1st
Logging in today, and as I’m typing now, a small part of me wishes Covid to make a small comeback, if only for the irrational sanitization frenzy that it engendered among us. The keyboard keys aren’t sticky, but they are covered in what feels like a film, and in these few sentences, I can feel that it’s been transferred onto my finger tips. Since I’m on day five of being sick and incapacitated, perhaps I’m feeling extra sensitive to germs. In any case, today isn’t a day for Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Last month I must have spent at least twenty of the days writing from the library. I usually head to the third floor of the central library where it’s much quieter, there’s a row of students at the tables along on the wall or sitting at two large tables in the middle, and their discipline always amazes me. I haven’t caught one of them browsing some meaningless website in distraction, they’re always so focused on whatever it is they are studying. There are only eight public computers on this floor, and if I count the four on the first floor it totals twelve. A paltry amount for a city this big, yet somehow I’m always able to get one.
The most interesting neighboring user I had last month was a middle aged lady, who seemed to be performing a search for a person. I couldn’t help but glance over on several occasions, and when I did she was visiting obituaries, followed by LinkedIn searches and Facebook profiles, noting all this down in a file. She did this for the entire time I was there, a good two hours. When I finished my business, I would have liked to tap her on her shoulder, and kindly inquire, ‘Miss, who is it that you’re looking for?’ Was it a husband, a lover, a son? Benno von Archimboldi!? But I couldn’t do such a thing, because doing so would reveal my intrusiveness. She had an aura of sadness about her, I remember leaving wishing that whatever or whoever it was that she was looking for, would someday be found and offer her some happiness.
2nd
Some phone writing action happening here. Writing on the phone doesnt feel like writing very much. It feels like texting. It feels like another time wasting activity. Should this happen again, I think I’ll try to good old pen and paper, and post that instead.
It is day seven of being sick. It wasn’t a particularly strong cold, but enough to prevent me from doing my normal routine. Not running for this long does things to my body. I already feel heavier and weaker, and today my back has started to feel stiff and uncomfortable. I’ll give it one more day and then from Saturday I’ll start again, with a light 5 km. I havent trained seriously all year. For me that means one speed session a week and one strength training, usually bootcamp, to go along with the other runs, which includes a long one on the weekend. I’m hoping the temperature rises. The length of the day is already adequate. There still isn’t a running goal for this year, however I am thinking of a marathon distance trail run, preferably one with quiet some elevation. Looking at the race calendar is on my to do list still.
Where were we. Yes, texting on the phone. Today was weird because I infected Milo with my cold and he needed to sleep a little more. Then I had a trumpet lesson, followed by a mentor meeting (there’s a full length story coming about that one of these days), and I just finished a Spanish speaking session online with my teacher and another of his students. I felt I underperformed at all of those, much like this post, but since I’ve been sick I’m not going to be too disappointed.
Tomorrow is somewhat exciting because I’ll go to the dentist, located in Amsterdam Zuid. It’s probably the most white middle class neighborhood of Amstedam, for some reason I enjoy going there very much. I plan to bring my book, read on the train, go to a cafe afterwards and think about life, and what to write. Oh there’s also a half decent bookshop there that I’ll pop into. The shitty thing is that I’m certain I have a cavity, and since I grind my teeth I’m also certain I have destroyed some enamel on my teeth. Thank God I have extra dental insurance.
Congratulations for making it this far. I’m not going to send you the customary ‘this post is shit’ message, this time I will have let you figure it out on your own.
3rd
good luck with that. To be transcribed on another day, if I am able to decipher it myself.
4th
draft of furious fiction. Need more much more time, 1 hour nowhere near enough. Chair is in the story but serves no purpose. Tomorrow I’ll finish. A real challenge.
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She knew that eventually this day would come. Common sense would dictate that this was a decision that the public should have made on the first day the mass production of the fleet of autonomous vehicles was given approval, the day that they celebrated by popping several bottles of champagne. The media often made sensationalist headlines about it, often over simplifying the matter by referencing the trolley problem, armchair philosophers could be heard proselytizing what was morally correct, and for a short period of time, in some self-referential conception that confused the common man if he thought too hard about it, it was the most commonly asked question on ChatGPT.
But no one really knew the machinations of an organization, a for profit one run by a megalomaniac, at that.
Her heels clicked as she made her way down the brightly lit hall, and she took a deep breath before entering his office where he was sitting in an ugly chair. As if reading her mind, his first words were to inform her that it was a Paimio chair from the Finnish designer Alvar Aalto from the 1930’s. Was she supposed to be impressed?
Luckily, before she could reply, because she didn’t know how, he tapped the photo album on his lap, which she instantaneously recognized as the one from her coffee table, the one containing the photos of her three children.
“I didn’t want to resort to this, but you’ve left me no choice”
“It doesn’t matter what you want, we’ve unanimously decided to program it for saving the greatest number of lives, irrespective of any other data.”
“And if it’s equal?”
“You already know this, then it’s random, a coin flip”
He flipped through the photos for a few moments before speaking again. It shocked her that he knew the names of her children.
“Gabby, Oscar and Dylan are being driven to school, when three convicts are on the loose, and you’re telling me that you’re going to leave it up to chance”?
“We’ve told you hundreds of times, we leave all characteristics off the table. Wealth, age, education, intellect, race, genealogy – the only honorable way to program it is to minimize the loss of life.”
5th
Some final minor revisions to my submission. Once again I have to state that this is HARD. I’m used to moaning about all the terrible injustices I’ve suffered, not writing an interesting short story with prompts. Also, writing dialogue is something new to me. I couldn’t find a way to have a chair feature, and the story itself feels very implausible. Well, until April!
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Ten hours before go-live. She knew that eventually this day would come. Common sense would dictate that this was a decision that the public should have made on the first day the mass production of the fleet of autonomous vehicles was given approval, the day that they celebrated by popping several bottles of champagne. The media often made sensationalist headlines about it, often over simplifying the matter by referencing the trolley problem, armchair philosophers could be heard proselytizing what was morally correct, and for a short period of time, in some self-referential conception that confused the common man if he thought too hard about it, it was the most commonly asked question on ChatGPT.
By tomorrow morning, one hundred thousand steel boxes on four wheels would be crisscrossing the state of California, all run on the software that she was ultimately responsible for.
Her heels clicked as she made her way down the brightly lit hall, and she took a deep breath before entering his office where he was sitting in an ugly chair. As if reading her mind, his first words were to inform her that it was a Paimio chair from the Finnish designer Alvar Aalto from the 1930’s. Was she supposed to be impressed?
Luckily, before she could reply, because she didn’t know how, he tapped the photo album on his lap, which she instantaneously recognized as the one from her coffee table, the one containing the photos of her three children.
“I didn’t want to resort to this, but you’ve left me no choice”
“It doesn’t matter what you want, we’ve unanimously decided to program it for saving the greatest number of lives in case of an accident, irrespective of any other data.”
“And if the body count is equal?”
“You already know this, then it’s random, a coin flip”
He flipped through the photos for a few moments before speaking again. It shocked her that he knew the names of her children.
“Gabby, Oscar and Dylan are being driven to school, when three convicts are on the loose, and you’re telling me that you’re going to leave it up to chance”?
“We’ve told you hundreds of times, we leave all characteristics off the table. Wealth, age, education, intellect, race, genealogy – the only honorable way to program it is to minimize the loss of life.”
“So naive.”
He leaned back into the chair, before lifting his feet to rise, depositing the album where he was sitting moments ago.
“I’ve arranged for your children to be driven to school tomorrow morning by one of our cars. They will take a detour, a tour if you will, a little further north of the city along the coast. Do you know that area? The one with the maximum security prison? I’ve also arranged my warden friend to have a power failure at about the same time they’ll be passing through. You’d be wise to fix the algorithm. The choice is yours.”
6th
It never occurred to me that Amsterdam Zuid were your former stomping grounds. I think I am slightly envious. It’s a beautiful area, I find myself uncharacteristically at peace every time I visit. If you could arrange a small tour, I’d be grateful. I may have already walked by several of the places you’ve mentioned as I always make it a point to visit, not necessarily in the same order, the fish store, the book store, the dentist, take a coffee and walk along the canals in that area. I’ve even frequented the Dunkin Donuts on several occasions, if I am not in a mood to be waited on and if I don’t mind the throngs of teenagers (ghosts of Jitse!) paying for overpriced donuts. Whenever you can, please send me an itinerary. I may even head down under the pretext of a checkup.
I say only slightly envious, because I wouldn’t change my high school experience for anything. I don’t think the happiness I underwent during those years has been eclipsed, at least not for such a sustained period of time like then. And this is all atypical, coming from me, because my high school was located on the edge of a large suburban expanse, or what I frequently refer to as suburban hell. The school itself was only one or two years old when we started there. Behind it, to one side were empty fields, now developed into cookie cutter McMansions. Several of my best friends from elementary school were there and we seemed to mix seamlessly with the others. It could be a trick of the mind, but I don’t remember it being cliquey in any way. Everyone seemed to mix in harmony. I only had very vague notions of race and religion (perhaps that is privileged and ignorant – but there were certainly people from different backgrounds and beliefs there, this is Canada afterall, but those traits were somewhere far in the background of someone’s identity). I suppose if you had to place a ‘group’ at the top of the food chain, you’d go with the hockey boys. Entirely white and as the name implies, decent hockey players. But even with them, I think I am categorizing them retrospectively. They were the same as all of us, back then. We’d hang out together, eat lunch together, chase the same girls. I looked forward to going there every day. The education was secondary, it was more of a place to go hang out. I wonder if it is like that for everyone. Finding this feeling in the professional sphere (belonging?) would be the holy grail. (Presuming the responsibilities and troubles one encounters later in life don’t bog it all down).
We didn’t have anyone close to a Herman Brood, you’d have to venture into downtown Toronto to encounter anyone remotely close to that, I presume. If you find yourself in that neck of the woods, I could send you to the plazas where we used to have lunch. One to the east, and one to the south. Even those, I look back at fondness, even though they were plastic chains: Pizza Pizza, Harvey’s Hamburgers, Subway. It makes me wonder if it’s true what they say, that it’s the company that you keep that makes you happy, not the surroundings.
7th
That sweet exhaustion of physical exertion. Now here, I am truly envious. I haven’t trained hard for months. Sure I’ve done the requisite 10 km runs during the week to stave off insanity, but the hard breathing following an interval session, or the gratifying achiness and endless appetite ensuing a 20km distance, are things I am starting to miss dearly. My current type of exhaustion is well documented here, and it is a far cry from what you’re experiencing.
Over the past few days I have browsed some trail races that in theory I would like to train for. Actually, in the back of my mind there is a small hope and dream to run in the Dolomites again and complete the 120km race. I’m not ready to call it a pipe dream just yet. In order to qualify for that you need to collect a certain amount of points (or stones, I need to spend some more time figuring out the system). It would mean running something like an 80 km – 100 km race some time before October of this year, and I think you may even need some qualifying points to enter those races, which means running a marathon – 50 km race in the next few months, which means my net km count of zero over the last two weeks would certainly need to be ramped up. With this in mind, it is a rare moment that I wish we had access to an automobile, because if I was to undertake this task, I’d like to run and train almost exclusively on trails, and access some hills, albeit small ones.
The truth is, the next few months are so unpredictable for us. Where will we be living? Spain, Utrecht, South America, Toronto? What will I be doing? Corporate slave, panhandling, writing the next Great Novel? In that sense, maybe having that race as the one thing that is certain, could be a good thing.
Sorry, I think I drifted in some thoughts there.
In June it is very likely I will walk the next section of the Camino de Santiago – Northern Route, from Bilbao to Santander. I hope we’re still writing at that point in time, then I can give you an accurate account, and we can compare notes on writing after long distance walking.
8th
Indeed, I will be continuing from where I left off last June. Actually, the whole idea was born out of diplomacy. My better one and a half wanted a final trip before they would become my better two, and Scheveningen wasn’t cutting it, they demanded a proper beach. I came to the bargaining table prepared, opening with a tactical gambit that would earn the praise of Churchill. What better way to entice a pregnant lady with the promise of not only a beach, but a beach situated in one of the most renowned gastronomical regions of the world. A colleague from work who hails from the area provided a list of must eat pintxos bars, cafes and other sites to see.
“You see, we start with the pulpo here, and right around the corner are the beef cheeks. On the beach front, it’s the boquerones, naturally, to be followed with a dip in the Bay of Biscay, where we allow the salt to dry on our skin and mouths, if only to tease the palate, a foreshadowing of the salt that crusts over the txuleta steak that we’ll have for supper.”
Sold!
“And what is this here? This faint line on the map, leading from San Sebastian to Santiago de Compostella? My word, it appears to be a hike of some sort. Well seeing as we’re already there, enjoying the culinary delights, I may as well take advantage of that and hike the first section, while you return to the Netherlands, with your heart and belly full? It’ll only take me a few days?
That’s how I found myself starting Camino del Norte, and since I’ve already done the first 120 km from San Sebastian to Bilbao I may as well do the remaining 700 km, at some point in this life. Happily in one swift go, but most likely in bits and pieces, 100 or 200 km here and there. There’s no rush.
More to come tomorrow! I recall that you once sent me a link to a long distance hike in SK, and for a short period of time I was even entertaining the thought of joining you. My memory is a bit blurry but I even may have contemplated it for my sabbatical, though it wasn’t realistic due to Covid. Any thoughts of taking it on still?
9th
While on the Camino I think traveler is the most apt term for myself. I’m there to see new landscapes, monuments, histories, discover foods with a ravenous hunger, sit in ancient village squares, find suitable accommodation and make memories. Although I like the term pilgrim. It gives the walk more meaning somehow. But no, I didn’t think of St. James before setting out, or while walking. Maybe because I was so far away, I imagine as I near the end and approach the final destination I would ruminate some more about him, about the meaning of it all. This is a not too far off analogy of how I feel about a higher power. Currently I don’t give that idea a lot of thought, but I know there will come a time later when I do. Why the delay? Would my life be enriched, if I was more spiritual or devout? It’s an interesting question. Maybe at the moment I’m too influenced by the Michel Houllebecq school of thought; it’s all meaningless and because of that we should live hedonistically, maximizing pleasure. Nah, that is too far. It is an important question, I’ll return with more details in a day or two (6 am wake up today and have some time pressure as the library is closing in a few minutes).
This idea to take the bus out to the coast for a sampling of the coast trail – be careful, that’s exactly how I started with the Pieterpad. I took a few train connections to Pieterburen, just to try it out for a day, to see if I would really like to do it, how well the trail was marked, if anyone was out there during lockdown. Next thing I knew I was in St. Pietersberg.
10th
People came from miles and miles away, my parents rented a banquet hall at the local hotel, and it was the biggest festivity that I can recall from my childhood. I was lavished with cards and gifts. The first time I could accept the bread from the hands of the priest was a big deal apparently, and remains slightly so. When my mom came this November she brought a framed picture of me standing next to a statue of Holy Mary, with my hands pressed together in an eager prayer. The next big event would come five or so years later, called confirmation, a recognition that the promises I made when being baptized were being kept, which also called for a celebration, though in my memory, smaller in magnitude. That was the end of my formal Christian education as the high school I attended was public and non-religious. The majority of my friends from the Christian elementary school chose that one as well, logistic reasons as the school was in our neighborhood trumping religious obligations. I did however continue going to church on Sundays, not every Sunday but frequently enough and likely then at the request of my father. I don’t think my mom, sister nor me particularly liked to go, however since my dad was the head of the household, we didn’t argue too much about it. We’d often go to a cafe afterwards, if the body of Christ did not sate us, and then we were free to enjoy the rest of the Sunday. To add another layer of identity along with Christianity, was the choice between a Polish church or a regular English service. The Polish church was much farther away, and the services seemed to drag on longer, so when he announced we’d be going there I often was a little disappointed. In those years, English or Polish I’d often zone out of the service anyways, scanning the pews for pretty girls, but the Polish ones felt like they dragged on and had an air of seriousness. There’s a moment when you have to beat your chest three times and exclaim everything is ‘my fault’, and the Poles always seem to take that to heart.
During my twenties, this pattern continued. If I was visiting home on a Sunday, it would often entail heading to a service. I didn’t seem to mind it, since I was spending time with my family anyway. Christmas and Easter services were non-negotiable (and extra extra long, but also nice as the Polish Christmas carols put Jingle Bells to shame).
That brings us to my time in the Netherlands. In the first year of living here, I sought out a Polish(!) church service, likely out of homesickness and missing my family and my dad. Aside from that, I don’t think I’ve gone to any other services here, Easter and Christmas included. My father continues to go almost every Sunday, mostly to Polish mass, and my mom probably reluctantly joins him.
Well I don’t think recounting any of this gives an indication of my faith or some deep thoughts about the matter. If I had to choose between atheism and Christianity, I’d go for the latter, and I’d still identify myself as such. Non-practising and not so much out of a sense of faith, but comfort and tradition. Those deeper questions about who, why, how – I can’t claim to be agnostic about them. Maybe I’m taking the easy way out, but then I go with the Christian version, with a grain of salt.
I can foresee myself going to church, even Polish ones in the future. Not every Sunday, but once in a while, to think, for some reflection. If I had a choice, I’d baptize Milo. If that’s not the case, I’ll still drag him out to a service or two annually, so I can feel how my father felt, and he can feel how I felt. Tradition.
11th
Random post for a random day. Next week we were invited to the one year old birthday party of the daughter of one of my best friends. At 10 am we realized it was in fact this week, today. We deliberated for thirty minutes about what to do. They live in Den Haag, and I didn’t quite fancy taking the bus, train and tram combo required to get out there. We wanted to play the sick card, but in the end opted to tell the truth and say we mixed up the dates. Instead we would take Milo for his first bike ride, strapped in on a carrier on my chest, since the sun was out. We left the house without a destination, never a good idea, and ended up on the Rijnkanal. The snow, yes snow, on the ground should have given it away, but it was damn cold. Within a few minutes, he started to complain from the icy wind in his face. Eventually we had to stop, and we left a bike by the canal so we could walk home before the lad developed hypothermia. I volunteered to run and pick it up on my way. It was a few hundred meters away from an outdoor calisthenics gym, and the idea was to make use of it, however when I arrived that idea morphed into a stretching session, which gave way to me lying on a bench, where I remained for a good fifteen minutes, staring at the blue sky.
A combination of lack of sleep, eating as if I was training and clocking 50 km a week – way too many carbs, way too many cookies, pancakes, and overall lack of exercise has left me feeling as if I’m on a precipice. From here I will either succumb to french fries, coca-cola and no exercise, or I get my shit together and start with focused training. There doesn’t appear to be some middle ground, at least I can’t see any now, in my current state.
Anyways, mid-day now, and I hope the rest isn’t as weird. People are outside in shorts in a t-shirt, and another is in full parka, scarf and mittens. At least I’m not the only one that’s confused.
12th
22:36 on a Sunday that included a four hour father and son outing. It’ll be a post simply describing the day, I can’t wait to be done so I can let out a big sigh of relief and stay up for a little longer in some form of relaxation, probably reading but the over/under is 3 pages before I’m out. Yesterday I mentioned I was close to the edge of feeling unhealthy, so I made a point to get out for a nice run today, despite the shitty weather. Approximately 25 minutes cycling northwest brought me to Panbos, a little nature park just outside of the city. There are four colour marked trails, 11, 5, 4, and 3 km in distance. On the 11 km route there a few little bumps or hills, and for a couple of kilometers it feels like you’re out in nature, before you end up near a golf course and a dog park. For being so close to the city and my house, I have no complaints about it. Random thought – to buy a piece of land and also have trail running tracks on it (in Canada). Counting the cycling it’s almost two hours of exercise, thus I’m content. Even though it tired me out, it’s a start. The rest of the day was that outing where we went to the local library and to a cafe. That’s only six hours of the day accounted for, where’d the rest go? I cooked some cod fillet and pasta, trumpeted for an hour or so, Skyped with my parents, and in between took a nap of 45 minutes, without that I wouldn’t be writing today. Mercifully we are reaching the end, I’ve noticed weekends are harder for me to write as somehow we do more on those days. Another random thought to close; these last few weeks I’ve felt like I’ve done everything poorly. Running/exercising was the bare minimum, my Spanish is limited to some reading and podcasts, the writing, well that speaks for itself, and with the trumpet, I can’t complain too much but the progress has been minimal. Oh, and reading, has been a fraction of what I usually take in. I guess my point is that I feel I have to shed one of these activities (and ideally go all in on one or two). Anyways, that’s all I got. I have a list of topics for writing posts about, I just need to be fully focused and with energy to write about them.
PS – the news was delivered on WhatsApp, oof I dont know if I could do it on the phone. Perhaps it’s more honest on the phone, but isn’t it acceptable on WhatsApp?
13th
It was a shitty job, rank with the stench of burnouts from other cherished personnel, run by a notorious sweet talking cocksucker. I didn’t want to leave the comfort of my role to go into that shithole. It was the same shit and the same pay grade, in a different department that I couldn’t give a flying fuck about. It felt like a slap in the face. I made a vain attempt to feign interest, and that if they were to raise the pay grade, as if those few extra euros per month could mollify me, I just might consider. Go fuck yourself, they told me in their own sweet language. Fine you assholes, I’m going to get a job in my current department, spending money, living large. I’ll just have to be patient.
This all took place last year. Remarkably, the entire time, I can honestly say that I haven’t stressed or regretted anything. But sadly, it’s starting to creep in. Things didn’t pan out remotely close to how I thought they would. Naively, throughout the entire saga I had told myself and possibly believed that in the end it would all work out.
What if I had said yes to that role, if only to tide me over until the next good opportunity came up? Right now I’d be in the gentle loving hands of das machine; I’m sure after a few months I’d find a way to arrange for an intern to do all the shitty work and blame them for everything, I’ve seen it done for a decade for christs sake, it would have been no different. I’d have a paycheck, I’d be in the expat saving scheme, I could buy some running shoes with a discount, I could save face.
Yes, the first doubts are setting in, that I bet the house and humiliatingly lost all that I had built.
14th
*** I finished typing this, and as I was going to post, I read your entry. Just bear with me for a little while, I’m going through a phase, apparently.
A couple of years ago, for reasons now unbeknownst to me, I volunteered for a mentoring platform put on by my graduate school, Rotterdam School of Management. The idea was for students currently enrolled in the program to contact working professionals and ask them about their company and careers. I disliked university in Canada, but the one year program in Rotterdam I found tolerable, and this was a small commitment as the informal chats are limited to thirty minutes, online. In fact, this kicked off at the beginning of COVID, so perhaps that is what enticed me to volunteer, another form of socialization that we were cut off from at the time.
By now you know how I feel about corporate life, and every time I speak to these students I need to bite my tongue, and to put it bluntly, bullshit. Maybe not entirely so, before speaking to them I like to put myself in the frame of mind of the first few years, let’s say the first five, when I genuinely enjoyed the challenge, the people, the culture and the company. If I do that, I can speak quite well about my experience.
It’s an interesting mix of people that contact me. It can be anyone, from a young twenty-something who has no clue about the soul sucking shit they’re about to encounter to a veteran of the game, trying to jump into a bigger brand and a bigger pile of shit for a bigger paycheck. There are MBA’s who have ridiculously overpaid for a worthless piece of paper (thanks mom and dad, hopefully, and not a loan) and overqualified doctors and technology experts that have reached out to me. People with qualifications and ambitions that put myself to shame.
Even in the last month or so, I’ve done about three of these sessions. They’re aware that I left the company last year, but they still are eager to speak to me. In some way, it’s my ego being stroked, I admit. It also scares me a little, how badly they want to be working there, and relating to yesterday’s post, makes me question my decision that little bit more.
I’m still very much ensconced in the mindframe that corporate life is the only life in the West. Where else am I going to get all the goodies (health insurance, retirement fund, discounts, CASH MONEY)? I’m willing to exchange a third of my time for that. The so called hobbies that I dabble in now, they’ll be relegated to thirty minutes an evening if I’m lucky and on weekends.
And apparently I’m not the only one. I lay on the bullshit thick to them, I always tell Fatima it’s good practice for the corporate world, lest I find myself there again, the chances of which are high.
At least one interesting thought from an unremarkable book I’m reading (Immortality, Milan Kundera):
“It’s odd, but human life has never been subjected to mathematical research. Take time, for example. I long for an experiment that would examine, by means of electrodes attached to a human head, exactly how much of one’s life a person devotes to the present, how much to memories and how much to the future. This would let us know who a man really is in relation to his time. What human time really is.”
These days it feels like I’m working with a split of 20/1/79 Past-Present-Future. There is work to be done. I remember quite clearly in another email you said you were trying to do things with more intention. I’ve tried that, in its purest form. We’ve started to buy kilos of fresh green beans in their pod from Morocco. Fresh, real food. It takes maybe an hour to peel and separate the bean from the pod, and I tried to make a point to do that and only that. And it was fine, up until the weekend, when I saw that good old Albert Hijn stocks the same beans in the frozen section, already peeled, two packs of which are now sitting in my own freezer. That time I save, to be used for something to benefit me, in the distant future. Welcome to the West.
15th
Time and time again, every year, it’s the same problem. The garden. One of the nice things about the winter here is that I don’t have to think about it. But now, since the days are getting longer, I have to look at the thing, and it is inviting me to come and nurture it.
Neither of us has a green thumb, oh no, that’s used sacredly for scrolling, neither of us has the patience to attend to and care for such a thing (Oh shit!), neither of us care to learn the art of manicuring and tending a garden. I could honestly give every waking hour in a week to it, that’s how much would be needed for it to look nice. Yesterday I was out there for two. Was it weeds I was pulling or crystanthiums? I couldn’t tell you. If it looked out of place, it went. Oh Mirle, blessed Mirle. Our old neighbour from next door, one of those gentle souls that found so much PLEASURE in gardening that she came over for two or three days straight to tend to the garden in the spring of 2019. Bless her soul, she even made a spreadsheet of all the plants we could buy, where to plant them, and when to prune them.
Every year we buy hundreds of euros worth of plants, bulbs, shrubs, seeds, green things, soils, slug repellent, vitamins, fertilizer, sticks, strings, you name it, we’ve thrown it in the ground – and prayed to Pacha Mama to bless us with a good harvest, but you couldn’t tell. Tomorrow I’ll go back out, to finish turning the soil and taking out the weeds and or plants, and we’ll make the annual pilgrimage to the garden centre and make our sacrifice.
I know what you’re thinking, that I did this to myself, though it wasn’t my choice to have the garden. I had made bids on two other apartments on the street but was outrageously outbid, so when this one came available, it felt like I had to go all in, even though it was on the ground floor and came with land in the front, side and back. I’ve heard it’s desirable to have a garden in Utrecht, maybe so, but this one is misfortunately placed. For one, around my flat, and two, we’re right next to one of the main conduits in Utrecht, thus even if I had a lush garden, you wouldn’t really want to sit out there, because you can hear the noise pollution from the road that is but a few meters from our building. A few months ago I dreamed of building a little shed out there, where I would sit, have coffee, write a novel. I think there’s a Knausgaard book where he actually does that. I can’t remember what he said about his gardening skills, but if he can do that and write, then we might as well hand him the Nobel.
But wait, there’s more to complain about. Did I tell you about the row of hedges that surrounds the garden? It has to have a circumference of 60 meters, and guess who’s in charge of trimming these bushes? I’d probably leave it to go grow wild, but they’re situated next to a walkway, so when it rains and the branches are too long, the neighbours complain that they get wet. The actual trimming, that is not too bad. With an electric trimmer and a hell of a long extension chord, which I chopped through at the end of last summer, in two days and some perilous balancing on a step ladder, I can trim them down to size. Then the real fun begins, raking and getting rid of the waste. If I had a car I could potentially take it down to a garden waste center, but without one I need to rely on the municipal waste collection that comes around once a week. We have one container for that, though I’d need 8-10 to get rid of all the trimmings, so it becomes a game of asking neighbours to borrow theirs, timing the waste truck to get it once when it comes on our side of the street and then frantically refilling and running the bins to the other side. If I’m lucky the disposal operation can be done in three weeks. Did I tell you that the garden also has a lawn to be cut every few weeks? The spring may finally be here, but winter already winter can’t come soon enough.
16th
We are in danger of turning this into a recipe blog, at least for my part, or even worse a site endorsing kitchenware for the modern American family, imagine them happily sitting down to a meal, the wife delivering a kiss on my cheek as we tuck into some glazed ham, cooked tenderly in no time in our microwave, before I head out to the backyard to play catch with the boy.
Are you still with me? Good.
I’m talking about the Tefal blender we ordered and received today. 1200 KwH baby. This thing crushes and liquifies anything, I’ve no need for teeth anymore.
The real motives were of course the little one’s feeding, but now I’m fantasizing about the nut milk that I’m going to produce. We’ve been buying the carton version; oat, oat barista edition, soy, soy with extra protein, almond drink – basically water and preservatives. Coming later today, I’ll have 5, yes 5, kilos of raw cashews, which I’ll soak overnight and blend with a dash of vanilla extract and a date or two into a creamy milky consistency. If all goes well, my nut milk emporium will be delivered to thousands of trendy vegan gen z’s by the end of the year. 100% real.
Apart from one or two batches of homemade broth, we never really went into a homemade phase that was all the rage during lockdown, I’m thinking sourdoughs mainly, so maybe we’re making up for that. To say I’m excited is an understatement.
Such are the days here.
When I read your posts, it reminds me of the sheer pleasure and excitement I experienced in the early years of my relocation to the Netherlands, when a simple walk or outing for an errand provided a new experience or observation. I believe even up until Covid, I was still experiencing such novelties, perhaps with a lesser frequency, though I recall being content with the amount. Of course it ceased during lockdown, and now I fear that when I go about and do my things, it is with a sense of normalcy.
Thus, it’s high time to move back to Canada? But doesn’t the normalcy that awaits me there, an even worse and staler version? One where really and truly the pinnacles of life are the so called lifesaving wares; 80 inch 4D TVs, self-cleaning ovens, roombas, and the worst of the worst, automatic cappuccino coffee machines?
Let’s see. Let’s see where the blender and nut milk takes me.
17th
Today is the closest I’ve come to skipping a post, since I’ve been out of the house since 9:30 am and back after 8 pm. All of a sudden it’s 9:30 pm, not too late, but I am totally spent. Most of energy went at the Polish embassy, an almost two hour wait to pick up passports. Luckily, I had a Houellebecq novel that I just started to keep me company. Submission – I believe you mentioned to me that you’ve read it. So far, so good, maybe a little too deep into French politics. Something about his characters speak to me, their boring dissatisfied lives, I think. Actually, what compelled me to read this, aside from enjoying the other two or three books from Houellebecq, was learning that Knausgaurd wrote an essay about it, that is readily available on the internet, apparently, in case your wanted his views. I’ll be checking it out afterwards. Apparently Houellebecq enters into some peoples consideration for a Nobel. That would maybe be a little strange, given what he writes about, but I think even if he didn’t write about the risqué, he’d be a strong writer and worthy candidate. I wonder if Knausgaard will ever get one, does he even want one?
Eyes are shutting now, and I’m entering the risky zone where I fall asleep without brushing my teeth, and then the effort to do so in the middle of the night should win me some kind of prize as well, Nobel, Oscar, Grammy, so I’d better be off.
18th
Another random day here, even though we don’t have a plan, it didn’t really go as planned. Thus a random post. What is a random post you ask? To me it’s when I’m sitting down, conscious of the clock, without a topic/theme in mind (although even when I do it can tend to stray), and what ensues is mainly an account of my day, like a short journal entry.
Today was the first real hint of spring in the air. Hordes of overzealous sunbathers out on the terraces, short sleeve and t-shirt the standard attire for runners, and I even saw a sprinkling of park goers picnicking. It’ll take 4-5 degrees higher and less wind to get me out there, for now the extent of my eagerness is trading my wool sweater that I seem to have been wearing for six months for a regular shirt. Winter jacket stays, for now. But it brings me to a forthcoming dilemma, and it is genuine, not just some ruse to stock my ‘this is a shitty post’ arsenal. As you know, every ounce of sunlight is precious in the country, so when it is a beautiful day, I’m going to find it incredibly difficult to sit in the library and write. Naturally the solution would be to sit on a terrace or in a park, but I’m still holding out on a laptop purchase. My trumpeting suffers from the same fate. Of course, it would be ludicrous to call a summer hiatus to the indoor activities. I’m just giving you advance warning of what’s in store.
Tonight I’ve been invited to a party. Possibly my first party since Covid? I hope it’s a small, quiet, intimate affair. In the one hour of time I’ve allotted myself to be there, if I can find two or three people maximum to exchange a few pleasantries before making a beeline to the nearest exit, I’ll consider it a resounding success.
Before that, I’ve got two filet mignons in my backpack which I’ll cook in the next thirty minutes. Though we promised to cut out fish and meat in any home cooking due to price, maybe a tiny bit of environmental consideration and health reasons, I fell victim to the Youtube algorithm and watched a guy cook the perfect filet mignon, a cut that I’ve never cooked at home myself, complete with a basting of garlic and shallot butter. Last one, I swear.
19th
Today, a four hour marathon with the little one. If it had actually been a marathon, I reckon I’d be less tired. Hence I am typing this from my phone directly into wordpress. I can’t even bother to log in to gmail on the iPad. As soon as this is done, I don’t know what I’ll do. Earlier I tried to take a nap, but I couldn’t, because I was overtired. My body hurts, not from any physical exertion, just from being tired. I imagine my muscles slowly rotting because they aren’t getting proper time to rejuvenate. The shitty thing about being tired all the time is that everything suffers. My timing was completely off on the trumpet, I felt confused when reading, and I won’t be surprised if I read this tomorrow and it makes no sense. This has got to be rock bottom, it can only get easier from here on in. Do they let patients write in the insane asylum? Tomorrow I’ll be in the library for at least three hours, I promise something more entertaining and erudite instead of this nonsense. Tomorrow it’ll be a different author, the zombie that wrote this will be erased after a long uninterrupted sleep.
20th
Immortality by Milan Kundera
It’s a miracle, fate, call it what you will, that Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being somehow fell into my hands in my early twenties. This is North America we’re talking about, my literary tastes didn’t extend far beyond the magazine section of the local Walmart. The exact details are lost in the folklore of my memories, though I think that book coupled with a good dose of early 00’s Jason Statham car chase scenes in one European capital or another, planted a seed in me that made me want to experience life across the pond, the resulting mixture of these sources likely giving me the impression that once there I’d be some quasi-intellectual zipping around town in my Audi A8, attending to my many lovers.
While things didn’t pan out exactly that way, in a way, it may have been the perfect book for me at the time.
Which brings me to Immortality, a book which I feel I have read some twenty years too early. As the name implies, it’s largely looking at legacy, the afterlife, and myself, while still trying to find a balance of desire and expectations, feel I still have one or two more fires within me, that is, I’m focusing on this life and what lies ahead, instead of taking a serious examination of what remains beyond and what I may be leaving behind.
At its worst – here I’m not sure if I’m using the term correctly – I’d label a large portion of the book a form of mental masturbation. Not only that, it’s presented in some kind of labyrinth, one character taking on the characteristics of another and blending together – so much so that in my current delirious state of sleep deprivation I questioned if what happened was a deja vu from my real life, something I read on Instagram, or from the last book I read.
Time will tell if in twenty years I will read this book again (note to future self or any reader of this review: if you do, make note of the above to make a map of all the characters and what links them while reading, to avoid getting lost), and maybe there’s a Kundera that suits my current age, but for now, since reading time is at a premium, by and large I intend to go to the safety of writers who for me are batting 1.00; Houellebecq, Yates, Roth.
21st
Excuse the language, the best way I can express myself about that video is, “Bro, that blew my mind”. Six friggin inches off the ground from adding a yard. I nearly shat my pants. By far the most exciting thing that is likely to happen to me this week. I had to forward it to friends and family, and at night I regurgitated it for Fatima, in my own poor way, but I think she got the gist. I haven’t done it, but I think the maths to arrive to that is still at a level that you and I could comprehend. What’s more interesting is the point Wittignstein was trying to make, about what we think we know, assume and perceive. It’s truly brilliant.
It’s difficult for me to say how good I am at math. In early high school, I got high grades, but I was simply doing the homework, and the tests were more or less a copy of the homework. It got harder of course towards the end of high school, at that time, to my huge regret I started to work part time and my marks went down across the board. Achieving enough to get into university (another regret!) was sufficient for me. In university, I remember failing the first calculus test, the approach from high school wasn’t enough, so I pulled up my pants and made it through. In the latter years I focused on finance (you guessed it, another regret), and here I could pass the tests, but on the whole I felt that was simply the memorization of several formulas, and then applying them on the exam. It wasn’t even a mathematics test, it was a memorization test. For the most part, the tests were multiple choice, so you didn’t have to prove any formulas, use much logic, or intuition. If you’re talking pure mathematics, then I am stumped. Ask me to memorize and apply a formula, fine, but ask me to prove a theorem and we’ll have a problem. I don’t know where that puts me on the scale, but I do know now that I would have much rather put in the time to read, study languages, write, instead of memorizing bogus formulas, for the ultimate aim of ‘making money’, – as if that was legitimately going to allow you to do so. Some magic formula and bam, watch the money pile up. The fact that you didn’t get it, could be considered a blessing. One of my favourite things to quote the average working class Dutch citizen is smarter than a US college graduate (here we need to define smart – but things like politics, language, culture – things accessible to the average Dutchman, trump an elite college graduate who can ‘do math’ and loves Uncle Sam). Oh man, I could rant about this for days.
I really enjoy these kinds of things, thanks for posting it. Actually, it reminded me of something similar that I read years ago, also involving the equator. Here the mathematics is presumably way beyond us, but that aside, I couldn’t really tell you what’s going on. But I tried, and there’s a good chance I’ll spend my remaining free hours trying to comprehend it again. If you click on the link you can see that in the comments I ask the author to explain it to me. He was unsuccessful, and I remember when I asked my friend he told me to watch Star Trek instead.
https://gandenberger.org/2013/07/22/borels-paradox/
If you haven’t had enough, coincidentally today in the Guardian they had an interesting puzzle (no math), after a couple of read throughs I got it.
https://www.theguardian.com/science/2023/mar/20/did-you-solve-it-the-infinite-monkey-theorem
Let’s stick to writing, shall we?
22nd
This is going to sound crazy, absurd, especially in light of one of your recent posts. Actually, one of the reasons why I brought up Houllebecq a few days ago was because in the first few pages he writes something rather interesting (my intention was to write it then but as I was completely on another planet and, I forgot). It was “Even in our deepest, most lasting friendships, we never speak as openly as when we face a blank page and address a reader we do not know”. Let me assume then, for a few minutes that I do not know you, and likewise, you do not know me.
The ridiculous thing that I want to write, because it made me think quite a lot, is about Oman. In one of the last books that I read, the one where the woman cycles from London to Tehran, she meets with a few strangers in Muscat, Oman whilst awaiting some paperwork:
“Hamed is slight and awkward and drives a white SUV. As we exit the airport through a confounding cat’s cradle of looping roadways, he throws out bullet points of information about Oman. It is liberal and tolerant, he says, with free healthcare and schooling. There’s no income or property tax. Everyone loves the Sultan, who is currently the longest serving ruler in the Middle East.”
When I read this, I thought, hold on a second. Here I’ve been, slaving away at a corporation, so they could provide me with money to buy healthcare, education, housing etc – and people in Oman are getting this for free? Of course, you’ll say, but what about freedom? It’s not my thought, I can’t find the source on google to give credit where it’s due, maybe it was even on Instagram, it was something along the lines about the freedom we give up when working for a corporation. Something like, we fight tooth and nail for our freedoms and right to elect our leaders democratically, but the moment we enter a corporation we shut up, and have no say whatsoever in the leadership who make decisions. Why do we allow that? And what will happen if you criticize the almighty leader of this corporation? So you shut up, slave away, receive a salary so you can pay life’s essentials, and maybe some extra gadgets to help alleviate the pain. So Oman doesn’t sound that far of a stretch, to what I already experienced. If I need to respect the Sultan, is it so bad? If he cares and provides for me, how is it much different? I’m just going on Hamed’s quote of course, but it doesn’t sound too bad, if that is really the case. I think then, I could live the life that I want to live?
The author continues her discussion with Hamed: “He was ‘amazed’ when he visited Europe and heard people discussing novels, he says. Here, hardly anybody reads.” Slight concern about that, but hey, it can’t be perfect.
Alright, I’ll shut up now. I’ve got bills to pay.
But wait, how is Oman different from oil rich Norway?
23rd
It’s another weird day for me, for one it started at 5:30 am. We have a visitor coming at lunch and I need to pick up some things for the lunch I’ll prepare later. Actually it’s two visitors, one of Fatima’s friends and her baby, who is a week older or younger, I can’t remember, than Milo. My dream is that we sit them next to each other and they play together for two hours. I enrolled in another set of Spanish classes at the school, they’ll start tonight from 20:15 to 21:45, which means I’ll have to find time to squeeze in a nap at some point. I’m saying all this to preface my writing today, what I mean is that I’ll be shooting from the hip, that could be corporate parlance, I’m sorry, without the time to properly review my thoughts to see if they make any sense at all, and I’m afraid on a day like today I will only be able to reply to some of the questions you posed in your response. Without further ado, here goes.
I haven’t had time to read the article you sent – I will, nor have I watched the Zizek video. I will say that reading the quote at the end caused me to blush a little, because it certainly spoke to me. This ‘ artificially resuscitated tradition’ that according to him I’ll fall back on – what could that mean for me? Rather than that, I’d see myself and others perhaps, scaling down the intensity and finding a comfortable moderation of pleasures, ambitions and success. I deride it daily, abhor it, yet the comfort of a corporate job, with all its bullshit, is something I find so nurturing, if not essential, that I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m back in the fold at some point this year or next. I speak of Norway or Oman, because perhaps naively I do think of them to be superior as states to Netherlands, Germany and Canada because they’re more nurturing to their citizens. Let me start with the easy one – Canada. For all its portrayal as an amazing country, you just try to go there and get anything from the so-called state. If I was in my current situation there, I’d be without money in a few months, having to take any job I could get my hands on, or be out on the street. Swim or sink, they call it. With Germany I don’t know enough about it, but from what I gather, a fruitful life there is best achieved with a corporation. In the Netherlands, it’s true there is a soft landing here, which I’m experiencing but when I look to Norway or Oman, I think the current life I have, could be sustainable for eternity. Here in the Netherlands, I’ve a few months left before destitution. If it means assholes in Norway, I’m okay with it. And if your reference to a female Sultan refers to gender inequality, perhaps perhaps, but what I’ve witnessed in the corporate world here is that it’s nothing but a facade. ‘Look, we have this female leader, meanwhile ‘the board’ (corporate sultans, if you will) are all gray haired white men and the executives are getting down to business with interns or prostitutes. Which one is better, I don’t know.
You must be aware of the old trope which says communism is good in theory but bad in practice. I’m certainly on board with the theory, hell ya. I’m not catching a plane to Cuba or ‘nam however. It would have to be Norway and maybe Oman (in a way, it’s like communism there, in my head?) Why? Because they’re at the top of the food chain with their petro dollars. That is, the rest of the world toils, while I’m there to enjoy that ‘free’ education, healthcare, housing, retirement. How are censored books different from corporate kool-aid?
At the end of the day, I suppose it all comes down to ‘work’. I’m likely just bitter because I failed at the corporate game. I don’t know if any of what I just wrote makes sense. I promise to take time to watch and read what you sent, and maybe write something more coherent with sound arguments. For the moment, these thoughts are like myself, Kafkaesque, that is, lost, because I am free.
24th
It’s a flip of the coin, which version of myself will sit down and write.
Will it be the one fresh off a run, a run that despite a strong wind, I could find pleasure in? The one who wasn’t phased in the least by the gray skies, laughing when the sun unexpectedly broke through about the ease of my life?
Or will it be the one who stares into the dark depths of the morning coffee, feeling resentful about the past and worried about the future, seemingly buoyed by a book that offers some escape.
Let me look at it differently from their perspective: over there they make you stare at a computer screen for eight hours a day, in exchange for food and a place to live. You need to do that until you’re 65 or so, and then you can live the life you’ve always wanted to live. They try to please the masses by hiring women in senior positions, and afterwards, visit sex slaves who are made to give up their bodies in exchange for food and a place to live.
Clothing – did you try wearing Nike’s to the adidas office?
Have you read about all the rapes committed by top footballers, sponsored by these corporations, who contribute to the hush money?
No, I would not get whipped for committing a transgression, instead I’d be cut off from cash flow, the lifeline of living here.
Am I being punished because it’s the internationale I was playing? Because if I’m being taken care of, there’s no need to play it. It would be a different tune.
These are crazy ideas I’m sprouting forth, defending known human rights offenders. In doing so, playful is not the right word, however I’m not entirely serious, I guess it’s a mixture of trying to look at things a little different and the bitterness I mentioned yesterday. Going back to a cubicle in the suburbs, well that’s because that’s the life I’ve known there, and for now, I still haven’t figured out a way to do it any other way. I’d love it if it were different, I think what is happening is that all this talk is something akin to setting the expectations way low.
I haven’t seen The Hunt, I’m certain I’ve looked for it online as I’m quite fond of Mads Mikkelsen, but have had difficulty finding an English subtitled version, even for a paid viewing.
Need to run now, no time to edit or review, I hope you’re taking this with a grain of salt!
25th
Oh just one more thing about the matter, and then I’ll shut up. Yesterday while reading I couldn’t help but think that in Submission, Houellebecq was getting at something similar. If you remember the scene, he’s traveling back to Paris on a high speed train in first class after a failed attempt at a spiritual retreat in a cloister, and across the cabin there is a sheik or arab man sitting with his two fully cloaked teenage wives. He’s on his mobile and despairing over an excel sheet. In contrast you have the protagonist, who as mentioned, sought some peace with the monks (here I am not sure if his motives were entirely spiritual or if he went there as a pretext to follow in the footsteps of Husymans, the subject of his life’s study), cutting his stay short when he got fed up, with the smoke detector in his room preventing him smoking, among other things. It’s worthy to note that the same protagonist, prior to his visit, procures the services of two young prostitutes. It struck me that perhaps Houellebecq was drawing some parallels and comparisons here. The Islamist and the Christian, the business man and the civil servant, a fervent religious believer and an empty, lost soulless atheist. The sheik, allowed to have his way with women under the pretext of religion, contrasted with the protagonist, who is able to do so by means of a financial transaction, and the law of his land.
I have to cut myself short here as I’m due for a late lunch. If I can get to the computer again I’ll try to make it perhaps a little clearer and have a point. The fast version is that on both extremes; liberal free capitalist France and strict Islam, each legitimize the control of women.
26th
It’s right there on a silver platter, so I’ll take it. Today’s excuse is the daylight savings time shift, throwing a wrench into the flow of the day. I’m not even sure what time my body thinks it is right now, nevertheless, it was a day of being tired and putting off writing. As a consequence, I’m on the IPad, and it’s one of those evenings that I’ll be glad when the buzzer sounds and I can switch off, so to speak. The plan tonight is to binge watch ‘Easy Spanish’ on YouTube. I like it for two reasons. One is that all they do is walk around Barcelona mainly and ask strangers their thoughts – what they think about AI, how the world will be in the future, their first loves etc. I’d probably think it would be interesting even in English. There’s a good mix of people in Barcelona, so you hear all sorts of accents and tempos of speaking. The second reason is that it’s subtitled, simultaneously in Spanish and in English. I suppose that there’s a third reason too, in that it’s very relaxing to sit in bed to watch it, and not feel too guilty about it because it falls under ‘learning’.
Your post about the wedding was hilarious, even more so because I share the same sentiments about these cookie cutter weddings. If I was there with you, I’d be making the same wise cracks. And if Fatima was there too, she’d deride me as well, I think she’s even said it to me before in another aspect, but I can picture her saying ‘What the hell, why do you care? It makes them happy’. Maybe there’s something wrong with us, indeed. Wouldn’t life be so much easier if we’d be content with cookie cutter – not only wedding, but everything? Seriously, sometimes I lament this.
27th
These thoughts likely belong in a journal, but hey ho. It could be that it’s Monday morning, it could be the uncharacteristically cold March we’re experiencing here, that adds to a growing sense of cabin/neighbourhood fever – if I’m not inside my house I’m either out on a stroll, making the rounds of Albert Heijn → park → kids section at the library, before scampering back inside to regain some energy to do it again. It could also be some comments I received in the last week, which don’t really get to me but perhaps writing this is a manifestation of them. Knowing myself though, inevitably the feelings would come themselves. I’m talking about the holy grail of ‘getting a job’. If at first, this period was met with optimism, and a sense that it was wholeheartedly deserved, I’m now approaching the period of asking myself, now what. A few months back while running with a friend I mentioned that I was in no rush to try to get back to the job market, if anything, I was going to try to crack the code and make cash flow, the only thing sacred over here, by one of my hobbies. The cash certainly isn’t flowing, and what’s more these so called hobbies are truthfully only given a fraction of the amount of time they would need to be nurtured into something remotely close to a cash cow. Maybe I’m making excuses, but I really feel this way. Today I’m due to take out the little man for a minimum of three hours, which isn’t a lot but it drains a hell of a lot of my energy. I’m also committing the sin of comparing myself to others – those with fruitful, interesting careers that form a part of their identity (not to mention the holy cash flow that it entails). I know, I know, be grateful for what I have, first and foremost, health. I’ve had my parents and friends inquire about what’s going on with my job situation, with an air of ‘you’ve done nothing for long enough’, or worse ‘don’t you regret not taking this job, or doing things differently’.
Hopefully these feelings dissipate as the week goes on. If not, I’ll be forced to seriously start sending out the ol resume. Fucking hell! I dread the thought of an interview. Dread the thought of presenting myself as someone who I don’t want to be. That’s one thing I liked about where I was before, a feeling of, if not being 100% authentic, then at least a version that wasn’t too hard to stomach. I’m worried that I’m back to square one, that is, ‘just getting my foot in the door’ before learning the ropes and getting to a comfortable position where I can hire interns or fresh eager business school grads while I put up my feet. Of course, I genuinely want to work. If I could, I’d like to make a part of my living surrounded by books and words, at a university, for example. But I feel it may be a little late for that kind of life.
And if in a few weeks or months I am behind the old laptop again, well, it was nice having this ‘cup of coffee’ with you, of a life that I found rather pleasant, and to be visited again some 25 years down the road.
28th
This post is as self-serving as they come, I confess, I apologize, I couldn’t resist. Fresh haircut and even fresher off a visit to the bookstore, since my hairdresser is right around the corner, I thought I’d pop in, the first customer as soon as they flipped the sign to OPEN on the front door. Usually I’m there on a busy Saturday afternoon, and this time it was a joy to have it nearly all to myself, where I spent nearly an hour properly browsing, instead of nervously excusing myself around other customers staring at the shelves, or impatiently waiting for them to finish scanning so I can move on and optimally position myself in front of English fiction last name starting with B with my head tilted far to the right. I gave myself the luxury to select several books and sit down on a chair, the only one in the store, to flip through which ones might interest me beyond their titles. What follows is a review of those books.
Before starting – why do I even go in? The to-be-read pile is already set, fixed, meticulously studied, approved, and long enough to last a lifetime. I don’t know, I just know when I’m in there it offers such peace, excitement, joy. I fantasize about the books, how it will be to curl up with this one and a tea on a rainy day, how it will feel to unsheathe it from my backpack at a cafe, how enjoyable it’ll be to read reclined on board some form of transportation, how it will look on my shelf, how I will come to hold it in many years.
What follows is a review of what I browsed, because I couldn’t decide right there and then if I should buy them. Self-serving, I told you.
I nearly came to purchase ‘Novelist as a Vocation – Murukami’. Though I’m not a fan of his work, being disappointed by Kafka on the Shore was enough to prevent me from going further, aside from his autobiographical work – What I talk about when I talk about running – a no brainer read for me if there ever was one, I suppose the current absence of my own vocation drew me to the title. And though I’m not a fan of his work per se, I am a fan of his being – runner, jazz enthusiast, and of course writer. Skimming through some of the chapters confirmed this sentiment – supposedly he fell into writing by accident. He’s just a regular dude! I suppose it would be a bit of a fantasy to live this life. How to make this world of writing, books, peace a life? I can’t, I can’t square this circle, so maybe I’ll have to do it through him.
Next I picked up two graphic novels. I have only ever read one of those, a few years ago. I can still remember reading it at night in bed, I felt like a kid again. Probably I’m also influenced by Fatima, as these are more her things. The first one was Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands by Beaton. Since I still have some cloudy sense of Canada as home, every so often I’m compelled to read a book that takes place there or authored by a Canadian. This one is about the oil sands out west and I think she takes a critical look at the whole operation, from the drug fuelled crackhead workers to the devastating environmental effects. The second one was the Joy of Quitting by Keiler Roberts, and once again I was baited by the title, but from what I saw it had very little to do with quitting a job or career, rather it felt like an intricate look at domestic life, and I have enough of that, thank you very much.
Also coming close was Ways of Hearing: Reflections on Music in 26 pieces. Now that I think about it, maybe an odd choice. The premise being of course writers explaining a piece of music and what it means to them, I think the thought process was that somehow I could transpose that meaning to myself? (Since I live a meaningless life)? Or at least discover a new piece that pleases me. In the end, I was put off by some of the essays coming in the form of a poem.
Having spent so much time there, I felt obligated to make a purchase. Though economically I’m not in the best position to do so, I always tell myself it is an investment, among other things. The book, if done right, will offer me several hours of peace and solitude, hopefully make me a little wiser, and anyways there are so many other stupid things to waste money on. Books and health ought to have an unlimited budget. Actually I made two. For the Japanophile in the house, I purchased ‘The Illustrated Guide to the Fantastic Edo Era.’ I won’t give it to her just yet, I’m keeping this one in the bank for when I need to go on a weekend trip for a run or some such situation that I need to be away. And for myself, it was a slim novel, called ‘In the End, it was all about love – Musa Okwonga.’ You’ll recall that I intended to only borrow short books from the library, however this one seems like a limited publication from a small publisher and would never find its way to the Utrecht Bibliotheek catalogue. It takes place in Berlin, and it’s about a guy immigrating there and starting a new life, in a new city. Having lived it, nine times out of ten I’m buying that book.
How do your bookstore expeditions look over there? Am I wrong to say that they also bring you immense satisfaction? I appreciate that we are short on days, so maybe you can tell another time, after a haircut and bookstore visit.
29th
Writing at the last hour. I’m night owl, I run better late in the evenings, think better, enjoy myself better, and in theory ought to write better but I can’t be sure because of the circumstances of the last few months, and especially tonight, as the little man has a bit of a cold and not sleeping well. What better way to battle exhaustion than to go for a late night swim. No, in fact, tonight, in a cruel twist of fate, I became the fat lady blocking everyone else. The fast lane was closed for what appeared to be a life-saving course and there was no middle option, so it was either the chit-chat lane where you go to gossip, or the other extreme, which contained amphibious creatures complete with underwater back flips to launch themselves into the next lap. Since I was there for some exercise I chose the latter, and could feel the traffic jam forming behind me. Gassed after fifteen minutes, I retreated to the safety of the slow lanes. Life in the slow lane, suits me much better.
Apart from a forty five minute walk around Albert Heijn, not around the building, I mean actually inside, I spent the entire day at home – also a part of the reason why I forced myself to go to the pool. It occurred to me that I didn’t have any desire to write today, and I was even dreading the moment. Now that I’m here, it’s not so bad. My last ounce of strength will be to read a few pages of the next Roth I’ve started. It’s a slim edition, of the thirty pages I’ve read, though I’ve only read three of his novels, I’ll take the liberty to say it’s vintage Roth. For me he’s right at the edge – his language and sentence structures are just at the right point that challenge me to think, but not in such a taxing way that I can’t enjoy it. He’s also quite funny, I find.
I’m nearing the end. We’ve only two days to go, and in those I hope to address one or two questions you posed to me that I never go to, and maybe a mish-mash of thoughts that I wanted to write about but for one reason or another never got to. Though if you are a betting man, you’d be wise to wager that they’ll be about how tired I am.
30th
Let’s get the excuse out of the way. I said I wanted to write a little about some topics and themes you brought up. I’m afraid they won’t get the full attention they deserve, not today and likely not tomorrow. I’ll touch on them ever so briefly, and if we decide to have another crack at this in the summer, I’ll return to them. Today is a pressure cooker consisting of trumpet lessons, writing group meet-up and then finishing with Spanish lessons. If this was the professional environment it’d be no sweat – 99 times out of 100 the meetings were useless, pointless, uninformative, but since these are real life topics requiring at least a few brain cells, I’ll need to be fully present. I’m here writing at the local library, which I’ve grown quite fond of, partially due to its proximity to our house, a mere two minute cycle from our house, and the recent installation of brand new computers, with most importantly, clean keyboards. Anyways, enough about that, I’ve already eaten up some precious time with this gibberish.
What I had on the agenda was: my Dutch competency, the Roald Dahl question, and your proposition to succumb to AI.
Eerst, ik moet zeggen dat mijn Nederlands blijft niet zo goede. Als je wil sturen mij een foto van de blad van jouw journaal, misschien wil ik begrijpen vijftig procent? En zeker niets van jouw grappen – bijvoorbeeld met Kooten en De Bie. Maar, als dar is iets dat je denk is echt fantastisch, graag laat me het zien.
That was written off the top of my head, I’m certain there are several mistakes and the order of words is not correct. I’m in a weird place with my Dutch. Much more comfortable listening and reading. I’ve tried to watch some Dutch documentaries, and once even bought a novel, but it was too much. At this point, I think, but not fully sure that my Spanish tongue surpasses the Dutch one. Anyways, just so you’re clear on what I wrote, if there is something in Dutch that you want to send me, or even if you wish to make a post in, go right ahead. If something needs clarification I’ll ask, if not you then another friend. It would be good practice anyways. Before closing the topic, I have to commend you for your English writing – turn of phrases, puns, vocabulary, it’s on par with a native speaker.
Previously you asked me about the recent Roald Dahl debacle. Let me start off by saying one of the best gifts I had ever received at age 7 or 8 was a yellow cassette audiobook of Charlie and the Chocolate factory. All those characters are forever etched into my mind, and that must have been the first author I binged on as I read all his books within the next few years. And I guess I read them in their original unadulterated form, and I turned out just fine (though some may beg to differ). If I had a say in the matter I wouldn’t touch his work – rather I’d explain to children reading it why something might be considered offensive these days. I haven’t dug deep into the topic and am not sure to what extent they want to edit any offensive language, but as a reader and admirer of words, it could only blunten the imagination and dull his words. This whole thing reeks of something more endemic, something I read from sociologist David Harvey several years ago (I think he’s a Marxist, or at least he’s authored several books analyzing Marx), and it’s a view I subscribe to – it’s that all this brouhaha about being less offensive, less sexist, less racist – it’s all a distraction from the larger overall issue – class inequality (I appreciate it may be easy for me to say that as a white male Christian). But certainly it’s better to have the lot up in arms about an offensive word in an outdated children book, about LGBQT rights, BLM and so on instead of problems of inequality. I imagine a toast being made in a private jet while flying over another protest.
That kind of brings me to your proposal of some kind of social utopia governed by AI. Well now, let’s not get carried away. Those things you promise are all well and nice, however they come with a bit of a gamble. The truth is, I’m not quite ready to capitulate. Instead, I’d prefer to make an attempt at joining the ranks of the private jet patrons, million dollar yachts, fat cuban cigar smokers. Yeah, I’m a douchebag at heart, but this way I am guaranteed not only premium health care, but access to all the preventative measures: no stress, tiger penis soup, massages, all under several roofs from the properties I own, why limit myself to one, and if what I’m told is true, happiness.
In light of that, let me take back what I said. We should in fact, go back and censor all literature.
31st
I would have loved to sign off for now with bang, but maybe it’s more appropriate to do it this way – 25 minutes before the start of an online Spanish Lesson, for which I’ll need ten minutes to prepare, thus giving me exactly fifteen minutes. I did the math before, and supposing we actually held ourselves to ten minutes in February and fifteen in March, we’d have spent approximately 12 and a half hours writing. I’m still a little hesitant to call myself a writer, but we are writing – the first step.
As your last post attests to and as I said before, I truly believe you can already start posting your stories on your website, along with the photos. What are you waiting for?!
As for me, well, I feel like I’m just getting the hang of it, and for sure I wouldn’t be able to pull off what you do, as my days are terribly uneventful, though they are getting better. I can see myself in the summer sitting at a cafe, trying to describe my surroundings and the people coming and going. Remind me of that!
I had some other topics that I never got to – oddly mostly about smoking. How I’d like to smoke and then a four part feature covering jazz albums with cigarettes, and I seem to have jotted down some notes to write about Spring. Guess it’ll have to be Summer.
Every day has been a battle for me, and somehow I feel that in March I was more tired than in February, as if it is cumulative. April ought to be better, and who knows, maybe we can up the ante and go for an hour a day minimum in the summer.
Until then, it has been a pleasure.