only way of investing in a country where you can't invest abroad and where the stock market is too weak. On the website of the GWP, the deserted cities are on every photo you see.
lastly, this reminded me of Highrise, out of my window, in which Tainan (once founded by the Dutch) is the only 'Chinese' city in this project. You'd think there are plenty of other cities that can show you a beautiful view out of their windows.
Check those sites! They are great!
Today, I saw a documentary about the The Chinese bubble, in which a cab driver concludes that he has to work for two hundred years to be able to buy a house and a real estate magnate decides to buy a piece of land in, of course, New York to built an Asian city. "I will call it Asian Star or New Asia." They are all so positive, those Chinese. Or at least, the wealthy ones. they have big dreams, want to reach the skies. The cab driver just hopes the economy won't collapse, because less people will take a cab when it does. The builder longs for the past in which everything was better than it is now. He works way up high and "even in my dreams I'm in the air".
The documentary reminded me of the Go West Project, by journalist Michiel Hulshof and architect Daan Roggeveen. They are researching the development of the new Chinese cities, which, due to the stagnant growth of the metropolises in the East, increasingly extends westward. In a presentation of their project, which ultimately results in a book, they showed how China is slowly filling up with empty cities, with empty apartments, empty roads and huge empty shopping malls, where no one walks yet, but that are waiting for millions of people who are about to leave the countryside.
According to the economist in The Chinese Bubble, real estate is the only way of investing in a country where you can't invest abroad and where the stock market is too weak. On the website of the GWP, the deserted cities are on every photo you see.
lastly, this reminded me of Highrise, out of my window, in which Tainan (once founded by the Dutch) is the only 'Chinese' city in this project. You'd think there are plenty of other cities that can show you a beautiful view out of their windows.
Check those sites! They are great!
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Hunger
I'm always hungry. Or I always long for something. For a grand and glorious life, let that be clear.
The last few days, that hunger is really present. That's partly because of the airplane food, which is actually not that bad, but which is rarely the vegetarian option that I chose when I booked my flight. So often, I have to give back half of the microwaved food in little plastic containers to the steward that just gave it to me. Or I share it with the person sitting next to me, if I need to be friends of them because of a lack of space.
It's also partly because the trip from the airport to my new home was slightly difficult because of the huge suitcase I brought with me. I normally always try to travel as light as possible, which means a small backpack that can easily be lifted. This time, I thought I needed to bring more shoes, so it seems appropriate to bring a suitcase. Shoes. Because of shoes, I had to drag this heavy thing off the stairs at home, through the cobbled streets of Amsterdam. through train stations and airports and the New York subway, where it was impossible to go through the gates. Then, I had to walk several blocks more than expected, and at that time, my hands couldn't pull or push anything, let alone this heavy monster. So when I finally arrived in my new home, I collapsed and couldn't get my body up to eat something before falling in a deep sleep.
So in the morning, I was hungry. Unbelievable hungry.To the city, the people, food, coffee, stuff, experience, and a lot of grand and gloriousness. Luckily, this city is perfect if you're on a quest for all of this, and it will be the last one to tell you to stop. Contrary, it encourages you to consume. The Not For Tourist guidebook that I bought - to satisfy my hunger - is filled with restaurants, cafes, shops, theatres and film venues where one can spend ones money. I noticed quickly that after buying - in chronological order - bagels and tea for breakfast, a very sexy laptop, coffee and soup and beautiful books to write in, my hunger was still not satisfied. I hadn't had enough.
In a capitalistic world, it's normal to buy stuff to satisfy the hunger. And of course, I participate in that too. After spending money for a day, I want to use all the stuff that I just bought to satisfy that other hunger: for people, experiences. But I Know the hunger will last. Whatever happens.
Buddah sais that longing is the cause of suffering and can only be solved by accepting the reality for what it is. I will try to surrender to reality, hoping that the hunger will disappear over time. But I will also try to discover as many restaurants as possible in New York. A (wo)man gotta eat.
The last few days, that hunger is really present. That's partly because of the airplane food, which is actually not that bad, but which is rarely the vegetarian option that I chose when I booked my flight. So often, I have to give back half of the microwaved food in little plastic containers to the steward that just gave it to me. Or I share it with the person sitting next to me, if I need to be friends of them because of a lack of space.
It's also partly because the trip from the airport to my new home was slightly difficult because of the huge suitcase I brought with me. I normally always try to travel as light as possible, which means a small backpack that can easily be lifted. This time, I thought I needed to bring more shoes, so it seems appropriate to bring a suitcase. Shoes. Because of shoes, I had to drag this heavy thing off the stairs at home, through the cobbled streets of Amsterdam. through train stations and airports and the New York subway, where it was impossible to go through the gates. Then, I had to walk several blocks more than expected, and at that time, my hands couldn't pull or push anything, let alone this heavy monster. So when I finally arrived in my new home, I collapsed and couldn't get my body up to eat something before falling in a deep sleep.
So in the morning, I was hungry. Unbelievable hungry.To the city, the people, food, coffee, stuff, experience, and a lot of grand and gloriousness. Luckily, this city is perfect if you're on a quest for all of this, and it will be the last one to tell you to stop. Contrary, it encourages you to consume. The Not For Tourist guidebook that I bought - to satisfy my hunger - is filled with restaurants, cafes, shops, theatres and film venues where one can spend ones money. I noticed quickly that after buying - in chronological order - bagels and tea for breakfast, a very sexy laptop, coffee and soup and beautiful books to write in, my hunger was still not satisfied. I hadn't had enough.
In a capitalistic world, it's normal to buy stuff to satisfy the hunger. And of course, I participate in that too. After spending money for a day, I want to use all the stuff that I just bought to satisfy that other hunger: for people, experiences. But I Know the hunger will last. Whatever happens.
Buddah sais that longing is the cause of suffering and can only be solved by accepting the reality for what it is. I will try to surrender to reality, hoping that the hunger will disappear over time. But I will also try to discover as many restaurants as possible in New York. A (wo)man gotta eat.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Train
When I opened the door to the compartment and entered, I saw that there were two seats left opposite a young woman. I thought I recognized her, but in the bustle that comes along while entering a train, I figured I could better put my stuff and myself down first before I checked again. If it were her, we could talk. I put my bags on the seat, my coffee on the table and my sandwich next to it. Only after I removed the bags from my shoulder and was getting out of my coat, I saw it.
She was crying.
Shit.
I didn't know her that well. But since I was in the middle of this process, I could not stop and leave. I decided to sit down. Organizing my stuff, flipping through my agenda, drinking my coffee and once in a while peeking at the girl in the mirroring window. It was her. And she was still crying. Softly. Did she recognize me? Would she even know who I was? And more important: would she want me to recognize her?
The voice inside of me yelled: Talk To Her! Ask her how she is doing! Ask if you can help! Because she's not doing ok!
But, what if she didn't want me to say anything to her? What if me saying something would force her into talking to this person she vaguely knew, to share her sorrow with? Would she feel uncomfortable? I would have asked any unknown person I would meet in this situation if I could help, if they wanted to talk about it. But now, I was afraid.
Still flipping through my agenda, I would once in a while look up, choosing a direction that wouldn't involve her in my sight, only to dive into my bok again afterwards.
Though the tears had stopped, she was still sniffing. The problem was that it felt impossible to me to turn the situation around, I couldn't just look up and suddenly recognize her now. And if she had recognized me, she'd know I'd seen her too. So now we were keeping up the appearances and we wouldn't change that anymore. At least, I had no idea how to. I tried to think of things that could have happened for her to sit here like this. But most things didn't seem adequate. It must be something really bad, like a death or someone who got really sick, or some other terrible thing that you wouldn't want to share with an almost stranger.
The sniffing turned into crying again. In the meantime, I'd accepted the situation and I just kept hoping she would get out of the train at the next station, so she could blend in with the crowd and just feel sad without being confronted with my presence.
So I kept silent, and didn't look up when she left the train. But from the moment she disappeared until now, I've been hoping that she knows that my silence was a sign of respect and sympathy, instead of disinterest. And I hope that she's feeling better. Looking back at it, I think I should have said something.
I'm so sorry, vaguely familiar woman! I wish I could have comforted you!
She was crying.
Shit.
I didn't know her that well. But since I was in the middle of this process, I could not stop and leave. I decided to sit down. Organizing my stuff, flipping through my agenda, drinking my coffee and once in a while peeking at the girl in the mirroring window. It was her. And she was still crying. Softly. Did she recognize me? Would she even know who I was? And more important: would she want me to recognize her?
The voice inside of me yelled: Talk To Her! Ask her how she is doing! Ask if you can help! Because she's not doing ok!
But, what if she didn't want me to say anything to her? What if me saying something would force her into talking to this person she vaguely knew, to share her sorrow with? Would she feel uncomfortable? I would have asked any unknown person I would meet in this situation if I could help, if they wanted to talk about it. But now, I was afraid.
Still flipping through my agenda, I would once in a while look up, choosing a direction that wouldn't involve her in my sight, only to dive into my bok again afterwards.
Though the tears had stopped, she was still sniffing. The problem was that it felt impossible to me to turn the situation around, I couldn't just look up and suddenly recognize her now. And if she had recognized me, she'd know I'd seen her too. So now we were keeping up the appearances and we wouldn't change that anymore. At least, I had no idea how to. I tried to think of things that could have happened for her to sit here like this. But most things didn't seem adequate. It must be something really bad, like a death or someone who got really sick, or some other terrible thing that you wouldn't want to share with an almost stranger.
The sniffing turned into crying again. In the meantime, I'd accepted the situation and I just kept hoping she would get out of the train at the next station, so she could blend in with the crowd and just feel sad without being confronted with my presence.
So I kept silent, and didn't look up when she left the train. But from the moment she disappeared until now, I've been hoping that she knows that my silence was a sign of respect and sympathy, instead of disinterest. And I hope that she's feeling better. Looking back at it, I think I should have said something.
I'm so sorry, vaguely familiar woman! I wish I could have comforted you!
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Big Apple
It's easy to dwell in beautiful fantasies about adventures, important events or other future and maybe one day completed projects. But to actually start them, is something completely different.
So it was fairly easy for me, two years ago, to decide to live in New York a year later (2010). I imagined myself drinking coffee with friends in one of the thousand coffee shops, working in a place with a view on Manhattan, and being bored in the subway in the morning, just like all the other commuters on their way to work. After I made this decision, I floated from happiness because I was there again. Half a year earlier, I arrived for the first time, fell in love, and decided to return. On my second visit, I would become emotional every time I realized what decision I just made. This city was about to become my home!
When I returned in Amsterdam, it all wasn't as easy as I hoped. Even trying to figure out all options, cost a lot of time and effort and actually was discouraging. Although, in my mind, I still could see myself drinking coffee with new friends, I found myself biking through Amsterdam, that suddenly looked more beautiful and sunnier than ever. Over the last two years, my love for the city blossomed again, for the cafes and theatres where I drink coffee with friends, for the fact that I can go anywhere by bike, for my work and work location. Well, for the life that I'm living.
Which is always a good time to step back for a while. Not for always, not that long, but long enough to really be away and try other things. Without a job, without a goal. I'm going to drink coffee in New York. I'm going to write, film and live. And if the writing and filming won't actually happen, I'm just going to be there. Because I can. Because my fantasies have become reality, though in a smaller version, and thanks to a lot of people.
The most important lesson? keep fantasizing, but also act! Because who knows, dreams can come true.
Talking Big Apple '75
So it was fairly easy for me, two years ago, to decide to live in New York a year later (2010). I imagined myself drinking coffee with friends in one of the thousand coffee shops, working in a place with a view on Manhattan, and being bored in the subway in the morning, just like all the other commuters on their way to work. After I made this decision, I floated from happiness because I was there again. Half a year earlier, I arrived for the first time, fell in love, and decided to return. On my second visit, I would become emotional every time I realized what decision I just made. This city was about to become my home!
When I returned in Amsterdam, it all wasn't as easy as I hoped. Even trying to figure out all options, cost a lot of time and effort and actually was discouraging. Although, in my mind, I still could see myself drinking coffee with new friends, I found myself biking through Amsterdam, that suddenly looked more beautiful and sunnier than ever. Over the last two years, my love for the city blossomed again, for the cafes and theatres where I drink coffee with friends, for the fact that I can go anywhere by bike, for my work and work location. Well, for the life that I'm living.
Which is always a good time to step back for a while. Not for always, not that long, but long enough to really be away and try other things. Without a job, without a goal. I'm going to drink coffee in New York. I'm going to write, film and live. And if the writing and filming won't actually happen, I'm just going to be there. Because I can. Because my fantasies have become reality, though in a smaller version, and thanks to a lot of people.
The most important lesson? keep fantasizing, but also act! Because who knows, dreams can come true.
Talking Big Apple '75
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Daily
I am a huge fan of the The Daily Show. For those who don't watch it daily, or on a regular base, on their computer or television: The Daily show, an American talk-show, is hosted by Jon Stewart and his crew, who discuss the - mostly Amercian - news from a left point of view with a lot of humor. The show started in 1996, Stewart hosts it since 1999. One of his reporters, part of The best F#@king News Team Ever, is Stephen Colbert, who nowadays has his own show, that is just as funny, but looks at the news from the right winged point of view in The Colbert Report. Together, both Stewart and Colbert give a funny but also critical view on the things that happen in American politics.
In the beginning, I suspected some creative editors had put together funny clips to create heir own story, but after having seen American television myself, I realized that the news that both The Daily Show and the Colbert Report show, isn't made up at all. One could conclude that a lot of (or maybe all?) the American news channels are much more creative in presenting the truth than the two late-night comedy talk shows.
One of The Daily Shows favorite subjects is FOX News, the main and most right winged news network of the States. After Fox host Glenn Beck organized the Restoring Honor Rally, Stewart and Colbert replied with the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Keep Fear Alive, held last October, with which they tried to reason both the nations media and politicians, to, well, restore sanity. About 215,000 people attended the event.
And now, there's a Dutch edition of The Daily Show that is host by Jan-Jaap van der Wal, who cannot read from autocue and who misses Stewart's timing. His reporters are Daniel Arends and Bas Hoeflaak, who pretend to be 'on location' to talk about something news worthy.
I was looking forward to it.
I've been waiting for a Dutch equivalent for a long time. A show that has a critical view, that isn't afraid and that puts certain things together to give the viewer a new perspective.
But so far - I admit, I've only seen four shows: you have to give it time to grow, all beginnings are hard, it's not fair to compare this show to it's American big brother - their jokes aren't working for me. Why not? Because Dutch news is clumsy. Because I don't want to see pieces of De Wereld Draait Door (another Dutch talk show). Because I can't help searching for Peter van de Witte, when I see his partner Bas. Because it feels like the Dutch comedy world needed a new project and look at how much fun they're having.
I'll wait and see. Maybe it will change. Or maybe mt opinion will change. It could be so great. A Dutch Daily Show.
In the beginning, I suspected some creative editors had put together funny clips to create heir own story, but after having seen American television myself, I realized that the news that both The Daily Show and the Colbert Report show, isn't made up at all. One could conclude that a lot of (or maybe all?) the American news channels are much more creative in presenting the truth than the two late-night comedy talk shows.
One of The Daily Shows favorite subjects is FOX News, the main and most right winged news network of the States. After Fox host Glenn Beck organized the Restoring Honor Rally, Stewart and Colbert replied with the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Keep Fear Alive, held last October, with which they tried to reason both the nations media and politicians, to, well, restore sanity. About 215,000 people attended the event.
And now, there's a Dutch edition of The Daily Show that is host by Jan-Jaap van der Wal, who cannot read from autocue and who misses Stewart's timing. His reporters are Daniel Arends and Bas Hoeflaak, who pretend to be 'on location' to talk about something news worthy.
I was looking forward to it.
I've been waiting for a Dutch equivalent for a long time. A show that has a critical view, that isn't afraid and that puts certain things together to give the viewer a new perspective.
But so far - I admit, I've only seen four shows: you have to give it time to grow, all beginnings are hard, it's not fair to compare this show to it's American big brother - their jokes aren't working for me. Why not? Because Dutch news is clumsy. Because I don't want to see pieces of De Wereld Draait Door (another Dutch talk show). Because I can't help searching for Peter van de Witte, when I see his partner Bas. Because it feels like the Dutch comedy world needed a new project and look at how much fun they're having.
I'll wait and see. Maybe it will change. Or maybe mt opinion will change. It could be so great. A Dutch Daily Show.
| The Daily Show With Jon Stewart | Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c | |||
| Bill O'Reilly Defends His Nazi Analogies | ||||
| ||||
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Scent
Whenever I find myself in the darkness of a theatre performance or film screening, it always strikes me again: all those different scents around me. The man in front of me, who is wearing a delicious aftershave, the hideous perfume of the woman behind me. Sometimes, it's just a little whiff, that quickly passes your nose and never will return. Other times, it's there, whenever you move or get to close to them. Unfortunately, they're not always pleasant scents. Sometimes, it someones sweat, because he or she had to cycle hard to make it in time, or it's a fragrance that doesn't fit the person.
However, my conclusion is that all those scents will determine your perception of the show. Every time I smell something, my thought wander from the performance and I start wondering if I would experience it differently if the scent would be better or worse. And how would it be? Would I like the performance better? Or worse? Would it make me laugh less loud, so I wouldn't bend forward because I'd want to avoid the scent of that person in front of me?
The next thought that always follows is that I really would like to try it. I would love to make a scent performance, in which the audience get different scents while watching something. Afterwards they'd have to see it again with different scents, to see if there's a difference. I know what you're going to say, I'll say it for you: the experiment stops here. Because you cannot see a performance a second time with the perception of the first time anyway.
And so, my thoughts are brutally stopped, because it's impossible to figure this out. Still, my scent experiment always makes me happy. I realize that there is this extra experience in everything you do, that others might not be aware of, but that, in my opinion, definitely adds to the experience! Try to think of it, next time you're in a dark theatre venue. And don't run to the theatre in a hurry, be considerate to others..
However, my conclusion is that all those scents will determine your perception of the show. Every time I smell something, my thought wander from the performance and I start wondering if I would experience it differently if the scent would be better or worse. And how would it be? Would I like the performance better? Or worse? Would it make me laugh less loud, so I wouldn't bend forward because I'd want to avoid the scent of that person in front of me?
The next thought that always follows is that I really would like to try it. I would love to make a scent performance, in which the audience get different scents while watching something. Afterwards they'd have to see it again with different scents, to see if there's a difference. I know what you're going to say, I'll say it for you: the experiment stops here. Because you cannot see a performance a second time with the perception of the first time anyway.
And so, my thoughts are brutally stopped, because it's impossible to figure this out. Still, my scent experiment always makes me happy. I realize that there is this extra experience in everything you do, that others might not be aware of, but that, in my opinion, definitely adds to the experience! Try to think of it, next time you're in a dark theatre venue. And don't run to the theatre in a hurry, be considerate to others..
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