The last performance of VENN: Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui

This is the last scene from the last performance of VENN. Yes I attended the performance again. I didn't know how I would react since the element of surprise would not be there. I must admit that I liked it even better than the first time, seeing more, recognizing some of the movements which touched me deeply. Also the music and voices went deeper into me. Seeing the intimacy of certain parts when a person becomes a shoe, a chair, a shower, a coat for the other. The violent scene when a woman gets beaten up without being touched really got under my skin at the second viewing. The waxing and waning of the gestures of a few dancers to the a full stage and the massiveness of the group movement was exhilarating, gave energy.

The gestures preceding the spoken word where beautiful and they contended that there was more communication with fingers and wrists and arms than when people started to speak... I must admire the students of the dance school of the Koninklijk Conservatorium in Antwerp. Some of them are just in their first year, others, with the heavier roles, are in their last year. So no the preparation starts for the final exam, which I hope to see as well. Art is balsam to the soul...

To all of you thanks.

An old friend and life's surprises.

Let me introduce an old friend, let me call him Bert. He has a good mind, people expected him to do well. Yet his life turned out quite different than expected. One day, ages ago, I met him on main street and he told me proudly that he had joined the party. I innocently asked 'Which party?' He was astonished and answered 'The Communist Party of course!' He had a great heart, refused to do military service, went to work as a co-operant in an North African country, working as a teacher. Later he worked  in his home country for 'the' party. Being good at languages he was send to the motherland and worked for several years in Moscow. He didn't quite like the experience, nor the health service there which caused a lot of grief. When  his wife lost a baby during the fifth month of her pregnancy they returned. He went on teaching and writing for the communist publications and doing administrative work.  When his firm (I still mean the Communist Party) folded, he was out of a job and needed to provide for his family. Deemed too dangerous by most employers, he retrained as a truck driver and found a job. Being the smart one, they gave him the difficult jobs and one day discharging a volatile product the truck exploded. Having followed all procedures he survived the blast but still was badly hurt and suffered lasting consequences being quite crippled. Then the economic crises also hit the transport sector and being an older man, was laid off, now living on a small pension. This man listens to Bach, reads good literature and is lonely. He visits his mother in the nursing home once a week and that is quite a chore: walking to the tram, getting up on it and then off and to the nursing home and back. All that goes really slowly. In winter he once in a while takes a cab, since falling because of ice or snow would only complicate things since his legs don't work well at all. I never heard him complain, just that he doesn't have a girlfriend in his life...  All the best to you Bert, I hope you find what you're looking for.

Sweat lodges

Most, if not all, Native American nations hold sweat lodges. To the eastern Cherokee it doesn't seem to be a typical thing to  practice. Here a description by a singer of the Hualapai way of doing a sweat:

“ The East represents the fire; there rises the sun we greet in the morning. It represents your emotions. It is the first thing to get hurt. It is the same with the world: volcanoes and fire, caused by wrong emotions like anger, envy and greed, destroyed our first world. Those will still hurt you. That is what has to be worked through in the East. It is considered a male energy.

“ Next to the door in the South you put the hot rocks. This represents the earth and stands for our body. This is a feminine power. She destroyed the second world, by earthquakes.

“ In the West, next to the rocks is the place of the water in which you can put the plants and herbs or oils for healing. That is our spirituality and as you will remember floods have destroyed the third world. You use different plants for different illnesses. Eucalyptus for the lungs, ephedra, like the Mormon tea, is for the stomach and for colds. Juniper cleanses your liver and such.

“ The North side is the emptiness in the lodge; it stands for the sky, the air and our mind. When you know about the polluted air all around then you know how this, the fourth world will be destroyed. We already have this huge hole in ozone layer. The element of the North is the wind."

Black Eagle, half Navajo, is leading a sweat in the Flemish countryside today.

Soccer - Beerschot

 My interest in sports has been minimal, although I must admit that last year during the world championships I have seen most matches. And enjoyed it. So when a friend asked to come and join him and a bunch of his friends for a local premier league match Beerschot C A against Mons, to his and my surprise I said yes.

It will be clear that I'll never own a club flag signed by its players like the young boy who wore this flag around his shoulders.

 The stewards did a good job, but it was a quiet crowd.

 I must admit that I did really enjoy the match. Being in the middle of the event going on, hearing the comments of two tifosi on the bench behind me and from my friends was enlightening. I enjoyed the sounds: the chants from the supporters,, 10 % behind their team but with respect for the adversary of the day. I enjoyed  hearing the thud from a foot hitting the bal hard, something I never heard on TV. The game seemed slower than what I had seen on TV, yet when I saw the  highlights on TV the next day, it seemed not so slow after all.

The home team Beerschot won 2 to 0. I learned that different players have different qualities and that the best man was the goalkeeper from Beerschot. I also  realize now how easily a player can get really hurt. In other words: the evening was well worth going to het Kiel for, to the former Olympic stadium. And this not only for the after party in the hall of fame.

Yoga

Yoga never has been in my comfort zone. I do it more in my head than in my body. Practicing alone, doesn’t feel right because I make to many mistakes even if I and my body try to remember the exercise I did while being guided. I trust the teacher, and hope not to be in the way for the other practitioners. I feel not safe with a different teacher.
When I come in and sit down on the bolster, after no more than 3 minutes my back aches. Most positions actually hurt. Not because of strain or effort in trying to do what is going on. I keep, however, going back to yoga, because when at the end of the class I sit on the bolster, my back doesn’t hurt after three minutes. So I know immediately that it works for me. I wonder what kind of ‘hurt’ the others feel, whether everything hurts or nothing. The passive poses are usually ok, for a while. Some exercises will break out hidden emotions. It happened with the tailbone exercises, when a dark sorrow pervaded me and in a different way also with the sitting bones exercises. Sometimes the physical reaction is extreme. After the tailbone exercises I was cold, chilled too the bone, feeling as if my eyes were brimming with tears. Then suddenly it seemed as if a switch was flipped about 5 and a half hours after I came home and slowly I warmed up.
My body in turmoil, my mind reflective, I wasn’t sure I could do the integration of the two sessions, so I integrate them here for you.

Handicapped

A friend whose husband is severely handicapped - he cannot stand since he has no force in his hips or lower limbs - was nearing exhaustion. She mused: What is the alternative, conversation is still as good as ever and we still sleep together in the same bed. Knowing what it means to be alone, untouched, I could see what she meant. She continued: It is harder now and takes some preparation to make love. And I have to do all the work. I am getting older too and the strain on legs and knees is getting worse. Yes, you have to be inventive to make it work and you also have to be really in the mood. So sometimes it is just the good old hand job for both of us... But then sleeping next to him, feeling the warmth of his body and knowing tomorrow will be another interesting day, I wouldn't want to miss it all. Now this friend is an excellent planner, has all the modern lifting equipment, special wheelchairs, can afford to pay a person when she leaves the house for a couple of hours and their love is based on intellectual curiosity and 'chaleur animale', the need for proximity. So she makes it work. Yes, she is strong and tired and describing the positions and proplems each of them poses, we had a good laugh and could deal with our different lives again.

Backward bends

After almost a year I went back to yoga class today. A three hour long session concentrating on backward bends. Now I have never been good at bending over backwards. I will go out of way to please a friend, but not bend over backwards, not going against my grain. It was a hard class and I felt empty and calm afterwards, calm in the knowledge that I'll never be good at it, but that it is good for me and good for hernia. Now bending forward in submission isn't quite my thing either, so I guess I am far away from Zen or Nirwana. The Dahrma wheels turn and turn...

African beats

I am closing the Rwanda chapter for now with joyful images of powerful dancers. Hutu and Tutsi dancing together: elongated and shorter elegance, birdlike movements, mighty hunters, the heartbeat of a continent comes closer in watching them. At the end they descended into the hall where we standing or gently shaking our booty. Standing as a wallflower with my camera I still got picked out and enjoyed a five step with one of the dancers. It helped I had done a few round dances with some Cherokee friends... I want to be optimistic that the people in Rwanda will have good and peaceful futures.

The Move

Moving house. That's why the blog was silent. All went smooth: in a period of high winds and lashing rain we moved the stuff to the twelfth floor with an outside lift on a calm, clear day. Thank you universe. Also thanks to the helping hands and minds. Now I enjoy the view and the hear the wind howling. Looking out I am seeing 7 steeples of churches, clouds chasing each other in multi hued grays. The other side ( yes it is a corner flat) I see the rain hitting the window.
Soon I'll go on with more Rwanda feelings and thoughts, since gweenix kind of asked for more Africa. Now there are the boxes of books to unpack, paintings leaning against the wall until they have found their spot and doors and shelves to be painted... Life is good.

The end of leisure

Painting woodwork, dining, a BBQ in a pretty rural area, working on manuscripts and back to work, practical life taking over are reasons enough to have slacked.

I thought you might enjoy the before and after 1227 km in 67 hours and 21 minutes. The proud cyclist was in the fastest 10 %.

Arrival

The photographer arrived: 15 minutes past three in the afternoon. Almost two hours under the target he had set himself. He was not just trying to do in the allowed time of 80 hours, but he thought he could do in 70. He did in in 68 hours and about 15 minutes. Now the swag wagon still has to work: taking care of him, cooking, getting some sleep (they slept probably less than he did) and getting back to Antwerp from St Quentin, near Paris. Congratulations, to all 5.000 plus who participated in the PBP ride, flowers for the photographer and the futurist and a toast to exciting lives.

Paris-Brest-Paris

The preparation has been intense: training, getting the right equipment and making it work just right, food, organizing a bit of back up... The photographer/cyclist is one of the over 5400 participants in the PBP event: 1227 km in 80 hours on a bicycle. The riders, in order to be accepted, have to prove they can ride and have to submit 'brevets' of 200, 300, 400, 600 km. Today at 12 AM it was the control of the bikes and of the participants. We haven't heard of the photographer so I assume he can start tomorrow night at 8 PM. You can follow the riders on the internet. 1473 is his frame number. He uses a 10 year old carbon graphite frame. Tomorrow the Architect and the Futurist will travel to Paris to be the swag wagon and to provide him with food and drinks at the control posts and to lend moral support. It is a very grueling, hilly stretch of country and the 27 km just before entering Paris after having done Paris-Brest- almost back to Paris are really hard.

Aging

What is it about aging that frightens us: the wrinkles, the discoloration of our fresh skin, gravity that works on all that can sag and sink? The way our hands look, our body feels, bent out of shape? Or is it competition like J. suggests: to compete with younger women, to keep a husband? Is it our self esteem, or lack thereof that makes us nip and tuck, and color our hair. When I was end thirties, one day I had put a gray flash in my hair to see how I would look 15 years, 20 years later. My colleagues were shocked. Now I experiment with color and cut, to see what I can look like now. But more important is to see what I can think now, what I want to do now, what makes me feel in tune with the Wave Structure of Matter, with all the possible universes. I guess that aging made me a bit more insecure about counting on my body doing what it is supposed to do. I think there is more growth ahead. I feel I am still just the chrysalis, waiting to become a butterfly. I have to admire Dr Scarpone: he eats right and natural and exercises and pushes himself. So he can do what he wants to do, and having a choice at all times. My futurist reminded me that the most important action towards a good future is: keeping open as many options as one can and embracing change.

Hammam

In a backstreet, somewhere behind Central Station suddenly there is a house with colorful mosaics around a delicately carved wooden door. The recent alteration flows nicely on the facade of an old art deco building. Through the curved entrance you come upon clean, clear, uplifting tiles and a bunch of Moroccan women. My daughter is initiating me in the ways of the hammam. Bring a large towel, soap, shampoo, a scrubbing mitt, a bowl to poor water and dry underpants. A pair of plastic slippers is also useful. Yes, it is a bathhouse. Sundays and Wednesdays it is for women only. There is a convivial atmosphere of mixed ages, body forms and languages yet all sharing the same purpose: getting clean in a pleasant, relaxing way. There is ease at being among women, no shame, no exhibitionism, most keep their panties on. There are three different steaming rooms, the first one cool to acclimatize, half way and hot. Everyone has a big bucket and a tiny plastic stool. Before starting, you work up a sweat by sitting and talking in your temperature comfort zone. All come in pairs since talking and getting your back scrubbed is an essential part of the procedure. The hammam is totally tiled; water running, being splashed, poured, dipped into. The noise level is amazing in this welcoming atmosphere with a no nonsense kindness. There is time for henna in the hair, for shaving superfluous hair, cleaning up and out the worries of the week from body and soul. After a good long soak, the second phase is scrubbing starting from one’s feet working upward, to end at one’s heart. The longer you scrub and soak and rub, the more dead cell layers will be removed. If you get too hot, go to the first room for a relative cool down, there a lady earns a hard won living by scrubbing women thoroughly when asked. They comment on the amount scraped off under general laughter. There is pride in shedding one’s skin. The women talk, move around, hot buckets of water are emptied over the head of a friend or a family member. Watching the others, we are adviced to get some olive based peeling soap. After all the soaking and scrubbing it feels sweetly soft and gentle, but low and behold after a while one gets rid of at least three more layers of the old husk of oneself. It was at my daughters suggestion to do this today, to rinse off, peal away part of my old life to be fresh and really clean with a new sensitive, open skin for my birthday and a new start tomorrow.

Training

Mens sana in corpore sano, said the Romans: A healthy mind in a healthy body. I decided to work on that. Whenever I am in my desert retreat I walk more: at least half an hour a day, three four days a week a hike of about an hour and occasional guided hikes by the local Trail Association. Now the challenge has been upped. I am not a spring chicken, yet I want for the first time in my life to learn to run. I have been given a schedule to get to 15 minutes in 8 weeks. That to me is daunting. But I have seen one other person do it. The first priority is to learn to practice without getting injured. Shoes are needed. Have you ever looked at the array of running/walking shoes: some have inbuilt air pumps, others have fluids, the designs are kind of wild. I choose a conservative white, gray, orange high tech supporting, shock-absorbing shoe on sale. ☺ Believe me, they are comfortable yet weird looking. Before starting on one’s 15 minutes run/walk, one has to warm up, loosen the shoulders, the legs, do a kind of belly dance, and then you are off for the first run: 1 minute running, 2 minutes fast walking and this 5 times, followed by a cool down period and some stretching. This schedule you follow three times during the first week. Are you laughing at me? OK! I don’t mind. But let me tell you the third and fourth minute run was hard. Really. That is why I need to do this. The added challenge was that the dirt road I had chosen for my exploit seemed flat enough for fast walking, but having to run uphill – even just slightly - made the ordeal even harder and of course it didn't look pretty and some neighbors asked, ‘What where you doing running around?” “Are you alright?” “Where were you going?” To Rome, to Rome where the soundest thinking was done by fit gymnasts… I guess I am getting fitter in order to give a better spectacle when thrown to the lions.