"I give you the mausoleum of all hope and
desire...I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might
forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all of your breath trying to
conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought.
The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an
illusion of philosophers and fools."
-William Faulkner
Looking back on these last few weeks, I realise I've let the state of my emotions govern what it is I write a little too much. Writing always works this way -- we try to craft a story that will touch our readers in a way, yet we end up telling our own story, giving up more detail than we had intended. I may have lost sight of what this blog was meant to about a bit, and I'll try to rectify that in this entry. Less emotion, more everyday life. This is after all the tale of my time in London, not a map to the labyrinth that is my mind.
London is cloudy these days. There were a fair number of storms in the days following my return, but they soon made way for continuous rains. Somehow, that's the image people usually have of this place, and in a way, it sort of feels right. I've always loved rainy days. Sure, clouds aren't exactly helpful when you're trying to gaze at the stars (I missed the meteor shower, thank you very much), but there's something purifying about water and the rains. I took a long walk this morning and was completely drenched by the time I got back in, but I don't have work until the day after tomorrow, so I can afford to contract pneumonia.
I've taken the next step in my attempts to have somewhat of a healthier lifestyle (no word from the doctor yet btw), following my routine of nothing but fruit and yoghurt for breakfast. I've now taken it upon myself to have vegetables for lunch, as my daily diet is seriously lacking in greens. Now, I really like carrots, but having carrots for lunch s*cks. I've literally gone from quarter-pounders with cheese to carrots, and so far, I don't like it. Then again, it can only help my eyesight, right? I mean, have you ever seen a rabbit with glasses?
At least broccoli is awesome.
I was contacted by a Korean journalist recently, with a request for an interview on surfers from Belgium. I did a similar piece a while back for a French-Tahitian website, but this one should be more in-depth and professional. It was kind of an odd request, but I did the interview today and provided the reporter with the necessary photos. She promised me a transcript from the article, which will apparently appear in a Korean style magazine, so I'm really hoping the transcript will be in English. I'm going to do my very best to get my hands on an actual copy of the magazine (sounds like a challenge), but I'll also be uploading the transcript when the time comes (the June issue, apparently), for those of you who might be interested. I may or may not have mentioned some of you.
Now, I can't write this entry and not talk about the terrible news of last week, and the impact it has had on a global scale. I've done my very best to avoid posting anything related to Elliot Rodger, and this blog will be my only contribution to the discussion.
I took it upon myself to watch his videos. All of them. And his blogposts, and his instagram. I wanted to understand, and before I knew what was happening, I was sucked into a world of pain and despair. I would not advice anyone to watch even a single video (especially the "Retribution" video. Please, stay away), but I had to. As a member of the media, we hold a responsibility as to what we report, and how we decide to report it. For me, this was a case-study on what my peers were doing, a moment to learn. Or that's how it started, anyway.
I quickly found myself immersed in the writings of a deranged young man, with the kind of world view no sane person could ever agree with. There were certain emotions I could understand, to my horror, but I could never agree with his conclusions, even in his earlier work. This young man had lost all aspects of humanity a long time ago, and it is important we can make the distinction between genuine human emotions and pure selfishness at some point.
This is 2014, but in many ways, we are still living in the dark ages. A woman should not have to explain why she may or may not be interested in a guy. She should not feel pressured into anything just because she wants to have a night out with some friends. She should not have to conjure up the boyfriend-excuse just because a guy is bothering her. Frankly I could write down a million examples here of what woman should not have to put up with, but I shouldn't have to. The simple fact there's still a discrepancy in wages between men and women should tell you all you need to know.
Elliot Rodger had a family, and I can't even begin to explain how bad I feel for them. For his parents, who tried to raise him to be a responsable young man. For the friends he may have had at some point in life, who might feel like they could have prevented this.
But in the end, Elliot Rodger was responsable for a tragedy of enormous proportions, and he did it on his own. I'm not just talking about the shooting here; that on its own is terrible, and my thoughts and prayers go out to the families of the victims and all who may have been affected by this.
The tragedy has only been enhanced by the media coverage, however, and the fact there is a whole genration of young men not too different of me making him out to be a martyr. The fact some networks out there have the audacity to label the girl who may or may not have rejected him at some point in his life is cruel. Even if she did, she is in no way responsible for Rodger's rampage, yet the media coverage has all but ensured this will haunt her for the rest of her life. His manifest is widely available on the internet at this point, and it shouldn't be. To some people on Reddit he's a hero, and if there's one thing this young man could never be, it's just that.
There's a reason we never report in detail on suicides -- they're contagious. That may sound odd, but there's plenty of scientific research to back this up. Journalists have a code, a deontology, and we have come to the point where this code should be revised. As "juicy" as the news surrounding these events may be, we have to realise the attention we give to these "men" can only serve as insipration for troubled young boys out there who might have similar thoughts.
More importantly, we forget a tragedy like this has victims, whose names and faces should never be forgotten. They can serve as inspiration for a generation of young people trying to eradicate the double-standards this world still holds. As long as young men like Rodger think of women as something which is their right to possess, this world will provide a feeding ground for these kind of rampages. So please, change the discussion. Stop giving attention to a young man who could no longer be helped (for he needed help more than anything) and start switching your point of view to the actual problems. Understand his train of thought was flawed from the very start. And realise he was no longer human by the time he had decided he would pull the trigger. The real human beings are the ones that have to put up with being called "slut" because they decide to wear clothing some people deem to be indecent.
/endrant
This entry completely passed me by. There are so many things I want to write on, things I know I can't put in words. Censorship is a curse, but it can also be a blessing. Nothing monumental happened to me in these last few days, and yet I feel like I'm drawing ever closer to what may be the most important decision of my life. I want to express my feelings, explain why I have found hope in a place I never thought I would look, but I can't. I wish to put into words why I detest things that are flawless, for they can never be perfect. Things that are flawless lack character and personality. I am making absolutely positively zero sense and I know it, and I frankly couldn't care less. I just want to shout.
These blogs matter to me, and I have to stop myself from uploading one every day. For some reason, they make me feel close to the people I care about the most. I want to know how all of you are doing, how you guys are passing the time. And most of the time, I don't know a goddamn thing. I know it's my own damn fault, but knowing something usually doesn't make coping with it any easier. Knowing a multitude of you are reading this brings me joy in a way I can't explain. I'd really love to be honest with all of you. But stories are never honest. That's usually what makes them great. And holy crap, this paragraph talks a whole lot about "knowing." Honestly, do we ever truly know a thing? Do we ever truly know someone the way we think we do?
I need to stop typing at this point, or this sh*t will get very weird. In case you were wondering, this is pretty much how I imagine Alice felt as she went tumbling down the rabbit hole. Ah, classics. I'm getting my Steinbeck back on these days. Might explain some of these words.
Song of the Day: The Album Leaf - The Outer Banks (From the OC soundtrack).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQoFb44isHQ
(More on The Album Leaf: Seriously underrated band, in the vain of the magnificent Plushgun. If you like this track, be sure to check out https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lO4uaMSKMcs , https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1jYr2fDgn64 and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Plio1u6Z_DM.
As a bonus, Mum's We Have A Map Of The Piano isn't very far off in terms of style (Wicker Park Soundtrack), and they may be featured as song of the day soon enough).
dinsdag 27 mei 2014
donderdag 22 mei 2014
On Hope and Fairy Tales
This particular entry could go a lot of ways.
I got back to London yesterday a complete mess. I nearly burst into tears on the Tube several times, made it home safely and cried my heart out for several hours. Given that the people who pay me read this, I may be drawing the wrong picture. That's fine though. As a person, I prefer honesty.
Belgium was an odd experience. It was great to see all of the people I love again, to be reunited with friends and family for a short while. And yet, it all felt like one big mistake. I collapsed Monday night and cried until Tuesday morning. Until a couple of hours ago, it didn't stop. Work today was an utter disaster. I had to pause what I was doing because I burst into tears behind my desk on four different occasions. Hell, I couldn't even put two coherent sentences together. It was an unmitigated disaster, complete unproductive and sloppy work. My editors were very understanding and handled the situation perfectly (I obviously didn't tell them I was crying, I just informed them I had a bad day) but at one point I actually thought I'd get fired.
It was just all too much. Belgium is hard for me. There's so many memories, and while the vast majority of them are good ones, they inevitable end up reminding me of all of the mistakes I made. Everything I lost, the few precious things I never wanted to lose in the first place. There are whole cities I can't even set foot in without getting all downcast. It's pathetic, I know, but it's who I am. Who I've always been.
I like to take notes. They help my writing and order my thoughts. I'll have ideas, or remember specific quotes or occurences, and I'll write them down and use them as inspiration at a later time. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, even if I usually end up doing more harm than good. I try to take my notepads with me everywhere, and I don't think I've ever made as many notes as I did during my three days back home. It's truly a godawful experience going over them again. Apparently, I had a ton of ideas, each one more depressing as the last.
Not that it should come as a real surprise. I was an absolute wreck, mind you, and my first day back in London didn't make matters better. Spending time with friends and family made me realise how lonely life in London really is. I don't know anyone here, apart from one or two colleagues and an old friend who has built up her own social circle and does everything she can to accommodate me. It's hard to blame anyone but myself for this, and as much as I'd like to point to work taking up most of my time, I know I could give more of an effort to make friends. Whether I truly want to or not is an entirely different matter, although we're all part of the herd in the end. We like to feel loved, even by complete strangers.
I'd been looking forward to my trip back home and seeing some of you again for so long, it just opened up this massive chasm. A black hole, once the trip was actually over. And it was one of the things I was most afraid off. Actually, that probably isn't true. There's a boatload of things I fear more. But still, it truly felt (and still feels) like I should have never gone back home to begin with. Not right now, at least.
Likewise, I'd been looking forward to writing this blog for a couple of days. Don't ask me why, I just did. I figured it'd be one long depressing wail of how I hate life in London, how I regret so many things and how miserable I have been for the last three months. How nothing had changed, and how my job was the only reason that had so far kept me from losing my grip. And I really thought that was happening right now (the losing my grip part. Seriously, I was crashing bad). It didn't help that I started vomiting blood late last night, which could be slightly worrying considering I've physically felt like crap for weeks. Don't worry, I went to the hospital after work tonight and I should get my bloodwork back in a few days. I explained the "situation" (I will not elaborate on this, let's just say it's not the first time my blood has given me trouble) and the doctor was kind enough to prioritise my results.
Where was I? Oh, right, the hugely depressing tone of my notes. I felt like coming clear, putting all the cards on the table and telling the world how I had hated my life here for the last three months.
But then something happened, and I can't put my finger on it. I came to this place a little over three months ago now, looking for a change. Now, I've always had a gloomy outlook on life. I told myself it was okay to sacrifice one's happiness for the sake of others, and I pretty much assumed life would suck anyway. Some people are meant to be happy, others are meant to be productive. I'm a dreamer, and we're usually neither of those two. As sick and tired as I am of not being happy, I took it as being part of my story. The troubled artist still works for plenty of us in 2014 it would seem. I'm not much of an artist, but one likes to pretend.
So I'd pretend to be a character in one of those books I so adore, above reality and everyday life. Suffering is pure and noble, except it really is not.
Someone really precious to me wants me to believe in fairy tales. I used to hate fairly tales when I was a little kid. I'd read all of them, but I'd always find a reason not to like them. Until I read the actual original screenplay of James Matthew Barrie's magnum opus, Peter Pan. I was just a kid, but I loved it, and it's what got me hooked on reading. From there it was but a short step to the Grimm Brothers and my favourite folk tale of all time, De Rattenvanger Van Hamelen (how very Dutch of me).
As we grow older, we lose track of what makes those stories special. It's not the colours of the language, the morals they try to instill on us or even the characters that make those stories worthwhile. That's not why we read fairy tales. No, we read them for the happy endings.
That's where my initial disdain for fairy tales came from. I never believed in happy endings. They were always too convenient, and not realistic at all.
I'm listening now, though. I believe. I've been praying for happy endings for such a long time now, and I just went about things the wrong way. My dad always used to tell me life doesn't just come to us, but that we have to go out of our way to force things. We have to take things in life, or it'll kick us in the shins and it'll keep kicking us even when we're down. And I listened and did the exact opposite. I'd let life come to me, and assume destiny would take care of things for me. I'd wait, and you end up waiting for a long time that way.
No mas. I'll forget I wrote these words, and there will be plenty of sad, painful nights still in the future. I'll still get down, I'll still feel like I'm waiting for things that will never happen and I will lose hope more than once. And when I do, I'll have to remember this night. Because hope is a funny thing. It causes more pain than anything else in this world, but without it, we might as well cease to exist. Hope is what drives a man, and sometimes, hope is all we have left.
I'm not going to let my hopes get dashed. Fairy tales have happy endings, after all.
Sorry if I use big words, mother. Ask little brother to translate, or just send me a mail to ask me how I'm doing, in reference to the bits you didn't understand. I'll tell you I'm not great, but I'll manage. I'll tell you not to worry about me, but to remember. And I'll tell you I'll be with you very soon.
All of you, you have no idea how deeply I care about you. How often I think of you, and how I miss having you in my life. If ever you feel down or lonely, realise how special you are to at least one person in this world.
I might make it five consecutive days of crying tomorrow (pretty sure that'd be a personal best). In fact, I assume it's likely. But every day is progress, and every single miserable, dreadful, lonely day brings me closer to my happy ending.
Take care, you lot.
Song of the Day: Explosions in the Sky - The Only Moment We Were Alone
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kKyrULAfvq8
I got back to London yesterday a complete mess. I nearly burst into tears on the Tube several times, made it home safely and cried my heart out for several hours. Given that the people who pay me read this, I may be drawing the wrong picture. That's fine though. As a person, I prefer honesty.
Belgium was an odd experience. It was great to see all of the people I love again, to be reunited with friends and family for a short while. And yet, it all felt like one big mistake. I collapsed Monday night and cried until Tuesday morning. Until a couple of hours ago, it didn't stop. Work today was an utter disaster. I had to pause what I was doing because I burst into tears behind my desk on four different occasions. Hell, I couldn't even put two coherent sentences together. It was an unmitigated disaster, complete unproductive and sloppy work. My editors were very understanding and handled the situation perfectly (I obviously didn't tell them I was crying, I just informed them I had a bad day) but at one point I actually thought I'd get fired.
It was just all too much. Belgium is hard for me. There's so many memories, and while the vast majority of them are good ones, they inevitable end up reminding me of all of the mistakes I made. Everything I lost, the few precious things I never wanted to lose in the first place. There are whole cities I can't even set foot in without getting all downcast. It's pathetic, I know, but it's who I am. Who I've always been.
I like to take notes. They help my writing and order my thoughts. I'll have ideas, or remember specific quotes or occurences, and I'll write them down and use them as inspiration at a later time. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, even if I usually end up doing more harm than good. I try to take my notepads with me everywhere, and I don't think I've ever made as many notes as I did during my three days back home. It's truly a godawful experience going over them again. Apparently, I had a ton of ideas, each one more depressing as the last.
Not that it should come as a real surprise. I was an absolute wreck, mind you, and my first day back in London didn't make matters better. Spending time with friends and family made me realise how lonely life in London really is. I don't know anyone here, apart from one or two colleagues and an old friend who has built up her own social circle and does everything she can to accommodate me. It's hard to blame anyone but myself for this, and as much as I'd like to point to work taking up most of my time, I know I could give more of an effort to make friends. Whether I truly want to or not is an entirely different matter, although we're all part of the herd in the end. We like to feel loved, even by complete strangers.
I'd been looking forward to my trip back home and seeing some of you again for so long, it just opened up this massive chasm. A black hole, once the trip was actually over. And it was one of the things I was most afraid off. Actually, that probably isn't true. There's a boatload of things I fear more. But still, it truly felt (and still feels) like I should have never gone back home to begin with. Not right now, at least.
Likewise, I'd been looking forward to writing this blog for a couple of days. Don't ask me why, I just did. I figured it'd be one long depressing wail of how I hate life in London, how I regret so many things and how miserable I have been for the last three months. How nothing had changed, and how my job was the only reason that had so far kept me from losing my grip. And I really thought that was happening right now (the losing my grip part. Seriously, I was crashing bad). It didn't help that I started vomiting blood late last night, which could be slightly worrying considering I've physically felt like crap for weeks. Don't worry, I went to the hospital after work tonight and I should get my bloodwork back in a few days. I explained the "situation" (I will not elaborate on this, let's just say it's not the first time my blood has given me trouble) and the doctor was kind enough to prioritise my results.
Where was I? Oh, right, the hugely depressing tone of my notes. I felt like coming clear, putting all the cards on the table and telling the world how I had hated my life here for the last three months.
But then something happened, and I can't put my finger on it. I came to this place a little over three months ago now, looking for a change. Now, I've always had a gloomy outlook on life. I told myself it was okay to sacrifice one's happiness for the sake of others, and I pretty much assumed life would suck anyway. Some people are meant to be happy, others are meant to be productive. I'm a dreamer, and we're usually neither of those two. As sick and tired as I am of not being happy, I took it as being part of my story. The troubled artist still works for plenty of us in 2014 it would seem. I'm not much of an artist, but one likes to pretend.
So I'd pretend to be a character in one of those books I so adore, above reality and everyday life. Suffering is pure and noble, except it really is not.
Someone really precious to me wants me to believe in fairy tales. I used to hate fairly tales when I was a little kid. I'd read all of them, but I'd always find a reason not to like them. Until I read the actual original screenplay of James Matthew Barrie's magnum opus, Peter Pan. I was just a kid, but I loved it, and it's what got me hooked on reading. From there it was but a short step to the Grimm Brothers and my favourite folk tale of all time, De Rattenvanger Van Hamelen (how very Dutch of me).
As we grow older, we lose track of what makes those stories special. It's not the colours of the language, the morals they try to instill on us or even the characters that make those stories worthwhile. That's not why we read fairy tales. No, we read them for the happy endings.
That's where my initial disdain for fairy tales came from. I never believed in happy endings. They were always too convenient, and not realistic at all.
I'm listening now, though. I believe. I've been praying for happy endings for such a long time now, and I just went about things the wrong way. My dad always used to tell me life doesn't just come to us, but that we have to go out of our way to force things. We have to take things in life, or it'll kick us in the shins and it'll keep kicking us even when we're down. And I listened and did the exact opposite. I'd let life come to me, and assume destiny would take care of things for me. I'd wait, and you end up waiting for a long time that way.
No mas. I'll forget I wrote these words, and there will be plenty of sad, painful nights still in the future. I'll still get down, I'll still feel like I'm waiting for things that will never happen and I will lose hope more than once. And when I do, I'll have to remember this night. Because hope is a funny thing. It causes more pain than anything else in this world, but without it, we might as well cease to exist. Hope is what drives a man, and sometimes, hope is all we have left.
I'm not going to let my hopes get dashed. Fairy tales have happy endings, after all.
Sorry if I use big words, mother. Ask little brother to translate, or just send me a mail to ask me how I'm doing, in reference to the bits you didn't understand. I'll tell you I'm not great, but I'll manage. I'll tell you not to worry about me, but to remember. And I'll tell you I'll be with you very soon.
All of you, you have no idea how deeply I care about you. How often I think of you, and how I miss having you in my life. If ever you feel down or lonely, realise how special you are to at least one person in this world.
I might make it five consecutive days of crying tomorrow (pretty sure that'd be a personal best). In fact, I assume it's likely. But every day is progress, and every single miserable, dreadful, lonely day brings me closer to my happy ending.
Take care, you lot.
Song of the Day: Explosions in the Sky - The Only Moment We Were Alone
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kKyrULAfvq8
dinsdag 20 mei 2014
On The Dangers of Social Media
I think it's pretty obvious where this is going.
This blogpost is just a bit of therapy for me, and somewhat of an apology to the people I reached out to during my Great Meltdown Of The Night Of May 20, as it will henceforth be called. Don't read too much into it, and unless you really want to, you can pretty much stop reading altogether. There will be a Belgium recap in a few days' time anyway. Again, this is part therapy and part reaching-out to a handful of people.
I honestly don't know what happened. Perhaps it was the combination of a lack of sleep and a glass of wine too many, or the fact that so much I had been meaning to say for so long finally came out, and it came out wrong. Maybe it was the supercut of Friday Night Lights speeches that ran in the background (Matt's shower scene seriously got to me), or maybe it was all of this combined with the fact I was finally home again. At some point, the tears started to come and I just couldn't stop it. I cried like a little girl for hours, and it was truly embarrassing.
I reached out on Twitter to a few of you because I just needed to talk. I needed a hug and for someone to tell me everything would be okay most of all, but at that point a talk would do. The response I got from a few (actually, quite a lot) of you was truly heart-warming, and I can't thank you enough for it. You were right, we're all allowed to feel like that on occasion. As embarrassed as I was, sometimes we just need a hand. It was incredibly helpful (more than Matt screaming everybody just leaves) and I actually don't regret reaching out the way I did because of it. I was raised to believe this world is a cold and dark place, and the last 25 years have only affirmed those teachings. It's what makes those handful of warm gestures stand out even more. The pains of everyday life are the reason we can appreciate what we do have. After all, there's a reason hope was all that remained in Pandora's box.
I woke up early this morning (I hardly slept anyway) and went for a long run ahead of my morning workout. Somehow I felt changed, and maybe the misery of last night was needed in order to achieve some kind of progress. I don't know. I just feel different today. After breakfast I went on another walk and I took my camera with me, and you can expect those photos to go online when I get back to London. I'm not a selfie-guy (I prefer to enjoy the moments instead of destroying them by pulling out a camera) but I would like to share my home with you, and the places I have come to love most.
In a few hours I'll be seeing my mum and the rest of my siblings before I travel to Leuven to see my friends again, finally. I'm sure we'll find a way to keep my mind occupied.
A lot of things raced through my mind this morning, and I'm sure that I could type down quite the essay at this point. I could talk about hardship and the choices we make, but in the end it would all sound like a generic motivational poster, or the voice-over before the credits roll at the end of some silly movie.
It wouldn't matter, because we are all unique in so many ways. I am a drama queen, a vessel of emotions waiting to burst into flames, and on some level, that's okay. It's a part of who I am. I could write you words of wisdom (aka generic crap) and they simply wouldn't register, because we all face life in a different way. But we don't have to do it on our own, and sometimes that's something we forget.
I love you all dearly, and I'm happy to be surrounded by friends and family right now. I'm not sure what's going to come next, but maybe that's the point.
Thanks Twitter. Let me leave you with several Songs of the Day, as a thank you. And because I simply couldn't choose.
Bing Crosby - Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2z68bUk_M0c
Dashboard Confessional - The Places We Have Come to Fear the Most
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KVt_FInqklU
This Will Destroy You - The Mighty Rio Grande
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbszJJr9I9U
This blogpost is just a bit of therapy for me, and somewhat of an apology to the people I reached out to during my Great Meltdown Of The Night Of May 20, as it will henceforth be called. Don't read too much into it, and unless you really want to, you can pretty much stop reading altogether. There will be a Belgium recap in a few days' time anyway. Again, this is part therapy and part reaching-out to a handful of people.
I honestly don't know what happened. Perhaps it was the combination of a lack of sleep and a glass of wine too many, or the fact that so much I had been meaning to say for so long finally came out, and it came out wrong. Maybe it was the supercut of Friday Night Lights speeches that ran in the background (Matt's shower scene seriously got to me), or maybe it was all of this combined with the fact I was finally home again. At some point, the tears started to come and I just couldn't stop it. I cried like a little girl for hours, and it was truly embarrassing.
I reached out on Twitter to a few of you because I just needed to talk. I needed a hug and for someone to tell me everything would be okay most of all, but at that point a talk would do. The response I got from a few (actually, quite a lot) of you was truly heart-warming, and I can't thank you enough for it. You were right, we're all allowed to feel like that on occasion. As embarrassed as I was, sometimes we just need a hand. It was incredibly helpful (more than Matt screaming everybody just leaves) and I actually don't regret reaching out the way I did because of it. I was raised to believe this world is a cold and dark place, and the last 25 years have only affirmed those teachings. It's what makes those handful of warm gestures stand out even more. The pains of everyday life are the reason we can appreciate what we do have. After all, there's a reason hope was all that remained in Pandora's box.
I woke up early this morning (I hardly slept anyway) and went for a long run ahead of my morning workout. Somehow I felt changed, and maybe the misery of last night was needed in order to achieve some kind of progress. I don't know. I just feel different today. After breakfast I went on another walk and I took my camera with me, and you can expect those photos to go online when I get back to London. I'm not a selfie-guy (I prefer to enjoy the moments instead of destroying them by pulling out a camera) but I would like to share my home with you, and the places I have come to love most.
In a few hours I'll be seeing my mum and the rest of my siblings before I travel to Leuven to see my friends again, finally. I'm sure we'll find a way to keep my mind occupied.
A lot of things raced through my mind this morning, and I'm sure that I could type down quite the essay at this point. I could talk about hardship and the choices we make, but in the end it would all sound like a generic motivational poster, or the voice-over before the credits roll at the end of some silly movie.
It wouldn't matter, because we are all unique in so many ways. I am a drama queen, a vessel of emotions waiting to burst into flames, and on some level, that's okay. It's a part of who I am. I could write you words of wisdom (aka generic crap) and they simply wouldn't register, because we all face life in a different way. But we don't have to do it on our own, and sometimes that's something we forget.
I love you all dearly, and I'm happy to be surrounded by friends and family right now. I'm not sure what's going to come next, but maybe that's the point.
Thanks Twitter. Let me leave you with several Songs of the Day, as a thank you. And because I simply couldn't choose.
Bing Crosby - Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2z68bUk_M0c
Dashboard Confessional - The Places We Have Come to Fear the Most
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KVt_FInqklU
This Will Destroy You - The Mighty Rio Grande
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbszJJr9I9U
dinsdag 13 mei 2014
On Clear Eyes and Full Hearts
That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.
-F. Scott Fitzgerald
Hi everyone.
I'm assuming this will be my last entry before my trip to Belgium next week, and as Thursday will be my last day off before I make the trip (La Liga final matchday this weekend, so it'll be busy) this will be everyone's last chance to let me know what they'd like me to bring from London. Sorry mum, but it's pouring down here as well. No sun to bring. Seriously though, make your requests right now. Like, before Thursday. I have a number of errands to run anyway so I'll be all over London, might as well pick some stuff up along the way.
Schedule-wise we're looking pretty solid, Monday is arrival day and pretty much booked full. Tuesday I'd like to go visit my grandparents on my dad's side in the morning (still need to check whether they'll be in) before meeting up with Mum at 3 p.m. (15:00) to go see grandma. Brother and rest of the family after before I head to Leuven, around what time guys? Meet up at 8.30 p.m? Pool?
Still need to confirm a place to stay, Vincent's available? Meeting up with my brother again on Wednesday, say 2 p.m. in Mechelen? Does that work? So I'd have time before that, should anyone so feel inclined, and after I could squeeze in someone or just go to my dad's and pick up some stuff/say goodbye there.
We're nearly half-way through May, meaning I'm just about at the half-way point of the contract I signed to take this flat. August 17 is when I'll either have to re-sign or move on. It's perhaps the right time to reminisce about these last three months, or to at least do it openly. On one hand, time just flew by, but at the same time I feel like I've been here far longer than just three months. There's little things I've come to do that add to the sense of routine, as if I've lived here all my life. In a way, that's what this feels like. As if there had always been a part of me living here, in this city, and part of me never made the move three months ago to begin with.
Three months is a really short time, but I'm quite scared of what it is I'll find when I return home. And it's absurd, I know. I always do this, and I've been away from home a lot more than just three months in these last six years. But somehow this time it's different, or it feels different. It's hard to explain, really. Perhaps it's the lack of like-minded people all around me, or the fact I don't speak any Dutch unless I'm talking to my dad or my friend Elise.
Maybe it's just how different things were when I came back home last time. At some point I just lost track of time. People don't really change all that much when they graduate high school or attend uni, but at some point, we do in fact reach that point in our lives where we undergo some sort of transformation, and I guess I missed that. It's hard to do much maturing when you live in this idyllic world of surfing, parties and toes in the sand.
These last few months have been a blur really. I've yet to do so much of I had planned on doing when I got here, and looking back on it I kind of f*cked things up right from the start. To be fair, the entire situation was f*cked from the beginning and there was little I could do about that. Now that I've finally "settled in" as people say, I really have to start making some changes, and I know that. I will. I know it's easy to say that and I have a history of doing the exact opposite, but I like to believe the move here proved I'm done not taking control of the things that are within my grasp.
That said, I do think I was wrong in my original assessment of this move. When I decided on moving to London, I wanted this to be permanent. I felt like I had to fully separate myself from all of the sh*t that had been going on and all of the things that drove me to the very brink of my being, and what I truly needed was a fresh start. I called it a do-over, kind of like pushing the respawn button. I apologised the to everyone around me, because I thought I sounded like a complete ass. As if the people around me hadn't been enough, and I needed to replace all of you with new, shinier versions of yourself. That's never how I felt of course, and I really hope none of you took it that way.
Three months into this whole ordeal I've come to the full realisation that I was wrong. Mind you, this wasn't a mistake. But life doesn't deal in absolution. There's no such thing as permanent, not in this world. And there's no breaking free from the places and people that made you who you are. We never, ever leave our loved ones, no matter how hard you try.
You know how you associate certain songs with films to the point you can no longer disconnect them (think Moby's Extreme Ways at the end of the Bourne films, or Beck's Everybody's Got to Learn Sometime in the snow-scene of Eternal Sunshine, or perhaps John Legend's Who Did That to You in Django Unchained)? Or how certain smells or sounds or places are etched in your mind?
What I'm trying to say is that despite of all of my moving abroad and travelling and running away, I keep noticing these kind of connections with home. It's been just three months but I'm really anxious to see all of you. I feel like we haven't seen each other in a lifetime and that idea physically hurts. I want to apologise and explain to you all how sorry I truly am, and yet I'd feel like such a hypocrite because I know that at this particular time I can't come back.
I am however certain London isn't where I'm supposed to end up. This city is all kinds of things (I wish I could explain in great detail how I feel about this place and being here in general, but that would take a few thousand words) and I feel priviliged I get to live and work here, but I don't think this is where I'm meant to stay.
I got a very interesting job offer involving a move to New York last week, and while I hardly had to think about turning it down (I absolutely love my position with Turner Media and have little interest in giving it up just months after taking it), the concept of moving to New York for a while was intriguing. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about New York as a potential destination once the whole London experience is over, and an offer like the one I got (one-year contract, meeting with higher management at the end of the contract to discuss the future) could be something that would greatly interest me at some point in the future. These people wanted to move me back in front of a camera (interestingly I've had three such offers in the past month, with the other two coming from Belgian companies offering me a job next to the one I hold with Bleacher Report. We'll see what these people say, but it might be worth looking into B/R's stance on this as I can only imagine they'd welcome collaborations with foreign media), something I hadn't considered in a while.
But I digress. At this point I have no idea of what I'll be doing in three months. I very much want to keep working with the B/R Breaking News Team, but as it turns out my location would no longer be an issue once all of the initial paperwork is handled (and that took a while, somehow). A colleague has already invited me to move into his flat (although he might be leaving the place by then, but we could always find something new together) and things aren't altogether horrible at my current flat.
There's one major issue though. I really, truly, absolutely miss the ocean. I think this one's quite hard to explain for people who don't surf or have never really spent any significant time near/on the ocean. But there's something about the vastness of the thing, the pure power of the swell beneath you and the significance of the horizon, if that makes any sense. I don't just miss surfing -- I miss the actual ocean. I miss being in it at six in the morning or at sunset, I miss hearing the crashing waves in the dead of night and I miss the constant smell of salt in the air. On that note, I should perhaps look into moving to Cornwall.
Short hits before I sign off, as I must be boring all of you at this point. I uploaded a photo of the local fruit shop here in Shepherd's Bush (which somehow is open later than the pubs), which is about as run-down as the rest of the street. That wasn't the London I figured I'd be experiencing, so I set out to find the most modern, gargantuan hypermarket in the city, the kind of modern nightmare we don't even have in Belgium. I finally found my Orwellian monstrosity in Stratford, housing thousands of shoppers with blank stares on their faces as they found their way throughout dozens of blank aisles. The contrast with my jolly little shop back in Tobago couldn't have been greater, until I found the fruit section. It was lifeless, bland and stale. Too hygienic and grey. Somehow I couldn't help but think of George, who ran our fruit stall (yes, our surfschool had its own fruit stall) back in Pleasant Prospect. He'd sit there all day, fruit stalled on the ground next to the road, hoping for the one tourist that would pass every hour to stop his jeep. And his mangos looked infinitely better than the ones I saw in Stratford. Tasted better too.
I know, I'm such a hipster.
On the cancellation of Community. I know, some of you think I'm overreacting and I should preserve this energy for other causes, like Nigerian kidnappings and such. But damnit, I loved Community. I still remember the very first time Vincent told me I should look into it (at the door of De Weerelt as we walked in, telling me "it's a show about a community college. I know it sounds stupid, but you'll like it." and he was right, as usual) and my goodness, what a gem it was he had found. Along with Blackadder, it's probably my favourite comedy series of all time. Community's season two is one of the single greatest seasons I've ever watched, perhaps only bettered by the first season of LOST and Blackadder Goes Fourth. It was so clever and simple and meta and real, all at the same time. So f*ck you NBC. We deserved six seasons and a movie. You promised us six seasons and a movie, by allowing that tagline to become a recurring joke.
Not all hope is lost however. HULU still owes part of the rights and Sony will no doubt be contacting several other cable networks. I'm sure fans will pull a BMS and crowdsource the sh*t out of the movie. All we need is the sixth season.
As an adieu, and for those of you who've yet to experience the absolute awesomeness that is Community (you're the AT&T of people. A pizzaburn on the roof of the world's mouth. YOU ARE THE OPPOSITE OF BATMAN! And you should really give it a go): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j25tkxg5Vws
And finally, I just want to share this video one more time. This is a historic moment, and without a doubt my choice as TV moment of the year so far. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nW-_fFdkegs#t=13
Okay, I think that's about it. I switched to my UK phone when I moved here so if you need to contact me while I'm in Belgium I'd suggest you text as I will hardly be online. My old Belgian number should still work, though you will most likely receive an answer from a British number as I can't be bothered to top my Belgian credit. Seriously, like I'd ever use it. The most likely scenario sees me drunk-dialing a load of people on Tuesday just to get rid of it all, and if there's one thing I should never ever do again it's drunk-dial.
#darkesttimeline y'all.
Edit: My hairdresser was a little overzealous today. Please don't be shocked when you see me.
Song of the Day: Willie Nelson - Are You Sure
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lARIX1EMbwA
-F. Scott Fitzgerald
Hi everyone.
I'm assuming this will be my last entry before my trip to Belgium next week, and as Thursday will be my last day off before I make the trip (La Liga final matchday this weekend, so it'll be busy) this will be everyone's last chance to let me know what they'd like me to bring from London. Sorry mum, but it's pouring down here as well. No sun to bring. Seriously though, make your requests right now. Like, before Thursday. I have a number of errands to run anyway so I'll be all over London, might as well pick some stuff up along the way.
Schedule-wise we're looking pretty solid, Monday is arrival day and pretty much booked full. Tuesday I'd like to go visit my grandparents on my dad's side in the morning (still need to check whether they'll be in) before meeting up with Mum at 3 p.m. (15:00) to go see grandma. Brother and rest of the family after before I head to Leuven, around what time guys? Meet up at 8.30 p.m? Pool?
Still need to confirm a place to stay, Vincent's available? Meeting up with my brother again on Wednesday, say 2 p.m. in Mechelen? Does that work? So I'd have time before that, should anyone so feel inclined, and after I could squeeze in someone or just go to my dad's and pick up some stuff/say goodbye there.
We're nearly half-way through May, meaning I'm just about at the half-way point of the contract I signed to take this flat. August 17 is when I'll either have to re-sign or move on. It's perhaps the right time to reminisce about these last three months, or to at least do it openly. On one hand, time just flew by, but at the same time I feel like I've been here far longer than just three months. There's little things I've come to do that add to the sense of routine, as if I've lived here all my life. In a way, that's what this feels like. As if there had always been a part of me living here, in this city, and part of me never made the move three months ago to begin with.
Three months is a really short time, but I'm quite scared of what it is I'll find when I return home. And it's absurd, I know. I always do this, and I've been away from home a lot more than just three months in these last six years. But somehow this time it's different, or it feels different. It's hard to explain, really. Perhaps it's the lack of like-minded people all around me, or the fact I don't speak any Dutch unless I'm talking to my dad or my friend Elise.
Maybe it's just how different things were when I came back home last time. At some point I just lost track of time. People don't really change all that much when they graduate high school or attend uni, but at some point, we do in fact reach that point in our lives where we undergo some sort of transformation, and I guess I missed that. It's hard to do much maturing when you live in this idyllic world of surfing, parties and toes in the sand.
These last few months have been a blur really. I've yet to do so much of I had planned on doing when I got here, and looking back on it I kind of f*cked things up right from the start. To be fair, the entire situation was f*cked from the beginning and there was little I could do about that. Now that I've finally "settled in" as people say, I really have to start making some changes, and I know that. I will. I know it's easy to say that and I have a history of doing the exact opposite, but I like to believe the move here proved I'm done not taking control of the things that are within my grasp.
That said, I do think I was wrong in my original assessment of this move. When I decided on moving to London, I wanted this to be permanent. I felt like I had to fully separate myself from all of the sh*t that had been going on and all of the things that drove me to the very brink of my being, and what I truly needed was a fresh start. I called it a do-over, kind of like pushing the respawn button. I apologised the to everyone around me, because I thought I sounded like a complete ass. As if the people around me hadn't been enough, and I needed to replace all of you with new, shinier versions of yourself. That's never how I felt of course, and I really hope none of you took it that way.
Three months into this whole ordeal I've come to the full realisation that I was wrong. Mind you, this wasn't a mistake. But life doesn't deal in absolution. There's no such thing as permanent, not in this world. And there's no breaking free from the places and people that made you who you are. We never, ever leave our loved ones, no matter how hard you try.
You know how you associate certain songs with films to the point you can no longer disconnect them (think Moby's Extreme Ways at the end of the Bourne films, or Beck's Everybody's Got to Learn Sometime in the snow-scene of Eternal Sunshine, or perhaps John Legend's Who Did That to You in Django Unchained)? Or how certain smells or sounds or places are etched in your mind?
What I'm trying to say is that despite of all of my moving abroad and travelling and running away, I keep noticing these kind of connections with home. It's been just three months but I'm really anxious to see all of you. I feel like we haven't seen each other in a lifetime and that idea physically hurts. I want to apologise and explain to you all how sorry I truly am, and yet I'd feel like such a hypocrite because I know that at this particular time I can't come back.
I am however certain London isn't where I'm supposed to end up. This city is all kinds of things (I wish I could explain in great detail how I feel about this place and being here in general, but that would take a few thousand words) and I feel priviliged I get to live and work here, but I don't think this is where I'm meant to stay.
I got a very interesting job offer involving a move to New York last week, and while I hardly had to think about turning it down (I absolutely love my position with Turner Media and have little interest in giving it up just months after taking it), the concept of moving to New York for a while was intriguing. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about New York as a potential destination once the whole London experience is over, and an offer like the one I got (one-year contract, meeting with higher management at the end of the contract to discuss the future) could be something that would greatly interest me at some point in the future. These people wanted to move me back in front of a camera (interestingly I've had three such offers in the past month, with the other two coming from Belgian companies offering me a job next to the one I hold with Bleacher Report. We'll see what these people say, but it might be worth looking into B/R's stance on this as I can only imagine they'd welcome collaborations with foreign media), something I hadn't considered in a while.
But I digress. At this point I have no idea of what I'll be doing in three months. I very much want to keep working with the B/R Breaking News Team, but as it turns out my location would no longer be an issue once all of the initial paperwork is handled (and that took a while, somehow). A colleague has already invited me to move into his flat (although he might be leaving the place by then, but we could always find something new together) and things aren't altogether horrible at my current flat.
There's one major issue though. I really, truly, absolutely miss the ocean. I think this one's quite hard to explain for people who don't surf or have never really spent any significant time near/on the ocean. But there's something about the vastness of the thing, the pure power of the swell beneath you and the significance of the horizon, if that makes any sense. I don't just miss surfing -- I miss the actual ocean. I miss being in it at six in the morning or at sunset, I miss hearing the crashing waves in the dead of night and I miss the constant smell of salt in the air. On that note, I should perhaps look into moving to Cornwall.
Short hits before I sign off, as I must be boring all of you at this point. I uploaded a photo of the local fruit shop here in Shepherd's Bush (which somehow is open later than the pubs), which is about as run-down as the rest of the street. That wasn't the London I figured I'd be experiencing, so I set out to find the most modern, gargantuan hypermarket in the city, the kind of modern nightmare we don't even have in Belgium. I finally found my Orwellian monstrosity in Stratford, housing thousands of shoppers with blank stares on their faces as they found their way throughout dozens of blank aisles. The contrast with my jolly little shop back in Tobago couldn't have been greater, until I found the fruit section. It was lifeless, bland and stale. Too hygienic and grey. Somehow I couldn't help but think of George, who ran our fruit stall (yes, our surfschool had its own fruit stall) back in Pleasant Prospect. He'd sit there all day, fruit stalled on the ground next to the road, hoping for the one tourist that would pass every hour to stop his jeep. And his mangos looked infinitely better than the ones I saw in Stratford. Tasted better too.
I know, I'm such a hipster.
On the cancellation of Community. I know, some of you think I'm overreacting and I should preserve this energy for other causes, like Nigerian kidnappings and such. But damnit, I loved Community. I still remember the very first time Vincent told me I should look into it (at the door of De Weerelt as we walked in, telling me "it's a show about a community college. I know it sounds stupid, but you'll like it." and he was right, as usual) and my goodness, what a gem it was he had found. Along with Blackadder, it's probably my favourite comedy series of all time. Community's season two is one of the single greatest seasons I've ever watched, perhaps only bettered by the first season of LOST and Blackadder Goes Fourth. It was so clever and simple and meta and real, all at the same time. So f*ck you NBC. We deserved six seasons and a movie. You promised us six seasons and a movie, by allowing that tagline to become a recurring joke.
Not all hope is lost however. HULU still owes part of the rights and Sony will no doubt be contacting several other cable networks. I'm sure fans will pull a BMS and crowdsource the sh*t out of the movie. All we need is the sixth season.
As an adieu, and for those of you who've yet to experience the absolute awesomeness that is Community (you're the AT&T of people. A pizzaburn on the roof of the world's mouth. YOU ARE THE OPPOSITE OF BATMAN! And you should really give it a go): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j25tkxg5Vws
And finally, I just want to share this video one more time. This is a historic moment, and without a doubt my choice as TV moment of the year so far. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nW-_fFdkegs#t=13
Okay, I think that's about it. I switched to my UK phone when I moved here so if you need to contact me while I'm in Belgium I'd suggest you text as I will hardly be online. My old Belgian number should still work, though you will most likely receive an answer from a British number as I can't be bothered to top my Belgian credit. Seriously, like I'd ever use it. The most likely scenario sees me drunk-dialing a load of people on Tuesday just to get rid of it all, and if there's one thing I should never ever do again it's drunk-dial.
#darkesttimeline y'all.
Edit: My hairdresser was a little overzealous today. Please don't be shocked when you see me.
Song of the Day: Willie Nelson - Are You Sure
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lARIX1EMbwA
dinsdag 6 mei 2014
On Scheduling and Beef Stew
No one is willing to believe that adults too, like children, wander about this earth in a daze and, like children, do not know where they come from or where they are going, act as rarely as they do according to genuine motives, and are as thoroughly governed as they are by biscuits and cake and the rod.
"Was ich weiß, kann jeder wissen. Mein Herz hab' ich allein"
-Johan, Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther
Greetings all.
It's May 6 today, meaning I'll be coming back home for a couple of days in less than two weeks. On a completely unrelated note, spring is in the air, and London in the spring is quite an experience. But I'm nevertheless really looking forward to spending a few days on the mainland, far away from the big city and in the company of friends and family.
I promised to get you a bit of a preliminary schedule for what my time in Belgium will look like, so here it goes. Remember, this is just what I have sort-of-planned so far; Nothing is official, and there's plenty of room left for whomever feels like catching up.
I'll land on Monday (19th) at 11.05 a.m. (local) and need to be back at Brussels Midi at 7 p.m, preferably, on Wednesday May 21. I'm assuming most of Monday will be dedicated to my Dad's beef stew (BEEF STEW) and my dad's side of the family in general (but mainly the beef stew). I'm hoping to see my grandparents as well, just not sure when would be the most appropriate time. Monday night is already booked by a friend, providing it doesn't interfere with the beef stew.
Tuesday night is Leuven night, including beer that doesn't go at roughly ten pounds/liter. I won't consider the night to be a genuine Leuven-experience if I don't chip another tooth on Sum 41's Pain for Pleasure. Pool/snooker and The Sound of Silence would be much appreciated (we'll figure it out as we go along) and I'm still in the air about what I'll do in terms of food (De Muur has a kind of sadistic appeal tbh). Could use a place to stay.
During the day I'm looking at my Mum's side of the family (and potentially grandparents again), taking into account the fact my little brother has school of course. What time will school be out/what time will Mum get home from work?
Wednesday is wide open so far, but do remember Tuesday night could be, well, fun. Get me a banana-walnut muffin from The Foodmaker and I'll be just fine. So far I haven't really given any thought to what I'd actually like to do in Belgium (other than surf, but those odds are astronomical), will get back to you with that.
If there's anything you'd like from London (real British tea, Sherlock/Doctor Who memorabilia, KFC) be sure to let me know and I'll see what I can do for you. If anyone could keep a look-out for a Belgian national team kit (cheap knockoff or the likes, no 80 Euro-stuff) that would be amazing, but please don't feel obliged to go out of your way to look for it. With the upcoming World Cup it would just be cool to have some kind of Belgian outfit in case we somehow do good. I have my 2006 WC Italy kit at hand for the England-match (should be fun), still need something Belgian however. A flag would do, red kit would be preferred. And not to be picky, but I'm five-foot-nothing. No XXL please.
Now before I continue: Some of you have been asking me about my date, so I'll just get it out of the way. I didn't go. I already told you I didn't feel like it and as we drew closer to the weekend it became quite obvious this wasn't the kind of date that promised much of a future, if you catch my drift. This made me slightly more inclined to just check it out and see whether we clicked, but in the end, I couldn't do it and decided to call it off. And if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it.
Something very odd happened today. I was walking in Shepherd's Bush Market when I was approached by a number of BNP members (Basically the British version of Vlaams Belang/NVA), asking me whether I planned to vote on their party to stop the rush of immigrants taking British jobs. This made for quite the awkward situation as it took me some time to explain I was in fact an immigrant and I had in fact moved to this country to take a "British job," something they clearly did not appreciate. They appreciated it even less when I offered to take one of their signs and do their job for 1/3 their wages, but then again, they thought it necessary to protest at the Market, of all places.
The funny thing is of course that I live in White City, aptly named because it's the least white city in London. Most of its inhabitants consists of people from the Arab countries, the Carribean and Eastern Europe, with a large Polish and Egyptian concentration and several Muslim prayer centres. In fact, I regularly get woken up by the imam calling for morning prayer (and he's occasionally interrupted by 15,000 QPR fans screaming, which makes for some very funny situations).
For all of its bad rep, I feel quite safe though. Providing you stay away from two or three bad corners past a certain time in the evening, everyone's very friendly and treats each other as one big family. You literally can't rob people here, because the entire block would be chasing you within the minute. It took a few weeks, but once people realised I had come to live here they opened up and turned out to be very welcoming of me.
The BBC Media Village and their old Tv Center are just around the corner, and I actually have to walk over the site of the 2001 BBC bombing every day. There's no memorial or anything (for obvious reasons), but after watching the footage of the bombing it's still quite odd to walk past and recognise the surroundings.
For me, the biggest downside to where I live is probably the drugs. It's a very real problem here, and it has become quite discerning to me that I am constantly meeting new people only to find out they're struggling with substance abuse. This isn't the pretty part of London you see on TV. People are poor here, too poor to afford a drug addiction. We didn't have much when my parents raised me, and for the longest time I resented the other people in my school when I visited their homes because they were always bigger and prettier than mine. I actually preferred not to invite girlfriends over because in a way I was ashamed. Obviously I got over that and I learned to appreciate all my parents did for me, no matter how hard the situation might have been.
My next-door neighbour is a single mom with five kids and a visible heroin-addiction, which she eventually admitted to. She's great, loves her kids and she's always kind and friendly to everyone in the building. That is, if she's having a good day. But to see her right after she took a hit, or when she's looking for one: It's hard. I've never been this close to serious substance abuse in my life, and to suddenly see it all around me is quite confronting. I'm truly sorry if I ever gave any of my friends a hard time because they "needed" a joint.
Heroin is the biggest culprit, and it's nasty. It really is. The way it destroys a person's body and how withdrawn they are from the world, it's almost scary to see. I could be very colourful or descriptive right now, but I'd feel bad for my neighbour, who refuses all help because she'd lose her kids. Social services don't come here: We saw one group of three try to intervene two days ago in the building next to mine, only to feel the wrath of the entire community, police escort or no.
Okay, I'm making it sound like I live in South-Central right now. It's really not that bad, and not nearly as bad as google would have you believe. I'll be uploading some photos of Shepherd's Bush and the gigantic Westfield Shopping Center (less than two minutes walk) soon, maybe even tonight, so you can have a bit of a look. And I'm looking forward to hosting one or two of you very soon. Don't worry, I won't be offended if you opt for a hotel.
That'll be all for this week. One more update before I come home methinks. Mum, Dad, I love you, and I don't say it nearly enough. I know we didn't always have it easy, which is why I appreciate everything you did for us even more. And I can't wait to see you to tell you this in person.
Song of the Day: One of my all-time favourites
Pink Floyd - Wish you Were Here.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NavVfpp-1L4
"Was ich weiß, kann jeder wissen. Mein Herz hab' ich allein"
-Johan, Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther
Greetings all.
It's May 6 today, meaning I'll be coming back home for a couple of days in less than two weeks. On a completely unrelated note, spring is in the air, and London in the spring is quite an experience. But I'm nevertheless really looking forward to spending a few days on the mainland, far away from the big city and in the company of friends and family.
I promised to get you a bit of a preliminary schedule for what my time in Belgium will look like, so here it goes. Remember, this is just what I have sort-of-planned so far; Nothing is official, and there's plenty of room left for whomever feels like catching up.
I'll land on Monday (19th) at 11.05 a.m. (local) and need to be back at Brussels Midi at 7 p.m, preferably, on Wednesday May 21. I'm assuming most of Monday will be dedicated to my Dad's beef stew (BEEF STEW) and my dad's side of the family in general (but mainly the beef stew). I'm hoping to see my grandparents as well, just not sure when would be the most appropriate time. Monday night is already booked by a friend, providing it doesn't interfere with the beef stew.
Tuesday night is Leuven night, including beer that doesn't go at roughly ten pounds/liter. I won't consider the night to be a genuine Leuven-experience if I don't chip another tooth on Sum 41's Pain for Pleasure. Pool/snooker and The Sound of Silence would be much appreciated (we'll figure it out as we go along) and I'm still in the air about what I'll do in terms of food (De Muur has a kind of sadistic appeal tbh). Could use a place to stay.
During the day I'm looking at my Mum's side of the family (and potentially grandparents again), taking into account the fact my little brother has school of course. What time will school be out/what time will Mum get home from work?
Wednesday is wide open so far, but do remember Tuesday night could be, well, fun. Get me a banana-walnut muffin from The Foodmaker and I'll be just fine. So far I haven't really given any thought to what I'd actually like to do in Belgium (other than surf, but those odds are astronomical), will get back to you with that.
If there's anything you'd like from London (real British tea, Sherlock/Doctor Who memorabilia, KFC) be sure to let me know and I'll see what I can do for you. If anyone could keep a look-out for a Belgian national team kit (cheap knockoff or the likes, no 80 Euro-stuff) that would be amazing, but please don't feel obliged to go out of your way to look for it. With the upcoming World Cup it would just be cool to have some kind of Belgian outfit in case we somehow do good. I have my 2006 WC Italy kit at hand for the England-match (should be fun), still need something Belgian however. A flag would do, red kit would be preferred. And not to be picky, but I'm five-foot-nothing. No XXL please.
Now before I continue: Some of you have been asking me about my date, so I'll just get it out of the way. I didn't go. I already told you I didn't feel like it and as we drew closer to the weekend it became quite obvious this wasn't the kind of date that promised much of a future, if you catch my drift. This made me slightly more inclined to just check it out and see whether we clicked, but in the end, I couldn't do it and decided to call it off. And if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it.
Something very odd happened today. I was walking in Shepherd's Bush Market when I was approached by a number of BNP members (Basically the British version of Vlaams Belang/NVA), asking me whether I planned to vote on their party to stop the rush of immigrants taking British jobs. This made for quite the awkward situation as it took me some time to explain I was in fact an immigrant and I had in fact moved to this country to take a "British job," something they clearly did not appreciate. They appreciated it even less when I offered to take one of their signs and do their job for 1/3 their wages, but then again, they thought it necessary to protest at the Market, of all places.
The funny thing is of course that I live in White City, aptly named because it's the least white city in London. Most of its inhabitants consists of people from the Arab countries, the Carribean and Eastern Europe, with a large Polish and Egyptian concentration and several Muslim prayer centres. In fact, I regularly get woken up by the imam calling for morning prayer (and he's occasionally interrupted by 15,000 QPR fans screaming, which makes for some very funny situations).
For all of its bad rep, I feel quite safe though. Providing you stay away from two or three bad corners past a certain time in the evening, everyone's very friendly and treats each other as one big family. You literally can't rob people here, because the entire block would be chasing you within the minute. It took a few weeks, but once people realised I had come to live here they opened up and turned out to be very welcoming of me.
The BBC Media Village and their old Tv Center are just around the corner, and I actually have to walk over the site of the 2001 BBC bombing every day. There's no memorial or anything (for obvious reasons), but after watching the footage of the bombing it's still quite odd to walk past and recognise the surroundings.
For me, the biggest downside to where I live is probably the drugs. It's a very real problem here, and it has become quite discerning to me that I am constantly meeting new people only to find out they're struggling with substance abuse. This isn't the pretty part of London you see on TV. People are poor here, too poor to afford a drug addiction. We didn't have much when my parents raised me, and for the longest time I resented the other people in my school when I visited their homes because they were always bigger and prettier than mine. I actually preferred not to invite girlfriends over because in a way I was ashamed. Obviously I got over that and I learned to appreciate all my parents did for me, no matter how hard the situation might have been.
My next-door neighbour is a single mom with five kids and a visible heroin-addiction, which she eventually admitted to. She's great, loves her kids and she's always kind and friendly to everyone in the building. That is, if she's having a good day. But to see her right after she took a hit, or when she's looking for one: It's hard. I've never been this close to serious substance abuse in my life, and to suddenly see it all around me is quite confronting. I'm truly sorry if I ever gave any of my friends a hard time because they "needed" a joint.
Heroin is the biggest culprit, and it's nasty. It really is. The way it destroys a person's body and how withdrawn they are from the world, it's almost scary to see. I could be very colourful or descriptive right now, but I'd feel bad for my neighbour, who refuses all help because she'd lose her kids. Social services don't come here: We saw one group of three try to intervene two days ago in the building next to mine, only to feel the wrath of the entire community, police escort or no.
Okay, I'm making it sound like I live in South-Central right now. It's really not that bad, and not nearly as bad as google would have you believe. I'll be uploading some photos of Shepherd's Bush and the gigantic Westfield Shopping Center (less than two minutes walk) soon, maybe even tonight, so you can have a bit of a look. And I'm looking forward to hosting one or two of you very soon. Don't worry, I won't be offended if you opt for a hotel.
That'll be all for this week. One more update before I come home methinks. Mum, Dad, I love you, and I don't say it nearly enough. I know we didn't always have it easy, which is why I appreciate everything you did for us even more. And I can't wait to see you to tell you this in person.
Song of the Day: One of my all-time favourites
Pink Floyd - Wish you Were Here.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NavVfpp-1L4
Abonneren op:
Posts (Atom)