Red Star Line the silent movie 'dance' - 600 extras

The Red Star Line is one of these mythical lines: At least two million people used it to emigrate to the USA.  My mother after World War II was one of them. A silent movie Dance is being made by Hans Op De Beeck for the Red Star Line Museum. 500 extras were needed for scenes evoking the mass exodus. 600 showed up for the afternoon takes on a bitterly cold day. Several scenes were shot in a sober, serene even intimate way. No 'acting' but slow movements en masse, neutral face, a range of simple costumes in tints of tans, grays, and black accents. Of course such a day entails a lot of waiting among total strangers, sharing stories and blankets to keep warm. I think of Gershwin waiting in line, showering before getting on the boat, if one was impecunious and without funds one slept in communal spaces, going through immigration on Ellis Island... Maybe the war brides followed a different scenario. Since most were married before leaving for the USA they had all the necessary papers and it might have been less intimidating. Although leaving behind their mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters will not have been easy for most. I am sure most of these brides dreamed of 'American Kitchens' with fridges and washing machines, the good life. Yet American dreams often turned into American nightmares. The times in the late forties were hard, jobs and housing were scarce in the USA. Ten people living in a small clapboard house was more often the rule than the exception. Many people came to the set because of their family immigration background other were hobby-extras having participated in between 10 to 20 projects. Of course all of us have had to say goodbye to people, so a vague melancholy settled in my thoughts no longer thinking of my mother but thinking about my own comings and goings.

Unintended consequences

For while I wrote monthly a piece for the eight page Chronicle. Often I would deal with strange differences between the USA and Europe. I wrote my 500 words one a month before I left for an other stay at the 'gas station' dealing with the different views about guns and Uzi's and the high tech bow and arrows a friend had so he could hunt without a permit. Anyway, the conclusion ran something along the following line: seen I had not been raised in a gun culture that I didn't own neither a gun, a revolver nor a rifle and since I felt I would be a danger to myself if I would try to use one I would probably be shot with my own gun. Being on my own however I did not want to give the impression that I was totally defenseless. The people knew my two dogs, so I could invoke them for the job. And I remembered that upon leaving the last time, being halfway through the process of adding a kitchen to my place that I had left a crowbar next to the bed. So my last line was just that: But I have a crowbar next to the bed. I return and we muddle on doing the kitchen. In such cases all the neighbors come by and give their opinion and good advice. So one of neighbors after the inspection of the going-ons called me over and said: I wouldn't if I were you use the crow bar, you could crack someone's skull with that. Go get yourself a baseball bat. That will hurt the other person less.

Unsung hero

Rose vdw is one of my unsung heroes. She is gentle and compassionate, a good friend and poet. She is quiet spoken, a lover and supporter of art. She bakes a mean apple cake which I savor with relish. She is also a help in working through my feelings concerning my mother who is suffering with dementia. Rose, for about 16 long years, visited her mother with Alzheimer in the ‘Cocoon’. This soft spoken soul however was a power house when she felt her mother had not been dealt with as she deserved. The institution offered ‘comfort care ‘, which turned out to be mainly comfortable for the nurses. The patients would be bedded down every day and every night. They were no longer dressed, nor would they sit at a table to eat, or sit in a comfortable chair in the afternoon. Then the daughter became the advocate who trembling with emotions of sadness and anger would defend the quality of life of her mother and thus also of the other patients. When my mother's illness began, Rose would answer my questions, sometimes sketch what awaited me in the logical evolution that was to follow. She gave invaluable insight and thus acceptance of what was to come.

Here a moving poem about her mother’s reaction when Rose's father passed away.

I have loved him so much, she said.

A month before he died - he couldn't

eat a bite - she had set out there

the same stack of sandwiches

already for fifty years. He fumed.

A wounded lion. The berry jam, soon a

bloodstain on the carpet. In almost

a scuffle he was felled by her as if a feather.

I have loved him so much, she said

while crying and unknowing of the days,

now angry, then again fearful was left behind.

On her own a passport with a spotless past.

The square and B B King

I am sitting in a trendy square and am amazed at how young the city has become. Just here and there a graying beard, a white head. Just two, three ample gray haired women. The 30/40 year old are mainly skinny, Sancere sipping and speaking about a new partner be it in love or in business. Also relationships turned sour are a frequent subject. Good advice, or advice meant as such, is balanced by hard edged principles, used as a dam against more hurt. And then from somewhere a line of music:

If you don't know
what to do
listen to T-Bone Walker
if you don't now
what hit you
when you're under
a bad spell
can't hide the thrill
listen
listen
to B B King

Windows

The days shortening make me a little sad, yet last night having to run an urgent errant at dusk I was thrilled that people had turned on their lights. Many shutters were down, or the curtains drawn, yet here and there I could catch a glimpse of beautiful woodwork in an almost stately home or a beautiful rosette centering the luster of a crystal chandelier. But the greatest joy was seeing people going about heir daily life: kids  doing homework or crafts at the table, a parent puttering around in the background, cooking, clearing clutter and coaching from a distance. People eating or talking gave me a sense of warmth, a sense of caring and community. Of course there were some voices of crying toddlers, angry parents shouting, a couple fighting... There one felt how overburdened the people were within their situation, how hard it is to deal with the daily disasters. These glimpses give me an insight in what seems to constitute happiness, serenity and a feeling of belonging. Last night 's image I cherish most is an old man sitting and reading by a lamp near the window. He is secure in his place, knows where he belongs and so he is reassuring to me. These short flashes of unknown people's life seem to hold for me valuable wisdom and insights.

Living on the edge of the Jewish quarter

Living on the inner edge of the Jewish quarter I have a choice when  I go shopping: to the right or straight ahead I'll see the people in their diverse religious attire. Fedora like hats on top of the head, white shirt all in black with the curls along the ears flying while cycling on the boardwalk. Yarmulke's and the fringe of their ceremonial scarfs peeping out from under the coat, while some where long white stockings and large fur hats, which when it rains are covered in a specially designed plastic bag. The women I saw this morning wore all a different color of wig: black or blond, light or dark brown. All wore comfortable flat shoes. The difference between richer and poorer Jews is immediately visible. The poorer women can't afford a good wig, so they wear scarves, either hiding all their hair or a scarf with an attached fringe of hair sticking out.
Since there are also a lot of Polish Jews there are also some good polish shops where you find kefir, other wise only found in the health shop or in the Pakistan shop. I also notice that some peope go to synagogue each morning and on special occasions they'll have palm leaves wrapped in plastic under their arm.

Going left however, I enter the general mainly European stream of peoples, with North Africans and black Africans being part of the mix just as Turkish and oriental people. A friend once called me on the fact that when one is at a local police station and does not speak the local language that one has to bring an interpreter. She was totally offended by this and thought the city should have the interpreters on call. So I got curious and asked how many languages were present in the small old jail, where people who have been picked up wait for their first meeting with the judge. The answer was a to me staggering amount of 76 languages. So the menu is from kosher to halal, from bio dynamic to straightforward meat, potatoes and veggies... All in walking distance. Wonderful.
What I don't understand is that the protests against the scarfs Muslim women wear and the acceptance of the same principle in a different execution in the Jewish community. In both cases the hair of women is supposed to for private viewing only.

Familiarity

I know A. since she was 11 and I was 12. Being very bright she had been schooled a year early, so we ended up in the same secondary school class, both having chosen Latin and Greek. She remembers whom and how I was in the difficult years of puberty and the fear of a stepfather. I remember her 'normal', yet strict family. We followed each other's lives and marital turbulences. We knew about each other's jobs, crushed longings, unfulfilled expectations and moments of joy and happiness. We are friends, even if I fall often short on being there for A. when she needs it. She knows that I know and thus we get together every so often to exchange, to tell about the latest episode of our lives's road. She is ebullient and talkative, I am a good listener. While listening I recognize old patterns, habits, griefs, resulting for me in a sense of peace stemming from familiarity. The normality of our encounters is also the glue that keeps us in each other's life. She is adventurous and does volunteer work in the field of alternative cultural events. She is brave, yet needs a structure which grants her her freedom without making her feel lonely or isolated. 

I once wrote a poem for her:

Ach A,

Ik wilde komen

maar voor ik zo vertrekken

moet naar nieuwe straten

ander licht en vreemde bedden

koester ik mij in stilte

het alleen zijn thuis

en vergeet dan

dat om 11 uur

zondag de wereld

nog bestaat

Ik wilde komen

maar nu bij koffie

wachtend op de pendelbus

is het te laat.

*

Oh A,

I wanted to come

but just before I have to leave

for new streets

different light and strange beds

I cherish my silence

being home alone
and forget
that at 11 o'clock
on Sunday the world
still exists

I wanted to come
but now with coffee
waiting for shuttle bus
it is too late

(on the road to Strasburg, France)

Leonard Peltier week end

The two organizers, Uncia and Hakate, did a wonderful job. They had an empty chair for Leonard Peltier and had choosen four documentaries which left us wiser and better informed. They  were: A good day to die, Warrior, Incident at Oglala and the movie Thunderheart. Supporters of actions could by could by CD's, T-shirts, books, jewelry and Peltier's Prison writings. 

Native American poetry was read and Dave Betts performed with his own songs and read a wonderful text by Buffy St Marie. It was a fine week end. Thank you Unciya and Hakate.

 A poem by John Trudell:



Crazy Horse
We Hear what you say
One earth one mother
One does not sell the earth
The people walk upon
We are the land
How do we sell our mother
How do we sell the stars
How do we sell the air
Crazy Horse
We hear what you say

Too many people
Standing their ground
Standing the wrong ground
Predators face he possessed a race
Possession a war that doesn't end
Children of god feed on children of earth
Days people don't care for people
These days are the hardest
Material fields material harvest
decoration on chains that binds
Mirrors gold the people lose their minds
Crazy Horse
We Hear what you say
One earth one mother
One does not sell the earth
The people walk upon
We are the land
Today is now and then
Dream smokes touch the clouds
On a day when death didn't die
Real world time tricks shadows lie
Red white perception deception
Predator tries civilising us
But the tribes will not go without return
Genetic light from the other side
A song from the heart our hearts to give
The wild days the glory days live

Crazy Horse
We Hear what you say
One earth one mother
One does not sell the earth
The people walk upon
We are the land
How do we sell our mother
How do we sell the stars
How do we sell the air

Crazy Horse
We hear what you say
Crazy Horse
We hear what you say
We are the seventh generation
We are the seventh generation

Route 66- continued

The route is all about the road, the place longed for, dreamed of, imagined in one's soul. The state of the road doesn't matter.
Neither does the means of transportation. being on the move, desire, solitude and beauty are the guiding lights.  

Restaurants I didn't stop at. And forlorn places where time was framed in old signs: Roadrunner Restaurant.
One  almost hears the jazz of those days in the purring motor.


Waterside property advertised in the enormous and beautiful Mojave Desert... No, no, not a sedentary life, near a moist air river.



It is all about the road, the encounters, the sharing of long vistas which heal your eyes. There is a road to where you're going.
May traveling the Route 66 help each of us find our road, straight or winding, up and down with left curves and straight ahead: a metaphor for life, a road with many futures.

 

 From the glamor of Hollywood to the Old Historic Route 66. At first still maintained but then fallen to the wayside.


Present Past and Future is the slogan of Route 66...

 The Best Western in Bartsow with a view of the trucks going by on the I 40. Imagine the joy of a road all to oneself... In Ludlow there is a new coffee shop, its fate uncertain.

House -garage - gas station -
Ludlow café -
all derelict
publictés fanées
faded billboards
fallen by the wayside

a good life
with a real house across
at the east direction
nobody took
all went west

and needed shelter
repairs
gas
sustenance
courage for the crossing
but NO CHECKS CASHED


neither is anybody responsible
for fire or theft
of ones dreams
on Route 66.
How long before new Ludlow resembles the old
before the desert has taken back its space
before a new generation builds
a fresh watering hole for the thirsty and weary

Seven things to do... in small towns

In a small town with no road going through, all off them stopping at a mountain, at tailings or a wash there isn't much to do. Favorite activities are improvements: Putting up a water tank with a backhoe and resting under the result.

 One could browse the local shop which holds surprises but no fresh food. I found a second had copy of Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver. I have read several of her novels and some of her essays: great work. The first one was Pigs in Heaven starting at the Hoover Dam, the very first time I crossed it.

Women gathering to discus the last and to prepare the next event at the local VFW. One is a biker chick, one is a belly dancer, an American Sign Language educational assistant, a poet, a cook and a former cow girl...

 You could watch the changes in the Alpenglow on the mountain or watch another splendid sunset...

And on Sunday nights there is a free movie at the theater: Easter Sunday it was the wonderfully moving Green fried tomatoes...

I don't know about other small towns, but here there is a special spirit which brings people together.

And now I go back to my book...

Muddy roads will be traveling soon but first Bart Stouten's presentation tonight

THAT FEELING

                    Flying.

A feeling of laying in an unmade bed.

Staring at Buddhist sutras

from floor to ceiling

slipping in and out one's consciousness.

Feeling the sutras

keep you alive.

                    The stewardess, a cameo appearance

in dark Chinese whispers, brought coffee,

lukewarm and annoyingly weak with powdered milk

and a glimpse of hauling about her darlings.

Made corny jokes about thick and thin. Her own choice

written on her body. In fluent French.

No idea where it came from. That feeling.

I loved her, briefly, put myself to work

emptied all this thinness.

                    Waiting, with sleep and in-flight magazine,

for better pastimes.

                    It came. High above the gold coast,

which reminded my neighbor of the complicated timing

of coming into the world elsewhere: mom's returning

from a trip to Papua New Guinea, her desire

to birth him in Australia, his first scream

in a Lockheed Hercules en route. And how he

two years ago – his pousse café a fait divers

for Quantas – was gripped by a fear of flying so intense

that he nailed to the floor, watched how the plane left

without him, to yet another continent.

                    ...in an unmade bed... staring at

Buddhist sutras...

                    For me no alcohol.

Vascular problem requiring an understanding smile,

so thinks the stewardess.

*
8 pm: in den Hopsack, Grote Pieter Pot straat, Antwerp, Belgium

V.R.'s 65 bash

 Veerle is a great graphic artist and wonderful enabler of projects involving word and image. For her 65th birthday she invited friends, family, people she had worked with. The afternoon started with Patricia Beyssens, great attitude and voice, wonderful choice of songs.

 Tony had organized a program in which different artists or authors would speak about the different projects. He was a smooth operator introducing the people he knows well.

 Philosopher Frans Boenders entertained us with his take on South Africa ( one the projects), although basically traveling more to the orient. He finished with four quatrains, funny and telling.

 City Peter, the just released city poet Laureate of Antwerp gave a fine performance, warm and with even a song on a melodica. He spoke about the working together with Veerle for the cover of one of his book. Down on the right a picture of the wonderful place Zaal 7, pure art nouveau and holding about 150 pople that day.

 The left guy Jack van Peer is the president of the Foundation which wants to work to preserve and support contemporary graphics.
On the right is Jan Dockx President of the Circle of Friends which will be treated to museum visits and learning about contemporary graphic art.

 Tony in a pensive, quiet moment before the
second set of German Lieder  from about the 1920/1930's... Click on the picture and admire the shoes.

The picture below shows Johan van Cauwenbergen in a rousing speech.

 Veerle's partner Willem Persoon spoke about the 10 years the have been together: the busy, rich fulfilled life  with Veerle.
I which both of them many more years, many projects and good times.

Marleen de Crée also spoke about the first project in the Masereel Fonds in Kasterlee and the often mentioned trip to South Africa. The microphone kept hiding her face so the picture didn't work. Ivo Va, Damme, who takes the pictures at these events is the man on the left.
 And the birthday girl is seen here unwrapping  the gift of all the artists: a piece of original graphic work plus a poem by every poet. Happy Birthday Veerle8

Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941

Today, 70 years later, the attack on Pearl Harbor is commemorated and the USA joined in WWII. Now I usually don't divulge personal information on the blog. But the way I tell my private history runs as follows: Without Pearl Harbor I wouldn't be there. My father was an American GI who had volunteered. He liberated my mother, loved and married her. She followed him to the USA on one of the ships with the war brides. I was born a good year later and for my mother American dream turned into American nightmare and she went back home with her bundle of grief under her arm...

I tell the story this way because many children my generation are just as I an aftermath of the war. So I try to be non-violent and words and deeds. Ahimsa, to all of you and blessed be the peacemakers.

The child has the father’s name

That is all he is

a name - a seldom-heard voice

a story lost

With the fading of his glory

he lives on in a dream

reconstructed the charming hero

that he was

or more muddled

           motley

the bis-tris-dis-

illusion

of a mother’s life

So the child has a name

any name

The name of the wind

sitting in the rocking chair

with empty screeching

of wood on wood

The first name

 that would last.