My brother's visit

Tommy, the brother I didn't know I had came to visit me in Chloride, Arizona with his two wonderful daughters. He is a thoughtful man, smart and generous. He knew I existed and has been looking for me for years... It is strange to be of the same DNA and to be different because of growing up on different situations. We both in our rather different circumstances turned out all right. He brought a flash drive with the whole family tree dating back to the 15th century.

Since I didn't know he existed, I didn't miss him. But he knew of me. So he kind of has missed me all that time since he knew of me. We had a few nice days together, driving to Hualapai mountain where we had a light lunch and enjoyed the beautiful landscape. We were at a farmers market and saw the old town Kingman. We talked and listened. It was overwhelming but in a good way. And we rounded off the visit in the Damn bar steakhouse, the most cowboy place around with good and delicious food. The girls choose Nacho's brother and sister had steak!

 Since then we have spoken on the phone slowly getting used to hear each others voice.
Gratitude is in order.

Eaves dropping in a local café while having lunch with Lucy

I live in Antwerp, near or even in part of the Jewish quarter. I thought I give this post a funny title because what I overheard was everything but funny. Two holocaust survivors spoke about their life and what they had done with the experience. The old lady kept a diary most of her life and she became a sculptor. The old man on the other hand plays the violin and lectures all over the world about what the holocaust meant and means, without forgetting the genocides of today. The dystopian wars in Europe of the last century still carry over the consequences for whom lived through that ordeal.

The old lady writes in her diary every morning and every evening and she wonders why she does it, because her writing may never be read, wondering whether writing makes sence. So writing diaries/or blogs myself I do believe that it is important to try and make sense of the world, to keep track of feeling and thoughts day after day, making sense of our personal issues as a rite of passage in this life.

Thus I note the arrival of Hanging Loose Press copies and look proudly at the stack of wonderful books and the poems, beauty and thoughts they contain,while I am shy, kind of self-conscious, about sending some of my poetry books to Hanging Loose Press.

Yet all of you who write, just go on doing what you do. You never know what words will sink into a person's soul and bring understanding, solace and courage to live a full life doing what one has to do.

AFRICA 39

It is great to get a book like this as a present: new writing from Africa South of the Sahara. The writing is very diverse notwithstanding that certain themes are touched upon more often than others. Hunger, the struggle for survival, violence, lust and sex it is all present in this very well chosen overview of new writings. Yet also the beginning of the Nigerian civil war is dealt with and the complicated relationships or enmities between the different tribes: Hausas are targeting Igbos but the protagonist  of one of the stories has a Yoruba father...
Quote: It wasn't Lagos she longed for, the splendour, the sensational, the sense of being wealthy - but the sense of self surrendered to the senselessness of history, the narrowness and naïvety of her former individuality...
Extract from TAIYE SELASI : from Ghana must go.
A few concepts from the same story: Olu : all is quiet. Taiwo : the tension, a light tugging sensation. But no sense of danger, no cause for alarm. Kehinde : the absence and Sadie : fluttering butterflies, a new thing this restlessness, this looking for something, not finding it.
Of course by quoting only one of the authors I don't do the book justice. Read it, you find yourself all over the world and you will have a lot of food for thought...

Antwerp as diamond city

Antwerp is a diamond city and that means that we have a rather large Indian population, the majority of which lives near the more leafy areas around town and a huge Jewish community living in town, right there where I live too.

The Jewish community celebrates their Pesach or Easter between April 22 and April 20. This celebration entails a more than thorough spring cleaning before the passover. The house has to be thoroughly cleaned so that all that is dirty, or contains yeast or that can ferment has to be thrown out of the house. The city of Antwerp organises an extra household-garbage collection in the neighbourhood. I am glad that inclusiveness is working this way. Yet also other communities, like the Moroccan community have their own customs like following the Ramadan. This means no eating during the day, only after sunset and before sunrise one can eat. Mutton with couscous is one of their delicious dishes. Yet the sheep have to be slaughtered in a ritual way, slitting their throat. Often this leads to controversy, or even protests. People feel that electrocuting the sheep is more humane...  Strange concept.

Poverty in a rich country...

I don't mean the kind of poverty where children are in rags and begging in the streets. I am considering a rather rich country and how certain people do fall through the cracks. I know this family where the father now retired, had a good job and was a member of the city council. The two children have to fight the system. The administration a single mother has to go through to let her bright son, who just got his bachelor, do his master is nightmarish. I happened to listen to her reading a letter about about the fictive costs for his education that would be deducted from her allowance... although he is not getting that money it being a fictive calculation. Finding an apartment is altogether a different issue: there one has to be on a list of being interested in finding a place. That seems logical, but then the size if too large by just a few meter, would disqualify the person to get that apartment unless the extra square meters are sealed off... Some places are uninsulated attics, others are just  a few € over the maximum... and thus are denied to those who fall maybe a few € short. So life is a struggle for many people. And it is the grace of people, that they do not skimp, that they still are generous and warm. My friend has raised two wonderful boys, when I go and visit, she gives up her bed for me and sleeps on the sofa... She also manages to put good food on the table on a small budget. Some aspects are surreal.

Travels with Doggy Dog

Traveling with a small dog entails quite a lot of things. There are specific times that need to be respected for when vaccinations must be given. There are also things that must be done in the last three days before the trip like filling out the health certificate for the pooch. The weight of Doggy must be right otherwise she cannot be with us in the cabin.
This time a a colleague from PEN-Flanders will be traveling with me. Of course it is always possible that life has some surprises in store. For instance our friend Nigerian poet friend Tade Ipadeola won't be able to come and visit us. Sad, we wanted to discuss his poetry, talk through some of the problems with the translation and also how to proceed after the proofreading we will be doing when at our destination. Of course we also will meet up with friends, make long walks in the desert, look at the murals and petroglyph's beauty and try once again to decipher their meaning. The particular once near the village are Hualapai and some old Hualapai still kind of know how to interpret them. The weather will still be nice, so longer trips are being planned. A lot of Nature and added to the mix also some Culture. I particularly look forward to my friends I have had to miss so long.
All of you: Sunday night late I should be home with my guest. Brace yourself for Monday morning: I need a lot of hugs.
When returning to Europe we'll stop in New York to bring the books "Over the backs of Salmon" in the Dutch translation "Over Ruggen van Zalmen" to Sherman Alexie's publisher and friend Robert Hershon. Exiting times await us.

Occupied city

Police patrol vans on both sides of the street, the military in the streets with para-commando's in full gear patrolling the neighborhood ... isn't quite something that makes me feel safe. Granted, I live at the edge of the Jewish quarter, cross it regularly walking the dog, going to the supermarket... I can't show you the pictures: it isn't even allowed to take a picture... It would be a bit intimidating if one would try. I think violence begets violence. Non-violence is the only way to live in a civilized society. Talking to all kinds of people and trying to understand the other is always a good start. Understanding the needs of an other human being makes one feel their anguish. Kindness doesn't kill. I know these words are poor in contrast to the beauty and respect I would want to share. Hate begins with exclusion, by being uncaring, unthinking of the plight of 'others'. We are all others, different and have the right to be so.
We would loose such beauty, such song, such poetry, such alternative ways of looking at the world, if we don't strive for inclusiveness.
The New years reception of the Flemish Fund for Letters was inclusive: Three writers who all three spoke a different local version of Arab talked and laughed and gave us great poetry and prose. One musician gave us foreign sounds and longings. This choice was just the right thing at the right time...
keeping the flame of hope and togetherness burning.

Luxury

y

 Luxury means something different to different people. To inmates in the Antwerp jail it are poetry books in a language the prisoners can read as City Poet Laureate Stijn Vrancken found out when the he looked into what category of books were most borrowed from the jail's library. And yes, to his astonishment, it was poetry. So Stijn asked his fellow poets, writers and readers to bring their books to the 'Letteren huis' (House of letters) in as many languages as we had. I brought a stack consisting of Dutch, French, Cornish, German, English and Italian. Walking through the city with my the emptied caddy, I came upon a magnificent place, totally in period, tastefully restaurated. I asked whether I might take some pictures... I was, as I often do, wearing black. So the owner of the shop explained I shouldn't wear black, that doing so is cheap. One should only wear silk and real cashmere and color, and pattern... In other words to buy stunning clothing one can wear but few times on social occasions because otherwise people would say: Oh, there she is with that gorgeous dress, again and again... He then showed me some mindbogglingly beautiful dresses, one with a coat lined in the same silk pattern as the dress itself. I said: I obviously could never afford that lifestyle. His answer surprised me: I should find a sponsor... I can't figure out what he really means. Was he seeing Elisa Doolittle whom he could turn into a lady? Was he suggesting I should invest in one such dress and find a lover with good taste and money to burn?

So I have been wondering what my personal luxury would be: A pretty colorful, aging hippie hoody? Or is it rather being in the warm company of interesting people even if they are penniless, impecunious and without funds, had to flee their country for speaking out, for being at risk because of poems they wrote. My luxury is knowing, Tade, Déo and Hazim, and reading their work... Knowing Rollean and his always nonviolent stand for justice and peace.

May they all be safe. To them safety is luxury.

To me luxury is being with four people in a room and each one is from a different continent...

Guerilia nature in the city

 Walking through town, I started to notice how a small birch was pushing its way through the concrete... and kept growing. And soon enough there were cellars with an abundant life under their steel grid. Soon enough there were ferns where I saw no soil.

All kinds of small flowers and even very briefly a small white mushroom, all blackened to dust in a few days and then others springing up. Yes, it is autumn, yet this will to live, to survive in the urban landscape fascinated me.

These improbable compositions lend a special touch of beauty to the streets I walk. They draw my attention to the abstraction of lines, to the simpleness of color and the futility of pulling out the new tender buttons. They have decided to try and get through autumn unscathed or to return when pulled out or cut off. I prefer these streets where life imposes itself, the barren, clean lifelessness is to me uninteresting. Best are the dark alleys. Where nobody bothers the plants, where impermanence just lasts this bit longer.

Tags, Graffiti and official art

I am intrigued by what people write on walls, in the case of the two first pictures on the walls of a prison.  The French one calling to put fire to the prison and the Dutch one saying Tear me down. Both with the anarchist A.

 This one I have read every day when walking the dog. I have thought of how to complete it, but recently I have decided it is just right. Without art we would have far less interpretations of art and we would probably be stammering in trying to explain stuff and say ehh... a lot. These three pictures are a kind of guerrilla art. In contrast to the beautiful poem by Paul van Ostayen on the wall of the local hospital. These two last 'interventions' in the urban landscape is in dialog with each other, almost the the ehh... as legitimation for the poem... And then on the long closed wine counter some one wrote: NOT SO SERIOUS...

Good advice...

New European extreme right.

Mai 25th there elections all over Europe. In Belgium there will be local elections, state elections, national elections and European elections. In periods like these the right and extreme right crawls out of every dark corner in the countries of Europe. In the United Kingdom in Luton there is a strong presence of Muslims. So the EDL was founded spewing extreme anti Muslim feelings. There are many such groups in Europe, many extremely violent. there are groups in France, in Germany, in the UK, in Hungary where the 800.000 Roma who still live in Hungary are the main target of their extreme violence. Blood and honour still are welcome in parts of Belgium. In Jamel in the former German Democratic Republic (former Eastern Germany) the extreme right rules supreme, chasing away people. It is almost an exclusively right wing enclave, even  having a "bandit army". They bought over thirty houses in the village. The houses painted red belong the the neo-nazis.

Tomy Robertson and his cronies pose as patriots, yet they divide their communities by their racism and extremism that is channeled through the English Defense league. In Belgium the anti Islamic stance is propagated by the "Vlaams Belang", the former "Flemish blok". By changing their name, they have cleaned up their image, yet they hold still the same anti Muslim convictions. In most countries there is a strong reaction by anti-racist organizations. So beware, don't accept the hate speech, do not buy into the fear of 'the other', 'the foreigner' they propagate. Just try to talk to all your neighbors and life will be a lot more fun. Your possible futures will at least have a chance of being more peaceful, inclusive, colorful and interesting.

Love hurts

Sadness can turn to anger between two people who do love each other but fail to understand each other. The balance between them lost, both will scream, speak the truth as they perceive it so bluntly that it hurts their own soul. Tears flow in private. The communication break down has crept upon them. Yet they are a great team. She has failed to draw the boundaries clearly and he has overstepped. They can't understand the other fully and both get hurt. How does one show support for a person? How, in general, one can help another person without exploiting, using the person... and without being exploited or used. How to show tenderness among the hurt. Time flows differently for different people. One is fast paced, running, to cram as much into life as feels good. The other is in slow motion, thoughtful, deep thinking but not communicative, not speaking ever  about what moves on a personal level. A lot about the world, music, opinions, but hardly anything abou what makes this person tic. So, silence installs itself between two people and misunderstandings arise more and more often. How does one feel loved?

I see the blue-black eye

hear the nagging

and know the bruises of their soul

There is a war out there

Don’t wage that war on me

I lost my past and who I was

to find searching

a gentle caring sharing

need

But waves of anger

wash me to a breaking shore

Silver lining...

 Being a dreamer, the first saying my mother shared with me was:
"Who looks at the stars will stumble over the stones." I have thought and thought about that one as a child and was always totally offended at the stealing of dreams, being called to reality.

It changed when I learned the expression: "Every cloud has a silver lining." I live with a good window to the east and greet the sun rising almost every morning. This was yesterday's sunrise, illustrating the silver lining in difficult times. One just has to look at it every time there is a silver lining and feel grateful and look for the moon, greet the stars. I promise, you'll feel better. Never mind falling down once in a while looking up and up. You will have had many splendid sights, learned a lot and have many interesting encounters on a possibly rocky road...

Under the watchfull eyes of my friends...

In my absence Mojave county is cleaning up my place, the old gas station in Chloride. Since I never operated it as a gas station and since those who did, have passed away, they call those UST (underground storage tanks) "Orphan Tanks". A couple of yeas ago I signed up for the program, but the county ran out of money. While I was in Chloride they contacted me asking whether I was still interested in getting those UST out. Of course It was a bit scary to have such work done during my absence, but my friends talk (Dori among others) to the good people doing the work, send pictures (Irene, thank you) and all. Since cleaning up the environment is the goal, the soil will be tested for pollution. If it is contaminated they will dig out the polluted soil and replace it with good dirt. I am grateful that I can help cleaning up old contaminations of the past and have a small part of the old mining town unburdened by the past.
Thank you all for helping with this.

No internet but a lot of nice things... in Ruhrort

Having been on the road in North Rhine Westphalia I rediscover the world without Internet and the world of hyper security: not one open hot spot, nothing coming in on my phone... Yet a lot is happening there in the region where artists and writers seem to flock. A bunch of "mafia knitters" are trying to soften this rather masculine environment where the rogue TV policeman Schimanski had his job cut out in getting the bad guys. In wool with flowers and gentle colors they soften this place of steel and stone.
And of course water is abundant  at the confluence of Rhine and Ruhr. It is a downtrodden area with cheap rent. The empty shop windows can be rented easily as a showplace for one's work. Of course there are improvised parties, people bringing food and drinks, grill on the roof in the old town. There is a proposal to classify Ruhrort as cultural heritage since many of the houses in 'Grunder style' still exist. Of course all the water most cellars are damp... On Easter Sunday among others these people will perform as poets or exhibit their art. I saw a beautiful cooperation where one hustled a tent ( there was a strong wind, but we were spared the rain), where another brought a small scene to stand on. Some brought enough food to share... I thank all.

Dementia

My mother has dementia. I don't know whether she suffers from it, nor if she still knows herself, or me and my daughter... The doctor spoke about "terminal dementia". I didn't understand what that meant, except that it sounded ominous. So he explained that her brain doesn't know anymore how to regulate certain functions like the regulation of fluids. So her primary caregiver, her husband who is doing a fine job of it, has to see that she drinks enough in order to avoid dehydration. She has days that she enjoys company, on others she sleeps, cannot be reached. I call it: she is not home. My mother is a smart woman, she spoke four languages, has traveled, was really a beauty and she knew how to party... The hardest thing for her husband is that he knows that at a certain point he will not be able to take care of her at home. So he makes all the preparations and follows all steps to see to it that she then will have excellent care. My daughter sees my mothers smiles and the good moments. I see her refusing to eat. She often has to be coaxed to eat... She sometimes tries to speak, yet words fail her. With a gesture, she'll abandon the effort. In the beginning of the disintegration of her mind she tried to cover up mistakes, things she had forgotten, yet on good days one could still have brief, yet meaningful conversations with her. My father a stern and strict man has developed the care giving side of himself. For that I am grateful. So her life is still in her usual surroundings and in a place she feels safe... Yet: terminal dementia is a terrible thing to hear, a terrible fate to bear for all involved so all feast are celebrated, still celebrating life, incontinent and all. Every day a small loss, a small goodbye.

Get out in the canoe

A light metal canoe
a river below the dam
walk it to water
paddle your arms
feel the current
against you
listen to the light
silence
a bell like riffle
against the stern
lapping of water
light illuminates the deep
counting eight whiskers
channel cat barbels on
Ictalarus pinctatus

in the waning of the light
the dark mirror
barely reflects

no thoughts
no life
but night
and Friday evening
fishfry

Time for the Colorado river

No power
packing water coffee bait
long drive
Pierce Ferry roiling rapids
no camping no fishing
no parking no fires
no rangers
sleeping without a moon
under the stars
in sandstorm wind











It's all about leaving
running out of time
not knowing
was it dream time or
think time yet
fear of frailty
longing for water
and
the fluidity of joy
the adventure
the call of the
wild one
the one I was
I am

Walking in the desert

When time is slow

the company good

you walk and talk

then laying down

on the outside couch

I smell the time of desert sand

opening my eyes

the mass of pinpricked stars

in my skies of blues

I name them Billie Holiday, Miss Ella and Aretha

in my darkest hues

eyes closed the reflection

of the sun in orange yellow glow

then in these silences 

tweets of birds

a far plane and someone’s plan

a car, a truck, a trick

and slight of hand

then swimming

in the desert glass and singing sand

 

Bake sale on Old Miners Day

At nine the women have set up
their last stand
have baked
now sell or as I
eat and share and buy
dress up on a dare collect
for the merry go round
in this town
flags
for the vets in the cemetery
vaudeville play
community spirit
for a day
friendshp
& foreign wars
cow girls
bad boys
and floozies
bikers on harleys
(yes I know the sound well)
in a way
all soiled doves with
pretty old cars