Life in Lomo

And we are but drops of water
and we are but grains of sand
and we are but fading memories
and our hearts are unknown land.

and we strip our wings on tightly
and we hope we can be free
and the sunlight blinds our vision
so we look but do not see

Tough love

It's my first day at school. I haven't been this nervous in the whole four years of my life. Well, of course there was that time when my Guinnea Pig (whom I, for inexplicable obscure and girly reasons, had decided to name Pigtail) had gotten her little head stuck in the tredmill. I found here in the early morning, letting out heartbreaking screeches of terror. God knows how long she had been fighting for her life in that cage before I tip toed into the living room that early morning.

The first thing I did when I saw her, was to burst out crying.

I know that wasn't the most productive behaviour in emergency situations like this, but I was so shocked, I couldn't help myself.

The second thing I did was to run up the stairs, hysterically sobbing, bursting into my parents' bedroom, yelling out things that couldn't have made much sense to mum and dad, who had only seconds ago still been floating in a magical dream world.

'Pigtail is stuck! Wake up, her head is dying! Dad! Dahaaahaaaady! Help!'

Now my dad's father instinct kicked in. It must have said something like 'Your four year old is standing in front of you and she is screaming for help, this is something very very bad, get the fuck out of bed and save her from whatever it is you need to save her from!'

As if struck by lightening, my dad threw the covers off and jumped out of bed. He was stark naked, because in times of life and death there is no room for prudity. He followed me off the stairs, rubbing sand from his eyes, his penis flabbing left and right with each step he took.

He must have thought that a thief or a murderer had sneaked into the house and was now hiding in a corner of the living room, waiting to demolish our whole family, because when I reached for the door knob, he roughly pushed me away. I fell and it hurt but I was so confused that I didn't even cry. While I pulled myself up, I witnessed my dad frantically shuffling about the hallway, looking for something. His shoulders and cheeks still had lines from where the doona had settled into his skin, but apart from that, he now looked more awake than ever. He had a wild look in his eyes and as he hurriedly grabbed an umbrella, I wished I hadn't woken him up, I wish I would have just taken care of Pigtail's situation myself.

Dad positioned his naked body in front of the door, twisted the doorknob and kicked the door open.

When you're four years old, your parents are your heroes. They are superhuman and you want to marry both of them and tell everyone you know just how superamazingfantasticspecial they are. I think this particular saturday morning was the beginning of the end of that myth. I watched the object of my toddler admiration stand in the door opening, in all his beer gut glory, armed with an umbrella.

My memory of this moment is that it was incredibly quiet. There were no cars outside, no sound of heels clacking on the pavement, I was holding my breath, I think dad was holding his breath too, and the only audible sound was the sad timbre of the high pitched shrieks Pigtail let out as her neck was slowly breaking.

I rushed past the dad-formerly-known-as-superhero and tended to Pigtail's cage.

I couldn't help her. I opened the door to her cage and reached in with my little arm, trying to bend the tredmill open as carefully as I could, but it was no use - plastic tredmills turn out to be pretty unbendable.

When the reality of the situation finally hit my dad, he came to help me a bit sheepishly. He stuck his hairy dad-arm through the opening and attempted to squeeze his rough skinned dad-fingers between the tredmill. Pigtail's squeals had turned into tired sighs at this point.

'Look at me', dad said. I could smell his morning breath. I looked at him. And suddenly not a single sound came out of the cage any longer. Dad had saved Pigtail in the only way she could be saved.

Ps: A LOVELY CHRISTMAS to all of you! xx

 

 PPS: I ate a guinnea pig when I was in Peru.

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.