Eat - Kick - Cry

Apathy is the keyword of week two. Utter stagnation.
I spend most days trying to hold back tears and trying to let them go. I take long walks in the forest where I don't have to talk to anyone but myself. I kick leaves, thousands of them. Their autumn colours blend effortlessly with the mood I am in. Melancholy turns out to be shades of brown, orange, yellow and red. It smells like wet earth. It gives you muddy gumboots and a runny nose.

I can't find my favourite socks. I cry.
I drop a spoon. I cry.
I see a bird in the tree. I cry.
I get a sweet text message. I cry.
I watch tv. I cry.
I go to bed. I cry.
I wake up. I cry.

The only thing that still brings me a sprinkle of joy, is eating.
I am aware that this might bring up the nightmareish image of a morbidly obese girl in trackpants and ugg boots, covered in tears, cookie crumbs and melted chocolate, stuffing her pimply face with doughnuts, letting out hysterical "booooohoooohoooooooo uuuuuhuuuuhuuuuuu's", whilst staring at the 11AM Bold & the Beautiful show on chanel 10.

I swear it isn't like that. Apart from the trackies and Ugg boots.

See, every country has their own specialties. I happen to like cheese. Australia is not exactly a cheese walhalla. Yes, it has an extended barbeque food range, but, being a vegetarian, this does not make my heart beat faster. Holland, on the other hand... How do I explain... Perhaps you can imagine a huge wheel of Old Amsterdam crowned by a cloud of sunshine and fairy dust, a choir of children going "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah", and me with a really big knife. That's a little bit what it is like to be back for me. Cheese-wise, mind you.
Other things I eat include, but are by no means limited to:
- Licorice. And I mean KILO's of the stuff. Chronically-black-teeth-high-blood-pressure-style.
- Peanutbutter. And YES, I know they have peanutbutter in Australia. But it tastes like plastic. Peanutbutter in Holland tastes like. Well, what peanutbutter would taste like in a world without war and poverty.
- Pepernoten. Little round chunks of speculaas, sometimes covered in chocolate (children's choir again: "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah").
- Stroopwafels. Warm, big, thin, round wafers, filled with a sweet, thick, beautiful syrupy syrup. What the hearts of angels would taste like.
- Krentebollen. Raisin rolls, basically. Preferably with some cheese and shitloads of butter on 'em.
-Hagelslag. Chocolate sprinkles, to put on top of a thick layer of butter on your morning toast.

Rediscovering this lovely food made me smile. It was almost worth the panic attack I had in the supermarket ("too many people, too many colours, get me outta here, now, now, NOW!!").

And will you ever, after a week of thinking I might have to be put into a mental institution, I wake up, feel my face, and my cheeks are dry. I try thinking about finding a job, and a house, and I still don't cry. I think about my long distance lover, and I don't cry.
I get up, rub the remainders of melancholy out of my eyes, pack my bag, skull a coffee, and take a train back to civilization.

From "Random Memories and Stories": A Love Letter

Sweet love of mine.


If you had a balcony, I would stand underneath it in the spotlight of the moon, shivering under clouds of the hope that you'd appear.

If I could sing, I would serenate you sweet promises, lubricated in wine and sealed with smoke.

If I could rhyme, I would dip a feather in indigo ink and write you poetry while you are vast asleep. I would wake you at sunrise, whispering soft words onto your lips like the brush of butterfly wings.

If I had money other than these seven coins, humming confrontational melodies in the pocket of my winter coat, I would buy you a rainbow and everything you ever wanted.

If I could draw, I would sketch you a future of bottomless oceans of autumn leaves and endless roads of desert sand. If I could paint, I would colour it in shades of red that have never been touched by a human glance before.

If I had the oppenness of a newborn baby and the courage of a warrior, I would stand stripped bare before you, and explain to you how I have never loved anyone like I love you. That I will never love anyone like I love you. That I want to be near you always and for you to never leave me again. I would look you in the eye as I said it and I would not be afraid that your lips might not form the same promises or that your fingers would not knead the same desires out of hopes and dreams.

If I was nothing more than who I am right now, my hands would reach out as if my fingers could almost touch you. As I closed my eyes, a thin river of salty longing would slowly evaporate on my fear-flushed cheeks. I would press my lips together and articulate silent sentences of hope and determination. Through my nose I would inhale a big gulp of trust and as my feet would carefully take turns in moving forward, I would let go of everything and hold on to nothing.
I would let go of nothing and hold on to everything.
If I was nothing more than who I am right now.

Back

Here I am. Home. After almost three years of living on the other side of the world, I am home. And I have no idea what that word even means.

The first week is covered in a thick fog of nitrious oxide. I am high and happy, on the verge of delirium. My old acquaintance Mister Jet-Lag refuses to loosen his grip on me all week. He keeps waking me up in the middle of the night, filling my brain with scattered thoughts and my stomach with random appetites, pulling my eyelids down in the middle of the day, preventing me from seeing clearly, from thinking straight.

I feel like a water balloon in a game of catch and throw between my friends. I spend every day in a different house, with a different person. My mouth opens and closes and words come out but I have no control over what I say, and come moonrise, I don't even remember the conversations I've had. Plans. People seem to want to know about my plans. I feel like a failure having to tell them again and again, that I have no plans. I try to make plans but I can't see through that damn fog in my brain. I give up. I give in.

Going from soft spring breezes into harsh autum storms takes its toll. I get sick. Mum takes me to the doctor. We slide down the escalator. Mum is so happy to have me back, she keeps hugging me and stares at me like I have come from outer space. We do not stop talking, regardless of the sandpaper in my throat. I sound like a chainsmoking seal. Alcoholic, also. I look like, well, an alcoholic chainsmoking seal. And I probably feel like one on the inside as well. Mum notices a lady behind us on the escalator. She can't help herself. "This is my daughter! She just came back from Australia! Three years! Long time, huh! I'm so happy to have her back!"
The lady doesn't really know what to say, and I burst out laughing, which quickly turns into some sort of epileptic fit, frothing, unable to breathe, capsicum-red-faced...
Someone to be proud of, mum!

Week one. Lost. Dazed. Confused.

Week two. Bring it on. Please, bring it on.