Tuesday, November 29, 2016

history as it should be

I minored in history, back at university. Probably because of the house.


It was ancient and everything seemed to be made of wood: wood panelling on the walls, wood floors that squeaked, wooden window frames so bent with age that it was difficult to open the window.

It just seemed so right to be discussing ancient kings in this setting.

And it was a refuge from the modern languages department where I spent most of my time. Here, no-one made me write long essays or discuss themes I didn't understand in languages I didn't speak. I just sat there, among all that creaking wood, and listened to stories. Read a few books, sat a few exams, went on a fascinating field trip in a fragrant forest to see bronze age forts and iron age settlements.

It was university studies as I had thought they would be.

Monday, November 28, 2016

lover without a lover

I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself.

(Warsan Shire)

Friday, November 25, 2016

the year I stepped through the looking glass

From my diaries: the year 2000 ...

* The eve of the new millennium: a cold, cold, winter's evening in my home town. Dinner with friends and a church youth event. I wore my first short skirt and was bored. Just before midnight, I was given a candle and told to think deep thoughts for ten minutes. Couldn't. But when the countdown clock to the new millennium hit 00:00:00 I was struck with unexpected euphoria. There was dancing, then I went home and wrote a lousy poem.
* The year took off on a wave of inspiration. I finished my master's thesis on Englishness, fought against Jules Verne in French and hid in a basement at the university. In love with the internet, fanfic and solitude.
* Braved great adversity to get my thesis to the printer's - cycled on icy streets in lashing rain. Who says a university degree is all about mental exertion?
* Played a lot of volleyball, assisted in an Alpha course, had a houseguest for two weeks (wild hippie with blond braids, just returned from Africa).
* Planned my Irish adventure and tried to convince my father that I was NOT going to end up chained to a bed in a brothel.
* Birthday spent planning an international move, attending bible study and having a café night with friends.
* Hectic spring weeks bubbling with university students celebrating spring. Sushi and dancing, the theatre, picnics with beautiful men, country drives and a flight in a small plane.

* Moved all my furniture 400 kilometres, then said goodbye to everyone I knew and moved to Ireland. On arrival, I was greeted with sunshine and a clementine.
* Began my working life in a hotel reception at world's end. My arrival coincided with that of the digital revolution and the big, old hotel ledger was thrown out.
* Fell in love on the first evening, with the red-haired Irish chef who made me a spaghetti dinner.
* Spent the rest of the year intoxicated, wild and in love - with a reserved chef, a cool businessman, a bohemian soulmate and life itself.
* Worked and partied with an international bunch who at first seemed shallow and negative but brought out the wildness and strength in me.
* Learned to drive on the wrong side of the road and collected counties. Kissed the Blarney stone and saw the twelve mountains of Connemara.
* Dated a jockey who stood me up three times out of four, partied in a cemetery, threw stones at a man's window and modelled for a mad Belarussian artist.
* Learned how to be a hotel receptionist and do everything else as well - from babysitting newborns to waitressing, carrying suitcases and handling irate managers.
* Took long walks in a magic valley to get away from fights, drama and burning cars.
* Had a sheepdog that disappeared into thin air.
* What else I learned: how to be loved, how to let loose, how to not take it personally when people scream insults at you, how not to date, how to drink, how to deal with an unfair world, how to be me.
* Went home for Christmas.

Thursday, November 24, 2016

non-mother

Went to church and sat with my back to the wall, as I like best. Beside me was a mother with a circa-three-year-old. The girl, dressed in a cute, lacy dress, sat straight up in her seat, head thrown back and mouth open. Fast asleep.

The mother gathered the child in her lap after a while and held her while she slept on. It must have been uncomfortable for the woman after a while, to sit through a long sermon with a not-so-small child heavy in her arms.The love on her face was evident and I was envious.

I have never really longed for children and life is not giving me any. And yet, being without makes me an alien on this planet. I will never be one of the human race, and it hurts.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

slow jazz month

We live our lives in this darkness of the North. The man in the furniture store, where I go looking for a new mattress to take me through the many hours of winter sleep, smiles at me under strip lighting. The girl giving me my hamburger in the Burger King drive-through, where I go because the November cold makes me crave meat, quickly closes the window against the chilly rain. A single mother in a hot flat in the slums shudders at the thought of going out.

Between meeting these people, I drive around in the dark. November is a thick, dark mist and we are waiting for winter to arrive with blistering cold and a sky full of stars. The studded tyres under my car make a rasping noise against wet asphalt. Last week's snow has melted away and a persistent rain falls. There are artificial lights everywhere but my body craves the daylight that it never sees and I know I will sleep badly and have strange dreams. I turn up the heat in the car, turn on the windscreen wipers, listen to slow jazz because my mind can't handle anything uptempo. I buy my burger in the drive-through because I can't stand being around too many people. My body is sluggish and aching, my mind is bordering on hysteria.

Strange, that life continues everywhere during these months of near-constant darkness. People sell mattresses, hand out burgers, hum absent-mindedly to the Christmas music in the supermarket, find common ground in complaining about the rain.

My soft bed in a dark room is exerting a pull on me. I can't see the stars but many dreams are born during winter, while a candle flickers on the window sill.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

the way I run my business

I have been an entrepreneur for half a year.

During this time, which foolishly started with four weeks of holiday, I have walked around in turquoise sweatpants, worried about how I will die, kept up a never-ending Messenger chat with nasty friends, lived on fruit and bread and wine, witnessed a rainy summer and a sunny autumn, repeated German phrases out loud, tried to fend off customers, felt anxious and weary, played volleyball, bought and sold old clothes, eaten kale, watched TV, felt superiour for no apparent reason, felt lonely, worked hard, worn a Nepalese hoodie.

Not necessarily in that order.

Monday, November 21, 2016

alone feels so good

My alone feels so good, I’ll only have you if you’re sweeter than my solitude.

(Warsan Shire)

Sunday, November 13, 2016

walking white

Soft, powdery snow. I walked out of my house on an impulse, pulling on a coat, boots and a beanie over my nearly-pyjamas outfit.

A child is sitting on a toboggan, singing "björnen sover, björnen sover i sitt lugna bo..." and I remember playing that game in a backyard a long time ago. The song calms me. The brilliant sunshine calms me.
The marina is empty of boats and already frozen over. The mist is playing with the bleak midday sun and shadows are long.

Everyone is a photographer when winter is posing.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

internationalization

Watching immigrants take pictures of each other standing on a frozen sea.

Friday, November 11, 2016

love and Facebook

The hot, humid brightness of a Thai restaurant on a cold day. Spicy spring rolls. An old friend and a newer one, discussing love and Facebook.

Thursday, November 10, 2016

days of cold sunshine

The sun curves around the southern horizon in a last-ditch attempt to reach the North. From my balcony, I have the eerie feeling of looking down on it, brilliant but cool, casting long shadows.

The ice is everywhere. Blinding my eyes, hurting my lungs, stinging my cheeks. Like glass, broken and reassembled and beautiful, stretching further across the bay for every freezing day.

It's been years since I saw the sun on a November day. The homeland of winter has surprised me again.