Surrogate saviour

Grand new opening (or something)

2006-04-24T17:31:00.002+02:00

I have moved to my very own new website at:

www.erikpleyte.com

Hope to see you there!

waving goodbye

2006-03-28T11:43:00.000+02:00

It appears everybody is leaving on me nowadays and Diana is going to follow that trend tomorrow; she's off to Germany for six months on an exchange that will undoubtedly teach her a lot about everything in life and hopefully educate her a bit on the courses she's going to follow as well. I've done similar excursions twice in my lifetime, once to England and once to Italy and here's a few words of advice:

- If the first day sucks; it's only going to get better so don't despair.
- If the first day rules; chances are it will continue to rule for the remainder of the exchange.

You can't go wrong, really. An exchange is just such a tremendously positive experience and it will have an good impact on your life. In a way that you could never even dream of before you left.

You can all follow her story here.

Have a safe trip!

miscellaneous XLVI

2006-03-27T14:22:00.000+02:00

Title: Joe Easy
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Noir
Written: 27 March 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

JOE EASY

It was about halfway through March when I was on my way to a yet to be determined destination in my hometown of Middelburg somewhere in between the town centre and my home in the vacuum of nostalgia. I turned a corner in the pouring rain, struggling to hold my umbrella in the desired angle in an attempt to keep as large a part of myself dry as I possibly could and I stumbled upon a small bakery drenched in delicious smells. I went inside.

I recognised the interior and remembered that I had stopped by here on a near daily basis during my highschool years but the seating area in the back was definitely new despite the silent testimonies of the chairs in it, arguing it had been there for decades already. I took a seat by the window and that's when I noticed the pile of rubble occupying the spot where my highschool once stood. An old lady left her spot behind the counter and approached my table as she found me staring outside. She asked me if I had been a student attending lectures at the ruined academy and I replied that yes, I had been. She asked me if it brought back memories and yes, it did.

I could have told her about the large stream of insignificant pictures that had been flashing through my head as I sat by that window or about the few more remarkable ones. I could have told her about all those things we all go through during our highschool years including a first crush, insecurity, exam stress and all those questions that we never asked because we were embarrassed not to know the answers, unaware of the fact that we were entitled to not-knowing in that particular stage of our lives. But I didn't.

I could have told her about Joe Easy whose real last name I had long forgotten or perhaps never even known. Joe Easy who liked easy. Who had killed himself because he liked easy and justice and life was void of both. Joe who had been convinced life itself was a crime against humanity and who had felt it was his right to end it when it didn't meet his peculiar standards of quality because he had never asked to be born in the first place. And I had secretly admired him, perhaps even been jealous for not sharing his mindset. I had only just succeeded in suppressing the urge to disturb the three minutes of silence we had held in Joe's honour by clapping and cheering. By applauding that son of a bitch Joe who had escaped. But I didn't.

Instead I just smiled and nodded and ordered a sandwich. I took the easy way out.

all clear

2006-03-21T10:20:00.000+01:00

The doctor said I'm fine.

I'll spare you all the details (partly because I'm not up to writing a huge post right now; didn't sleep too well last night), but I'll be back to more frequent blogging from now on.

Thanks for the good wishes, all!

miscellaneous XLV

2006-03-18T21:22:00.000+01:00

Title: Happy
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 18 March 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

HAPPY

The mild warmth of Spring was coming in through an old double-hung window that was open for just a few centimeters, inviting the sounds of the street 2 floors below into the small room. A room sealed off from the rest of the building by a dark-brown and heavy wooden door. It was elegantly decorated. Red-orange paint on the walls, colonial furniture and a comfortable chair to give the whole room a very warm feel.

The chair was occupied by a visibly uncomfortable man in his thirties, seemingly immune to the charm of the room he was in, or the romantic combination of a rising sun shining through the window accompanied by the sounds of an awaking city. He was visibly struggling to fill out a form attached to a clipboard that he held in his hands even though the first few questions had been easy to answer.

Until question number seven. He had finished answering question number six over half an hour ago. Since then, he had read question number seven and spent twenty minutes staring out the window, and another twelve minutes with this elbows on his knees and his face in hidden in the palms of his hands.

Then he stood up. He left the room, walked up to the desk of his therapist and gave her the clipboard. With a strong determination in his eyes, he told her to give him one week to get an answer and then he left.

The therapist looked at the clipboard and read the answers followed by question number seven:
"When was the last time you were truly happy?"

miscellaneous XLIV

2006-03-12T01:28:00.000+01:00

Title: Paris
Category: Fiction
Style: Noir
Written: 12 March 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

PARIS

I'm wandering the streets of Paris in 1928. I'm poor but I'm young. I'm a talented musician playing songs only few people hear because Paris is filled with artists and they only listen when their bottles of wine are empty and they've run out of other ways to find inspiration. The streets are crowded and so is the Seine, suffocating as she is under countless boats of a hundred different sizes. Most people know where they're going and others stumble around looking for a destination. Music flows onto the streets from every bar and club and the few remaining silences are filled by poets fluent in stuttering, fluent in rhymes.

And I speak French. I speak fluent French. I go from bar to bar, drinking, dancing, singing and drinking even more. Philosophy is a way of life and the Eiffel Tower barely manages to keep its pinnacle above clouds of senseless theories and useless advice.

The Blues stands out in a city filled with optimism. Everybody holds still when one artist starts to sing in just another small bar in the heart of Paris. A talent so overwhelming we all silently agree the only way he could've acquired it was by selling his soul to the devil. The stunningly charismatic black man takes us by the hand and shows us the hard truths of life and love while he makes us all wonder whether he's charismatic for his looks or for his seeming ignorance towards the existence of an audience. His repertoire lies well beyond the jurisdiction of time and dawn catches everyone by surprise. Paris dies at dawn and in the final lines of his performance, the artist dismisses all his life lessons caught in music by reminding us true wisdom realises it knows nothing.

taking a small break

2006-03-08T18:15:00.000+01:00

My approach towards death has varied throughout my life; at first I accepted it as a natural aspect of existence after having seen some older members of the family die (of old age, cancer, or a combination of both). Later on during adolescence my life was so miserable I came close to considering death as a solution to all problems but ever since I've turned my life around after reaching adulthood, I've joined the vast majority of the population who prefer not to think about it because the very thought scares the living hell out of them.

I'm rambling. Anyway, I'll be taking a small break from blogging as inspiration has been temporarily replaced by paranoia after I've discovered a lump on my body that's not supposed to be there and didn't used to be there either. The appointment with the doctor has been made for about a week and a half from now; until then I'm likely to divide my time between sleeping as much as I can and watching comedy series during the hours when I'm awake.

I'll be back...

miscellaneous XLIII

2006-03-01T16:20:00.000+01:00

Title: Finding paradise | part 6 |
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 01 March 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

FINDING PARADISE | PART 6 |

Without really knowing what he was looking for, Sebastiaan was wandering across St Philip, accompanied by too many thoughts and emotions. He had said goodbye to Sander at the lighthouse about an hour ago when the storm had calmed down a bit at around three o'clock in the morning, despite having been offered to stay at least until sunrise. Ever since his parents had died, Sebastiaan couldn't stay at one place for very long, nor did he sleep much. As the clouds started to break up, the moonlight helped him find his way over small asphalt roads on a largely deserted island. The first sign of civilisation he came across since the lighthouse was a small round chapel, built of large grey stones and featuring one small door and just a few leaded and colourful windows. The Five Solas were written over the door; evidence of this being a Protestant church, but which kind Sebastiaan didn't know. He didn't care much either. His attention was drawn to another series of signs in the pavement directly in front of the church; they looked old and were written in Latin. Aided by the light of the lantarns that lit up the small square in front of the church, Sebastiaan started to read the signs. Some were quotes from the Bible, others weren't. Some rhymed, others didn't. Suddenly he found one that read 'Paradisum', or 'Paradise';
- "Oh come on...", Sebastiaan mumbled. He looked at it a second time and noticed the sign also featured an arrow, which pointed left. Puzzled by the fact it didn't point towards the church, but away from it and straight at a small path leading into a forest, Sebastiaan drew the conclusion it was absolutely ridiculous before his curiosity took over. He looked around, made sure nobody was watching, and turned left into the forest.

A few miles and about an hour down the road, Sebastiaan was cursing himself and the creator of the sign, but mostly himself for having been suckered into this marathon so easily. When he reached a crossing and noticed a new sign, he expected to read the Latin version of "Smile, you're on TV", but instead noticed it demanded the traveller to make a choice. For paradise, turn left. For freedom, turn right. Reminding himself freedom isn't necessarily a positive experience, he turned left without expecting to find anything. The forest continued to accompany the small and old road and Sebastiaan continued his travel, trying very hard to keep his train of thought away from old childhood fears involving darkness, trees and moving shadows. He arrived at a second crosspoint: for paradise, go straight ahead. For happiness, turn left. Sebastiaan halted and sighed, this was tricky. After a few minutes of thinking, he drew the conclusion paradise should include happiness, but not the other way around and so he went straight ahead. After another hour of walking, dawn replaced the moonlight and Sebastiaan started to feel increasingly anxious. But when he turned a corner and ended up on the square in front of the chapel, everything he was feeling was immediately replaced by frustration and anger. He threw his bag on the ground, cursed, kicked a tree, cursed again, sat down on the ground and grabbed his sore foot. Feeling stupid and angry, he got up after a few minutes, walked to the sign that had made him turn left and waste two hours and stared at it, wishing he would receive an explanation. Failing to come up with an acceptable motive for the sign's existence, his thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a girl;
- "I wouldn't follow that sign if I were you"
Sebastiaan looked up and saw a girl his own age, wearing a white robe and smoking a cigarette. She didn't give him a chance to respond and continued;
- "I'm Anna. Who are you?"
- "Sebastiaan", he answered, still frustrated, "Wh... What are you wearing?"
- "I'm assisting the reverend at the funeral service today, they make you wear this"
- "A funeral? Shouldn't you be wearing black?", Sebastiaan asked, momentarily distracted
- "You're not from around here, are you?", Anna replied before smoking up the rest of the cigarette and putting it out, "We wear white for funerals here. It symbolises joy over the fact that the dead guy, deceased, sorry, has moved on to a better place. Everyone at the funeral wears white, or light colours and the funeral is held between dawn and sunrise, which in turn symbolises the start of a new and better life for the deceased"
- "Oh..."
- "So are you gonna follow that sign?", she asked
Unwilling to admit he had already made the mistake of following it, Sebastiaan decided to stick with a short answer;
- "No"
- "Smart move, it would lead you right back here. They were a humourous lot, our ancestors. Something to do with paradise not being something you can search for or go to. Instead; it will come to those who deserve it. There's other signs down the road as well, at crosspoints. One reads 'freedom', the other 'happiness' because if you spend your life searching for paradise, you will never be free or happy", she said with a serious look on her face that was followed by a smile
- "How do you know all this?"
- "Honey, I'm 24 and I've lived on this isle the size of a shoebox for most of my life", she replied with a touch of sarcasm
- "Fair enough", Sebastiaan smiled
Suddenly music started to play in the church and Anna disappeared inside, saying that was her cue. Seconds later the church bells started to ring and people appeared from a road to the right side of the church that lead to the small town. All of them were wearing light coloured clothes and were carrying colourful flowers. Some of them were even singing. When the service had begun a few minutes later and Sebastiaan was the only person left on the square, he looked at the sign and thought about the people he had met in the past few hours although it felt like a week ago when he had got into Karin's car. Karin in her ugly Citroen who hadn't believed for a second Sebastiaan would find paradise. Then there was the truckdriver Tom who had been convinced paradise was a state of mind. The bartender at the ferry who had mentioned 'moving on' as if it really was the only option any one of us had under all circumstances and Sander at the lighthouse who lived in the moment. But Sebastiaan had done what he had to do. Risks had to be taken because men without goals never live long. Wasn't that the message those musicians at the ferry had tried to get across? Sebastiaan picked up his bag and turned back; he would figure out his next goal in the couple of miles that still lay ahead of him, as announced by the 21st century sign made of steel that read the ferry docks were 2.4 miles to the East.

The end.

miscellaneous XLII

2006-02-28T14:11:00.000+01:00

Title: Finding paradise | part 5 |
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 28 February 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

FINDING PARADISE | PART 5 |

The isle of St Philip was bravely withstanding the massive storm that was sweeping the waters of the North Sea to record heights. Midnight was thirty minutes away and an approximate 6 hours of darkness remained before twilight would come in from the East, announcing the arrival of the sun in one hour's time. Struggling to stay on his feet, Sebastiaan decided to seek shelter at the small lighthouse down the road. There was no response when he knocked on the heavy wooden door and so he decided to push it open and have a look inside. When the door slammed shut, a voice called out from somewhere in the lighthouse:
- "Werda?!"
Pausing for a minute and drawing the conclusion the man had to have been speaking some sort of local dialect, Sebastiaan replied with a touch of insecurity:
- "Uhm... My name is Sebastiaan. I was hoping I could warm up a bit in here"
- "Come on up, mate!", the voice replied
Sebastiaan noticed the word 'up' had been fairly redundant in that sentence, given he was standing at the foot of the tower in a bright and white room that contained only the door behind him, and a spiral staircase leading only up. He started to climb it and after a few minutes reached the top of the tower where he met the owner of the voice; a man in his thirties, wearing the latest fashion, who was sitting on a blanket on the floor, surrounded by heaps of paper. The man looked up and welcomed Sebastiaan.
- "Thank you", the latter replied, "I hope I'm not disturbing"
- "Nonsense", the man said, "Say, that accent... A Hollander, are you? Amsterdam? No, wait, let me guess... The Hague!"
- "Alkmaar, actually"
- "Ah, Alkmaar. The cheese market"
- "That's the one", Sebastiaan said with a smile as he took his wet poncho and coat off.
- "I'm Sander and stuck in the emergency-shift here at the lighthouse. Nice to meet you"
- "You too"
- "So what's a man doing exchanging the wealth and glamour of Holland with the darkness and emptiness of Zealand's most avoided isle?"
- "What's a man doing sitting on a blanket with heaps of paper at the top of a lighthouse?", Sander smiled
- "Writing!", the man enthusiastically replied, "I'm somewhat of a writer! Or I'd like to be, anyway. And this right here", he pointed to the lamp behind him, "is the best desk lamp in the world. If you don't let the rotating thing get to you, anyway"
- "Putting up that fluorescent lamp might've been a good call...", Sebastiaan said as he looked up to the ceiling
- "To tell you the truth, I never understood why lighthouse lamps have to rotate anyway. Doesn't it sound like a much better idea to just light up the whole sea as opposed to one beam moving at the speed of... light?", the man stopped for a minute, thinking about those last few words of his theory, then continued as he searched through his papers; "I mean, imagine being a skipper. You're on your ship with your steersman. It's night, it's dark. Suddenly you think you saw a cliff. But you're not sure. So you wait for the lighthouse to shine on it and you tell your skipper to pay attention: 'Wait for it, wait for it... THERE! Did you see it?' 'No, did you?' 'No' 'Let's try again, wait for it, wait for it...' Do you see what I mean yet?"
- "Uhm", slightly baffled by the man's ability to ramble, Sebastiaan needed a moment to form a reply, "Aren't you supposed to know? Working here et all..."
- "Oh I don't work here. I'm just filling in for Bas who got lucky and scored himself a two week workplacement at a lighthouse in the Netherlands Antilles... Or was it Aruba... Well, one of the few places in the Kingdom that doesn't have a sucky climate, basically. Normally speaking there should be a professional up here, but this is St Philip and it was either me or the milkman. Coffee?"
- "Sure"
- "You know", Sander said when he returned with the coffee, "I've been to your province once or twice. Amsterdam, to be exact"
- "How did you like it?"
- "Not much to tell you the truth. It's one of those places that's always changing"
- "How do you mean?", Sebastiaan replied, wrapping his hands around his coffeemug
- "Everyone's always looking forward. Running, working. Trying to make things that are already special even more special, in the meantime forgetting to enjoy what is, instead of constantly worrying about what will be"
- "I've never really noticed that..."
- "Have you ever seen that picture of John F Kennedy and his wife in that convertible, kissing, and that you know that would be the last time they ever kissed, but at the same time you realise they didn't know that at all?"
- "I've seen it", Sebastiaan said, thinking back to his history classes at secondary school
- "Look", Sander continued, "I realise that overall, life is pretty mediocre. If it weren't; I'd get published a little more often", he said as he pointed at the papers that were scattered through the room, clustering up around a typewriter, "But that doesn't mean all aspects of life are mediocre too. It's all about the moments; the good ones and the bad ones. About trying to live in the moment when it's good, and reminding yourself other moments will come when it's bad"
- "That easy, huh?", Sebastiaan asked
- "Who said anything about easy?"
Their conversation stopped for a moment as they both thought about what had just been said, looking at the windows that were being battered by wind, rain, seawater, sand and whatever more was carried through the air in this raging storm. Suddenly, Sander ventilated his random thoughts again;
- "Fuck. I ain't cleaning that..!"
Sebastiaan laughed, then changed the subject;
- "Hey, let me read some of your writings"
- "Sure thing, hold on. I need to pick out the good ones here or I'll look stupid..."

To be continued...

miscellaneous XLI

2006-02-27T16:03:00.000+01:00

Title: Finding paradise | part 4 |
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 27 February 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

FINDING PARADISE | PART 4 |

When the performers moved on to the repertoire of The Beatles, Sebastiaan left the seating area and went to sit at the small bar instead. The bartender looked up from his newspaper and asked Sebastiaan if he wanted to order anything:
- "Coffee will be fine", he replied
- "So... Paradise, huh?", the bartender asked as he poured coffee into a plastic mug
- "Yep"
- "How do your parents feel about that? I mean, shouldn't you be studying or starting a career?"
- "My parents died last month. Car accident", Sebastiaan mumbled, staring down into his coffee
- "Oh I'm really sorry to hear that...", the bartender said as he sat down. He thought for a moment, looking at the other passengers, before he verbalised his train of thought; "How do you move on after something like that...", he said, at nobody in particular
- "Move on?", Sebastiaan asked in all sincerity.
Their conversation was interrupted by the ferry's intercom;
- "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. In a few moments, we will arrive at the Isle of St Philip. Next stop: St Philip"
- "St Philip?", Sebastiaan asked the bartender
- "The smallest of all Zealandic islands", the bartender replied, "I don't remember how many inhabitants it has, but it's not many and their number is rapidly decreasing. Emigration. To be honest; I wouldn't stick around on that bunch of rocks either..."
- "I think I'll check it out...", Sebastiaan mumbled
- "You won't find paradise on St Philip, my lad. The opposite, perhaps, but not paradise", the bartender replied with a touch of drama.
- "How much for the coffee?"
- "95 cents"
- "That's cheap..."
- "Oh it's a good price-quality ratio", the bartender said with a broad smile

The horn sounded as the diesel engine switched gears and the crew prepared for a temporary union between the small ferry and the infamous isle of St Philip.

To be continued...

miscellaneous XL

2006-02-26T18:04:00.000+01:00

Title: Finding paradise | part 3 |
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 26 February 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

FINDING PARADISE | PART 3 |

The truckdriver got out and approached the soldier. Sebastiaan saw the soldier provide an explanation accompanied by a set of hand gestures that spelled trouble and his expectations were confirmed when the truckdriver returned, grabbing a towel from behind his chair to dry his face and hands with:
- "Bad news, mate. The bridges have been destroyed. But the soldier said it could have had something to do with the fact they were being renovated and some parts of the structure were removed a few days ago"
- "So now what?", Sebastiaan asked
- "Well given that structural weakness could've caused these bridges to collapse, I'm gonna head East and try the next crossing between Utrecht and Tilburg"
Sebastiaan thought for a moment and came to the conclusion East wasn't the direction he wanted to go in:
- "No other alternatives?"
- "The ferry services to Zealand are still operating, but given that Zealand lies to the Southwest and I need to be in the Southeast, that's not an option for me"
- "I think I'll try that...", Sebastiaan replied, relying on his instincts
- "Best of luck then, lad"
- "You too", Sebastiaan climbed out of the truck after the truckdriver had jokingly asked him if he could save him a seat in paradise. Making use of a roundabout, the truck steered away from Holland's Deep and Sebastiaan approached the soldier, asking him how he could get to the ferry docks. Raising his voice to make himself heard through the raging storm, the soldier replied they lay about half a mile to the West. Sebastiaan thanked him and continued his way down a two-lane road through resilient pine forests.

The King William docks were made of concrete and still capable of taking in medium-sized ferries despite the pounding waves. The Nehalennia was about to depart and Sebastiaan hurried on board in the chaos of the storm. Being quite a bit smaller than most ferries that sailed in the Southwestern archipelago province, the Nehalennia struggled to reach its maximum speed of just a few knots despite the efforts of the brave diesel engine as it left the river mouth of Holland's Deep and headed out to sea. In the ferry's small cabin with just about a dozen passengers, Sebastiaan sat down next to two young men with a guitar and a harmonica. They introduced themselves as performers who went by the names of Thomas and Paul. When Sebastiaan told them where he was going, the two performers erupted into a one-sided dialogue that displayed how well their partnership really was:
- "Paradise? We know of a man who was searching for it too"
- "He was older than you though"
- "Quite a bit older"
- "Middle-aged, even"
- "Whatever that means"
- "His name was Herman, he had everything a man could wish for"
- "Wife, children a good job, white fence..."
- "And a house to go with that fence, of course"
- "Of course"
- "But he started to wonder, you see"
- "And ask stupid questions"
- "He started to wonder, if what he had was all he would ever have. If there wasn't anything more to life"
- "And then he asked himself what his plans had been when he had first moved to the city all those years ago. The same city he still lived in"
- "And he remembered he had intended to party, to live, to travel"
- "Travel far away, the destination unknown and the return optional"
- "But he never did any of those things and now it was too late"
- "He died shortly after. Men without goals never live long"
- "Disillusioned men even shorter"
- "Maybe he should've gone after all. In search of whatever it was he wanted"
- "Paradise perhaps. Or maybe just change"
- "But he didn't go; didn't want to leave behind what he had"
- "But sometimes you have to take risks"
- "Big risks"
- "There's a song in that..."
- "Hand me your guitar, we'll give it a shot"
- "My guitar? You?"
- "Sure. I can also not play the guitar, you know"
The performers started to sing a song and Sebastiaan listened carefully to lyrics that described a man who played safe and lost. A man who avoided risks in order not to hurt or be hurt, but who ended up in a fate far worse because standing still equals going backwards when everything around you moves along. The few passengers on the ferry started to gather around, welcoming the music as a distraction from dire times.

To be continued...

miscellaneous XXXIX

2006-02-25T16:10:00.000+01:00

Title: Finding paradise | part 2 |
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 25 February 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

FINDING PARADISE | PART 2 |

A dark blue Volkswagen Passat pulled over after Sebastiaan had spent a good half hour walking along Haarlem's orbital motorway. The driver, a middle-aged man in a business suit, opened the right door and leaned over the passenger's seat:
- "Get in!", he said with more enthusiasm than Sebastiaan appreciated
- "Where are you headed?", he replied with caution
- "South, but I can take a little detour if you want. Come on then, a young lad like you shouldn't be out in the rain"
Even with only twenty-one years of life experience, Sebastiaan knew full well where this was going and he quickly made up his mind:
- "Look, I appreciate the offer, but I don't think this is such a good idea"
- "Oh come on, what is the worst that could happen? You might even like it"
- "Sorry, I don't swing that way", Sebastiaan said as he slammed the door shut. The driver immediately rolled down the window in an outburst of rage that didn't fit his carefully selected image:
- "And you think I do, you arrogant little shit? I have a wife and children! Why don't you do the world a favour and next time a truck passes; jump in front of it instead of raising a thumb!", he yelled before he drove off with screaming tires. Never one to lose his calm, Sebastiaan stood by the side of the road in absolute astonishment before he burst out into laughter. Mildly disturbed by the mythical existence that man's family had to be living, he calmed down, shook his head and moved on. Ten minutes later, a truck pulled over and Sebastiaan got on board:
- "Thanks a lot, man. I'm Sebastiaan"
- "You're welcome, mate. I'm Tom. Feel free to kick some of that trash to the side", the truckdriver said as he pointed at the fastfood bags and cups that were littered all over the floor "They're an aggressive lot, but you have to give the Americans credit for McDonald's and Burger King"
Sebastiaan inspected his latest temporary chauffeur and noticed the fastfood had taken its toll as a white t-shirt in what appeared to be size XXL was being stretched to its very limits by the man's proportions. Baggy jeans, old sneakers and an AFC Ajax cap that had been put on loosely completed the truckdriver's outfit and made it look a few months ahead of its time in relation to the nation's climate.
- "So what's your destination?", Tom asked
- "Paradise"
- "Paradise? Well that's a lot better than where I'm headed"
- "Where's that?"
- "Eindhoven, 'peasantsville'. Then on to Maastricht. I was supposed to stop by Nijmegen and Arnhem on the way back but that's uncertain now that both cities are possibly being evacuated... Apparently the river Rhine is in a particularly bad mood"
- "It's a bad year", Sebastiaan admitted
- "So where can I drop you off then? I'll be passing Leiden, The Hague, Rotterdam and Dordrecht, but after that I don't know. My initial route into the South was via the Holland's Deep crossing but I'm not too sure the bridges will still exist when I get there..."
- "We'll see I suppose...", Sebastiaan had a feeling he should try to travel along with this truckdriver as far as possible and trust his instincts.
- "Your call. So where is paradise anyway?"
- "I don't know yet"
- "I've always thought paradise is inside of a person; that it's a state of mind", the truckdriver went on, largely disregarding Sebastiaan's answer, "I have never come across it on my GPS system anyway", he said as he tapped on the little monitor in the dashboard of the truck. He thought for a moment, then continued; "But what do I know, I'm just a truckdriver. I'll tell you one thing though; if I had a say in it, life would come with disclaimers and manuals. Although I doubt anyone would pay much attention to them; just like those safety procedures on airplanes", he sat up straight, raised his voice and continued as if he were really addressing people on a passenger plane, "Ladies and gentlemen, in a case of loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will appear automatically. If you're travelling with a child, please put on your own mask first before you put one on your child. If you're travelling with two children, you might want to decide which one you like better before take-off"
Sebastiaan had to laugh so hard he got lost in his sleeves as he was taking off his jacket. A few minutes later, he had calmed down and agreed with a smile to what the truckdriver had just said: "You're right, I don't think many people would pay attention to manuals you wrote"
The truckdriver responded with a loud chuckle that reminded Sebastiaan of Santa Claus; or rather, how he had always imagined Santa Claus would laugh. All that was missing was a beard and the right outfit. In the silence that followed, Sebastiaan made a comment about the driver's hat and they spent the next hour and a half debating the national football league until they came close to Holland's Deep and a soldier signalled they had to stop.

To be continued...

miscellaneous XXXVIII

2006-02-23T16:44:00.000+01:00

Title: Finding paradise | part 1 |
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 24 February 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

FINDING PARADISE | PART 1 |

Torrential rains were battering a nation that was already forced down on its knees by strong winds. Late March and Europe's snow was melting, causing rivers to swell as they headed down from the Alps to the delta region of The Netherlands. Centuries old windmills were called into action to aid modern technology in pumping the water from the land into the vast reservoirs of the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean as soon as possible. Much of the nation shared the fate of being hassled by the water regularly and inevitably as it was situated beneath sea level. As a logical consequence, all towns and cities had already experienced their fair share of trouble for the season. All cities, barring Amsterdam. But Amsterdam was untouchable, always had been, and the proud ex-republic was once again looking down on that silly little Kingdom it had never really become part of.

To the Northwest of Amsterdam lay the town of Alkmaar. Sebastiaan van Axel was leaving the chaos and slumbering panic as he walked past the town's welcome sign and headed South, occasionally forced to exchange the road for the mud by its side when powerful SUV's and trucks with the Rijkswaterstaat logo on them passed by. Every time a car came up from behind, he raised his hand, thumb up, hoping it would stop but none did. Just as he began to wonder if his poncho would keep him dry (or partially dry anyway) for much longer, another set of headlights lit his path from behind and he repeated his earlier gesture, this time with more success. A blue Citroen 2CV, usually referred to as 'the ugly duck' in this part of the world, stopped near Sebastiaan and the driver rolled down the window:
- "Need a ride?"
Sebastiaan quickly inspected the inside of the car and the driver. His instincts were telling him it was safe enough to get on board of a clean vehicle driven by a goodlooking blond woman in fashionable clothes and he got in.
- "Heading South, I presume?", the woman asked
- "Yep"
- "I'm only going to Haarlem, where exactly are you going?"
- "Haarlem will be fine, you can drop me off just outside the city. I'll have better chances of finding a lift near the main routes"
- "Sure thing", the woman paused for a second before she continued, "I'm Karin, nice to meet you"
- "You're really helping me out, Karin. I'm Sebastiaan"
- "You picked a hell of a time to for a hitchhike holiday"
- "Oh this isn't a holiday, I'm on my way to paradise"
- "Paradise? That's a lovely name for a town"
- "It's not a town; I'm talking about the real paradise. I'm going to find it"
- "That's a remarkable thing to do. Why are you so sure it exists, or even that you'll find it?"
- "I'm an optimist, I suppose"
Not entirely certain what she was supposed to answer to that, Karin decided to steer the conversation in a different direction and after forty minutes of jokes and anecdotes, the city limits of Haarlem is where they said goodbye. As soon as he got out of the car, Sebastiaan noticed that just like Alkmaar, Haarlem was in trouble as a dense curtain of rain and fierce winds partially silenced the roaring diesel engines of the waterpumps and the sirens of the emergency services. Concluding it was best to stay away from the chaos, Sebastiaan started to walk along the N246 provincial road that would lead him around the city, rather than straight through it. There was quite some traffic and Sebastiaan felt confident he would find a lift soon enough.

To be continued...

miscellaneous XXXVII

2006-02-17T01:47:00.000+01:00

Title: A time travel theory
Category: Science Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 17 February 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

A TIME TRAVEL THEORY

The chief of medicin of just another American hospital stood in his office with his mouth slightly open as he stared at a door. A door that had never been there before but that undeniably existed. Dr Wilson recalled his actions and came to the conclusion someone must've installed this door during his 45 minute lunch, given that it hadn't been there before. Forty-five minutes? That was physically impossible. Or so he thought. But then again; he knew nothing of building doors. He slowly approached it and noticed it looked old. Very old and made out of dark and heavy wood with a shiny round knob. There were no hinges visible, so that meant it would turn away from him if he were to open it. That meant something would be able to hide behind it if he were to enter whatever room was on the other side of that door.

Pausing a minute to consider that childish fear, he told himself it was ridiculous but took a step back regardless. As far as ridiculous went; that door symbolised it. It shouldn't be there, it couldn't be there even. Yet it was. He thought about finding someone to ask but was uncertain the door would still be here if he returned. That was a bad scenario for various reasons; 1) he didn't like to make a fool of himself and 2) if it disappeared he would never know what was behind it. A curious mind like his would be driven mad in a matter of hours. It was decided then; he was going to open it because it was the only thing to do.

His hand reached for the knob and the old door creaked and made way. According to the laws of physics, what should have been behind it was the outside world, given it was in one of the building's outer walls. Instead, Wilson walked into his own office. Absolutely baffled, he stood there, having temporarily forgotten about his fear of hidden monsters until the door slammed shut behind him, giving him the scare of his life. He turned around and stared into the face of an old man with a broom stick:
- "Welcome, Dr Wilson"
- "Who are you? Where am I?"
- "I am a guardian of time and you have joined what was"
- "What? You're insane", Wilson replied as he ran out onto the hallway looking for the hospital's security guards but found the building was empty. He ran around the corner and saw nobody. The lights and televisions were switched off, the phones were dead and worst of all; there were no people anywhere, "What have you done?!?!", Wilson yelled at the old man as he neared a state of panic.
- "Calm down, Dr Wilson, calm down. They're fine, they're just not here. You're in the past", the old man replied calmly.
- "That's impossible", Wilson mumbled as he grabbed his hair
- "So was that door, but you opened it, didn't you? Let's take a walk. It is important that you follow me, Wilson"

Once outside, Wilson noticed more of the same emptiness. Everything was there, but not the people. Furthermore, everything appeared to be frozen. The clouds weren't moving and colours appeared to be faded.
- 'Not faded. Fading. They're fading. Or dying', Wilson thought. His fear was increasing by the minute. The old man was quickening his pace towards the centre of the square in between the two wings of the U-shaped hospital and Wilson thought it would be best to stay close to him. When they sat down on a bench, the old man started to speak again:
- "The view here isn't as colourful and lively as what you're used to", he said, "but that's not why you're here anyway"
- "So why am I here?", Wilson asked, "And what year is it?"
- "Year? Oh nono, you've only travelled back into time mere seconds, Wilson. Years... Oh my!", the old man said in disbelief
- "But where is everybody?"
- "This is your lesson, Wilson, a lesson of vital importance, not only to you, but to many others", the old man explained, "For years now you've failed to focus on the positive sides of what you do and all you've been able to think about is all the people who died too early in your eyes. All those deaths that you hold yourself responsible for"
- "All those deaths that I am responsible for", Wilson replied
- "Wilson, you're a stubborn bastard", the old man said in all sincerity, "And that is why you're here. We don't do this for everybody, you know. But you have great things ahead of you that will influence the lives of thousands of people; or at least you will if you don't let your guilt consume you. What is it that you dream of at night?"
- "A chance to make everything alright", Wilson replied, "A chance to go back and fix things"
- "Well", the old man answered as he spread his arms, "Here you are. But have you figured it out yet?"
- "There's nothing here for me to fix", Wilson mumbled
- "Indeed. The present travels over the timeline, Wilson, like a train travels over its track. If you would get out of the train and walked back down the track, you'd find there's nothing there. The train has already passed by. You can't go back in time and change things"
- "That still doesn't change the fact that I would like to"
- "No it doesn't, but it should at least give you insight into the greater picture. This, Wilson, is all planned. The track is built well before the train travels over it and it has to be. People live and die exactly when they're supposed to and there is nothing much you can do about it"
- "Nothing much?"
- "There are variables. Switches in the track and the train will move in the direction it is steered in by the free will of man. But man only holds steering power over life. Birth, fate and death are controlled by other entities"
- "So things happen for a reason, right? This isn't helping much..."
- "Not yet, but it will. In time you will come to understand, aided by this extraordinary event that...", the old man stopped
- "That what?", Wilson asked
The old man looked around and jumped up;
- "Oh dear, oh dear. We've been here for too long, hurry Wilson, You mustn't linger in the past. Never linger in the past. We must get back to your office and fast"
- "What? Why?", Wilson said as he saw the old man run back towards the entrance of the hospital. He turned around and noticed the world was rapidly fading. The lighter colours had already faded into transparency and the darker ones would swiftly follow.
'Not transparency; they've disappeared. Ceased to exist. And so will you if you don't move'. The thought paralysed him but he sprung into action when the old man called his name;
- "Hurry! Hurry, Wilson!"
The two of them ran through the hospital as it disappeared around them. They reached Wilson's office and as he looked outside, Wilson stared upon the definition of nothing. The sight of it awoke such a deep fear in him that he froze on the spot and burst into tears. The old man opened the door and pushed Wilson towards it;
- "But what about you?", Wilson asked
- "I belong here, I'll be fine. This is all natural but for you it would mean the absolute ending of everything you are, body and soul together. Not a physical death; but an absolute ending. Now go!", the old man shoved Wilson through the door opening and slammed it shut as the past was coming to an end.

miscellaneous XXXVI

2006-02-16T14:17:00.000+01:00

Title: Bye, Andrew
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama (monologue)
Written: 16 February 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

BYE, ANDREW

"Oh, hello. No, of course I recognised you. I just needed a minute to think of your name. CSW Primary School, I remember now. You were great at English. So what are you doing on my park-bench? Sheer coincidence, I assume?

I come here a few times per week, it's a quiet spot and one of few places left I can still read. Yes, it has been a long time. Fifteen years? 1988, perhaps.

Just high school and then a university education, really. Nothing much special. No, still in the process of graduating, the thesis is holding me back. What about you?

Really? Your own restaurant in Manhattan? That's quite impressive. No, no I haven't been. No, America as a whole, actually. So what are you doing back here? Oh visiting the parents, quite the good enough motive. Just two weeks? Well I imagine your restaurant needs you.

Wife and a baby-son? Even a better reason to swiftly return, I agree. How old is your son now? 12 months? So he's learning to speak? Shouldn't be too hard if he has your language skills, I would imagine.

Yes, I would say people need to dream. I suppose that's why we keep coming up with new dreams when old ones are fulfilled. Property in Tuscany? Well that proves my theory then. I recommend Siena and its surroundings; far less tourists than in the Florence area. No no, nothing of the sort I'm afraid. I've just been on holiday in the region for a few days once.

My dreams? Well... You know, I actually have to go. I'm having lunch with a friend. No, that's alright, I just don't want to be late.

Your card? Oh, right. Well I will definitely visit you if I'm ever in New York. When? Well I don't have any real plans along those lines at the moment. But I really have to go now.

Coming by at my place? Tonight? Well... I'm afraid I don't have much time. And I'm late already. Goodbye, Andrew, all the best."

tagging

2006-02-11T13:21:00.000+01:00

It was bound to happen at some point, I suppose, so what follows is my very fist tag. I shall try to keep it entertaining..!

Four jobs that I've had

1) I've had a paper round for two years somewhere around my fifteenth year on this earth. It was hell. Getting up at 5 in the morning six days per week, every week, is not my idea of a great job but I needed the money. I remember once in winter I was struggling to deliver the paper through ice-rain and over frozen streets (should've worn ice-skates). One house was down a small slope and over a bridge and it took me fifteen minutes to crawl back on the slope on hands and feet cause I kept sliding back down.
2) Sales employee at the recumbent bicycle factory M5 Recumbents. At least this one's original but I wasn't very good. Customer: "So have you ever ridden one yourself? What's it like?" Erik: "Uhm... well..."
3) A work placement in the United Kingdom for the Audnel Group Ltd. Like most work placements; it mainly consisted of making coffee and photo copies. Longest four months in my life... England itself was a lot of fun though.
4) Tourguide at Royal Delft. I remember being very nervous for my first tour but that would quickly change to a more cynical approach: "Alright people, just read the signs, read the gorgeous signs"

Four movies I could watch over and over
I tend to get bored with a movie after watching it one and a half time but some stand out;
1) Jumanji - for it's youth sentiments
2) Jurassic Park - part I of course, duh
3) Donnie Darko - because you have to watch it at least thrice to understand all of it
4) Le Comte de Monte Cristo - but only the version that stars Gérard Depardieu

Four places that I have lived
1) Middelburg, Zeeland, Netherlands (for the first 18 years of my life)
2) Loughborough, Leicestershire, United Kingdom (for 4 months)
3) The Hague, Zuid-Holland, Netherlands (in my fourth year and denying it)
4) Salerno, Campania, Italy (six months for an exchange)

Four TV shows that I watch
1) Charmed (I wish I had magical powers...)
2) Seinfeld (The world's best humour in one show)
3) Medium (Very intriguing)
4) Gilmore Girls (I started to watch it for its swift dialogues which I learned a lot from; now I can't stop)

Four places I've vacationed
I could list you a couple of dozen (all in Europe) because my parents had a policy of never returning to a place they had already been for vacationing purposes. Here's four off the top of my head, all included a caravan:
1) Kezhely, Hungary
2) Bled, Yugo... I mean Slovenia
3) Barcelona, Spain
4) Nice, France

Four of my favourite dishes
1) Pizza Margherita as long as they're from Napels, Italy
2) Panino à la Erik; salame, mozzarella di bufala, cucumber, tomato
3) Nawaf's lasagna (ask him)
4) Any fruit salad that includes either melon or pineapple

Four sites I visit daily
1) All the blogs in the link list on the left
2) Gmail
3) BBC News
4) Torrentspy

Four places I would rather be
1) Middelburg. I really really really want to just go home right now.
2) Aruba and Nawaf is coming
3) Australia and this time Martin is coming
4) Russia and now Diana is coming because she speaks the language

I'm tagging Nawaf and Diana cause everybody else in the list has already done one I think...

miscellaneous XXXV

2006-02-06T00:24:00.000+01:00

Title: The job offer
Category: Fiction
Style: Dark comedy
Written: 6 February 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

THE JOB OFFER

The writer had reached the top of the hill overlooking the riots and chaos of the Danish cartoon row, a scene that appeared so ridiculously out of proportion even to his flexible writer's mind that he let out a deep sigh as he sat down in his folding chair and observed the smoke and violence. He was joined by another man:
- "Quite the mess down there"
The writer looked up and replied:
- "Innit. And that's what writers draw their inspiration from"
- "Where are the poets and journalists?"
- "Well the journalists are down in that mess over there, losing their objectivity to their eternally much stronger urge to be as close to whatever is happening as they possibly can be. As for the poets... The bad ones are looking away and writing those horrible happy-poems, the good ones are in there getting hurt and receiving an inspiration overdose"
- "I see..."
- "So who are you?", the writer asked
- "I'm what those people are fighting about"
- "...You're the fella that drew the cartoons? Shouldn't you be down there?"
- "What? No! I'm God. In case you hadn't noticed, some are turning this into a clash of religions"
- "Right. Listen, I'd offer you my seat but... Well I don't really want to"
- "That's alright..."
- "So if this is a class of religions, whose side are you on?"
- "Both and neither. See there is no real difference between Christianity and Islam: I'm the God in both"
- "Then what's all the fuss about?"
- "Both religions follow different prophets. It's a risk of letting your word be spread by humans I suppose..."
- "Delegation tends to backfire..."
- "Which is why I could use your help. I need real writers; not storytellers or dramaqueens but capable people who can sort out this mess by putting the record straight"
- "Oh heeelll no", the writer said as he stood up and folded his chair, "Excuse the pun"
- "Oh come on, help me out here"
- "Sorry, you're on your own. Good luck with the, that, uhm...", the writer hesitated as he pointed at the mess down in the valley, "Ah screw it. See you around"

miscellaneous XXXIV

2006-02-05T12:57:00.000+01:00

Title: The reveille | part 2 |
Category: Fiction
Style: Thriller
Written: 04 February 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

THE REVEILLE | PART 2 |

- "Who are you staring at?", Dallas said to the old lady in line behind him at the supermarket's cash register, who managed to divert her stare immediately after, though not without passing him a disapproving look regarding his appearance first. 'I hate this place', he thought as he compared it to the many other places he had lived in during the past few years.
- "And another thing", Dallas turned around again, getting endlessly worked up over the old lady's behaviour, "Just because you have no life and therefore consider a trip to the supermarket so big an adventurous journey that you dress up for it, doesn't mean I share your miserable fate. I'm not sure who you think you are but it's quite clear you think far too highly of yourself", Dallas turned around again, smiling at the disbelief and stunned stuttering behind him. He moved up in line and went to pay but quickly ran in to trouble.
- "I'm sorry sir, your credit card won't be accepted. Try wiping it off on your sleeve first"
- "It's a brand new card...", Dallas mumbled as he wiped it off on his sleeve and tried again. The old lady was now quickly recovering and about to launch a counter attack. Fully aware of this, Dallas quickly opened his wallet, took out a fifty euro note, gave the old lady a brief smile as he waited for his change and left.

Dallas got in his old brown Volvo and suddenly remembered he was supposed to have a cell phone in this attempted vehicle somewhere. Several search manoeuvres later, he found himself leaning over the handbrake and feeling under the passenger chair where he found his cell on top of a newspaper from April 1999.
- "Excellent", he switched it on but found his subscription had been seemingly cancelled as the phone's display told him he could only ring emergency numbers. Throwing the phone on the back seat and cursing modern technology, he went to start the car and noticed through the rear-view mirror that a police officer standing behind his car appeared to be typing in the license plate number on his palmtop. Dallas got out and didn't bother with society's protocols of politeness:
- "OI!"
- "Excuse me?"
- "What the hell are you doing?"
- "You've parked on a disabled parking spot without a license so I'm fining you"
- "Oh come on, this spot is never taken and there's no room anywhere else"
- "Cry me a river"
- "You're a disgrace to your uniform. What is it that you tell yourself at night so you can sleep without having night terrors? Or does the daily wank you have on that Robocop poster over your bed exhaust you enough to shut up your conscience?"
- "Oh that does it. Where's your ID?"
Realising it was either giving the officer his ID or getting arrested, Dallas reached for his driver's license, concluding a fine was a small price to pay for the insult he just passed and the frustrations he had got rid of along with it. The officer took it, typed Dallas' personal data on his palmtop and read the information that was returned to him. He had suspected a record of some sort, but what he read instead was beyond his wildest expectations.
- "Sir, where did you get this license?"
- "What do you mean?", Dallas replied
- "According to this", the officer said, holding up his palmtop, "Mr Dallas Quartermaine is dead. So who are you?"
- "What? That's impossible..!", Dallas replied before his writer's imagination took over.
His mind went into overdrive as the voices of his instincts started screaming; 'THE COURIER, THE GODDAMN COURIER!!!' Images came back to him. His disconnected phone, his failing credit card, his cell phone that was out of order and now his driver's license. He was dead. Or declared dead at least. He had officially ceased to exist. There was no doubt in his mind, this was something he could have written himself. He stumbled back, leaned on the Volvo and allowed his instincts to take over; 'This is a story and you're a writer so take charge! Get out and fix it'
- "Sir, you're going to have to come with me", the officer said
- "Alright...", Dallas said. He approached the officer as he recalled a moment from his youth, many years ago, when he had accidentally punched a classmate unconscious. He remembered exactly how he had done it. He clenched his fist, thumb inside, and pushed the ring on his index finger up just a little bit. As the officer was reaching for his handcuffs, Dallas punched him hard on the temple. The officer stumbled back but remained conscious, which Dallas hadn't expected and he hesitated on what to do next until his instincts took over again; 'What the hell are you waiting for? MOVE!!!'

Dallas rushed to his car, started it and drove off with screaming tires. When he reached his house, he parked, noticed the 'For Sale' sign over his front door and realised he had very little time. He rushed inside, threw some clothes and valuables in a bag and left. He knew exactly what to do as he remembered the courier's words: "Due to a substantial period of inactivity, we're sorry to have to tell you we've ceased to recognise your negligible condition of existence". Inactivity, that was the key word. He hadn't really lived in a very long time and it was time to change that. He raced to the airport and walked up to the British Airways counter to purchase a ticket to Sicily, one of a couple of places he had been dreaming of going but had forgotten about during the past few months. He stood in line, trying to figure out how he was going to buy a ticket without having to show his passport, which would probably expose him and rid him of the only chance he saw of getting out of this horror tale. When it was his turn, he walked up to the counter and stared into the face of the courier, only this time he was dressed as a BA employee.
- "Good evening sir, whereto?"
- "Uhm... Sicily, please", Dallas stuttered
- "May I see your passport please?"
Dallas gave the courier his passport, trying to ignore the 1,000 different advices the voices in his head were screaming. He had a feeling it was the right thing to do. The courier looked at it, typed in the information, printed a ticket and handed all of it to Dallas with a broad smile:
- "Gate 23, sir. It's just 30 minutes till boarding. Enjoy your trip"

Confused, Dallas sat down on a chair and tried to make sense of it all. Had it all just been a wake-up call? Had he been given directions to get off the dead-end trail he had been on? Did that mean that, by deciding to leave the country and pursue one of his old dreams, he had started to live again? A voice announced boarding for the flight to Sicily had started and Dallas got up. A musician further down the hall played a familiar tune on his trumpet; the Reveille. Dallas recognised it, laughed and moved on to board his plane.

The end.

miscellaneous XXXIII

2006-01-31T17:34:00.000+01:00

Title: The reveille | part I |
Category: Fiction
Style: Thriller
Written: 31 January 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

THE REVEILLE | PART I |

Dallas Quartermaine spent most of his time sleeping, be it on the sofa or on the bed. He was somewhat of a writer, a bit of a poet and did a reasonable job composing music with the aid of his piano. As a result; the 26-year old's apartment was usually covered in paper and since he didn't care much for cleaning; clothes were never far away, nor were empty coffee mugs. It had been a long time since Dallas had produced anything he had been satisfied with and his perfectionist mind had caused him to spend more and more time inside the four walls of his flat in an attempt to retrieve inspiration. Several months into this downward spiral, he had lost all rythm and a considerable number of social contacts, which was completely unnecessary for the attractive and well-mannered artist.

On yet another derailed day, Dallas was woken up by his doorbell. He slowly got up, wrapped himself up in his blankets and put on his spectacles that looked like they had been with him since the 1970's, and not on an easy trip. He opened the door and saw the face of what appeared to be a courier of some sort.
- "Mr Dallas Quartermaine?"
- "How may I help you?"
- "Good afternoon sir, I'm afraid I have some bad news. Due to a substantial period of inactivity, we're sorry to have to tell you we've ceased to recognise your negligible condition of existence"
- "I beg your pardon?"
- "You've been declared dead, sir. Good day"
As the courier walked off, Dallas rolled his eyes, opened his mouth and closed it again when he realised he didn't feel like engaging into a discussion with some random lunatic.

As the sun was setting and Dallas woke up on his sofa. After having verified his position in time and space, he suddenly remembered the odd visit from the courier, but was unable to recall whether it had really happened or whether it had just been a dream. Dismissing it all by concluding the latter, he picked up the phone to order a pizza but found it wasn't working. He checked the wire, took it out of the socket and plugged it back in but none of it would work as the phone refused to send out the tone that signalled he could dial a number. Deeply annoyed by this senseless act of rebellion from what he considered to be a vital piece of equipment in his household, he got dressed and left the house on a mission to arrange dinner. Dallas wasn't the type of man who ever looked back but if he had been; he wouldn't have missed the For Sale-sign over his front door.

To be continued...

miscellaneous XXXII

2006-01-24T00:14:00.000+01:00

Title: Sneak preview; part III
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 24 January 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

SNEAK PREVIEW; PART III

"Wake up, sleeping beauty"

A familiar visitor was sitting on the foot end of my bed. Clearly, I was in for a ride.

- "What's this?", I replied, "Just my own apartment? You usually think of something a bit more out of the ordinary..."

"Oh that will come. For now, it's important that this dream starts out in your current life and current situation, as part of the bigger picture I'm about to show you"

- "I don't doubt it"

"Let's change the scenery a bit, shall we?"

From my own apartment, we suddenly found ourselves on the top of a hill overlooking a country side. There was a rectangular field of green grass surrounded by forests on each flank. On its far end lingered a fog bank, while on the end at the foot of the hill a young man, dressed in light armour and carrying a sword, stood quietly waiting.

- "Bit mysterious this..."

"Just the way you like it. These dreams are still fragments of your own mind"

- "Then who are you?"

"Why don't we ignore the fundamentals and focus on the matter at hand. These dreams have always served their purpose, what does it matter where they, or I, come from?"

- "Fine, fine. So... What am I looking at here?"

"That young man over there resembles you. The field you have to cross would be the next few years and the fog bank the future destination you're aiming to achieve. You know as well as I do that plans have been forming in your subconscious over the past few weeks and you're preparing to realise some dreams and reach some goals, am I right?"

- "I won't deny it... It's all still a bit vague and dependent on circumstances though"

"Hence the fog. Creations of your own brain, remember?"

- "Very well. Now what?"

"What will happen now is something you shouldn't take lightly. Watch carefully..."

The young man took one step forward and as soon as he did, all hell broke loose. Soldiers emerged from the forests, blocking his path. He engaged in battle, fighting some and avoiding others by retreating into the forests every once in a while, gaining vital yards over the flanks. He was getting closer to the end, but not without getting hit. Bleeding and hurting, he raised his sword as he prepared to cross the last 30 feet or so. He pointed the sword straight ahead of him and held it with both hands as he lifted up the end of the handle and held it against his right shoulder. Looking fiercely at the last soldier blocking his path, he started running towards him, determined to make it. The soldier hesitated and was slain before he had had a chance to recover from his surprise. The young man then stumbled into the fog and disappeared out of sight.

- "...I might need a drink"

"The lesson here is that you will be fighting a lot of battles the next couple of years to get to where you want to be and that you have to pick your battles and avoid some others if you're going to make it"

- "There is no way I could do that", I said, pointing at the scene downhill

"You can. Everyone can. Humans are strong - often much stronger than they realise themselves. Have some faith"

- "Fight or perish, right?"

"That's what life is all about. I'll leave you now, good luck"

I woke up and looked around, wondering what the future was going to be like. We all have to pick our battles, we all have to fight. Fight, or perish.

miscellaneous XXXI

2006-01-22T01:22:00.000+01:00

Title: Yet another ending
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 21 January 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

YET ANOTHER ENDING

The weak January sun did little to warm The Hague's East End where students and immigrants formed the majority of inhabitants. Countless little shops and their colourfully decorated windows broke the pattern of similar architecture for streets on end where trams and a surreal amount of cars and bicycles crammed their way through the insufficient infrastructure. One student house was the sight of unusual activity as the four inhabitants of #477 were preparing to leave.

Four people who had lived their lives under one roof for the past 3 years. Who had followed the same education, shared the same troubles and joys and got to know each other perhaps better than they had anticipated. It was ending now. Their studies were over; only traineeships remained. Abroad. None of them would return to #477.

On the tram stop in front of their house is where their ways parted. The first one got on line 10 and was destined for Canada. The second one took line 23 and was headed to the United States. The third one got on line 1 and would soon land in Germany.

The fourth student looked at the house and said goodbye. Unlike the other three he didn't yet have a fixed destination but his time in The Hague had come to an end nevertheless. Line 15 came around the corner, good old line 15. He got on board for one last time and left.

Thank you The Hague, good night.

miscellaneous XXX

2006-01-21T17:40:00.000+01:00

Title: Stuck believing
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 21 January 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

STUCK BELIEVING

Three turns is all that stands between reality and a perishing dream that's struggling to survive in the heart of the nation. From the tram stop on Outer Court in downtown The Hague, turn left onto Count's Street, take a right turn onto North End and finally turn left again onto the first remarkably small and silent street you see of which nobody really knows its name. It doesn't even appear on any map of the city I've ever come across and nobody ever seems to notice it. I sometimes wonder if they would even see it if they were told to stare right at it. Perhaps it's invisible to all, except those who believe in what can be overwhelmingly found in this vulnerable bastion.

I pass a lone violinist and throw a coin in his case on the floor. A Euro. It's so galactically out of place in this stronghold of a different age that the sound it makes when it hits the fabric of the case sounds so wrong it should immediately be dismissed, but writers never can.

Further down the narrow street past a couple of restaurants, tiny shops and pubs, sits the small bookshop I came here for. Normal buildings stand, but this one sits. Any other description would be unsuitable for this historic construction that only still exists because it's leaning extravagantly against the old warehouse next to it. So much so, that it's torn itself away from the building to its other side where it was once connected to by 17th century cement that looks as strong as wet cardboard. Nothing about this building even remotely resembles a straight line and opening the door is always a challenge. The shop owner has been known to sell his books through an open window on days when humidity wouldn't allow for any movement of the wooden entrance but today is not one of those days as I use a shoulderpush to open the door and enter.

The shop owner is an old man who's always around, but never easily found. But customers need him as going on a mission to find a certain book in this shop by yourself is bound to fail. The best way to find the man is by asking a question out loud as you enter, which he is certain to answer with a long stream of irrelevant words which will allow you to trace him in the mess of crooked bookcases and stacked boxes.

- "I believe I've seen you before...", he says when I finally found him
- "That could be"
- "How may I help you?"
- "I'm looking for any translation works on Middle-Dutch. I need to translate an old document but Middle-Dutch bares far less similarities to modern Dutch than I'd hoped"
- "That's a rather brave thing to do. That language never did make much sense to me. Hold this please", he tells me when he gives me a box of cigars and opens a wooden crate
- "Cubans?"
- "Oh dear. No no. No, we don't like to be associated with communism down here, we try very hard to stay away from it"
- "I thought so"
- "Well here's something... I believe it's more of an analysis of the history of the language rather than the language itself, however"
- "That might work"
- "Forgive my directness, but you strike me as a wise man"
- "Unfortunate selective wisdom", I mumble as I flip through the book before I look up and explain with a mild smile; "I only know things that serve no purpose"
The man says nothing, but gives me a particularly broad smile. I hand him the three euros the book costs, greet him and leave. With a mild effort I pull the door shut behind me and notice the Esperanto flag in the shop's window. Signs and symbols of freedom, respect and equality are exhibited around it. Much like the book I'm holding, they stand for what is already, or at least rapidly becoming, part of history.

I turn around when I hear a rumble behind me where a small wall just collapsed. Like many things I grew up believing, the dream of Socialism is rapidly disintegrating. I appear to be only one of very few who struggles to adapt.

a dedication

2006-01-18T16:56:00.000+01:00

Here's a song by Acda & De Munnik that I personally love because it's been a great help for me on all my travels, small or large. I translated the lyrics myself and would like to dedicate this one to Martin, who's packing his bags for a great adventure. This is the summer of George, buddy!

Click here to listen to the song.

miscellaneous XIX

2006-01-13T02:47:00.000+01:00

Title: Welcome home
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 13 January 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

WELCOME HOME

The Connexxion bus struggled through the winter weather but was irrevocably on its way to the small village of Rennesan in the Southwestern part of the Netherlands. It being the last bus of the day headed to the final destination of its route; there was only one passenger on board. Sophia was in her twenties and working on her singing career after having finished her education a few months ago. It wasn't going well.

It's not much fun trying to reach a goal when there are hundreds of people trying to achieve the same, most of them no less capable than you are. The key was to hold on to your dream no matter what happened but sometimes that just wasn't enough.

She got off the bus at the town's central square and started the ten minute walk to her parents' house which normally wouldn't take that long, but the snow had turned it into a minor challenge. She hadn't been here in months and felt overwhelmed by the memories and sentiments of melancholy that had come over her as she had moved closer and closer towards the town.

After all, this is where it had all started. Where she had been born and raised and where she had first dreamed of becoming a famous singer. Always famous; because that's what children dream.

But further down the road, things had become difficult. In the struggle for work and recognition, she had fallen hard on the cold stones of the city. She had started to realise that she might very well be failing at everything she was trying to achieve. She had come to many crosspoints in the past, made decisions, chosen directions and looking back, she saw a huge jungle of travelled paths she no longer understood or could make any sense of.

When had it all become so complicated?

But Rennesan was the type of place that never changed. The type of place you could never really leave, even. Where people baked your 'welcome back'-cake on the day of your departure and counted down the days in your absence. And where they regularly sent you postcards so you wouldn't forget. Greetings from Rennesan, gorgeous Rennesan, where the door is always open.

Rennesan, where you are allowed to collapse. Just come on home, and we'll fall apart together.

Sophia's mother opened the door and smiled.

Welcome home.

miscellaneous XVIII

2006-01-10T21:58:00.000+01:00

Title: Nobody really knows
Category: Fiction
Style: Noire
Written: 10 January 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

NOBODY REALLY KNOWS

The Dutch city of Leiden was full of libraries, a logical consequence of the presence of one of the world's most prestigious universities since 1575. One of the smaller libraries consisted of three rooms only; one large and two significantly smaller. The building was situated at one of the city's many canals in the historic city centre where it was just one of many old monuments of architecture from better times. Leiden was the type of city where everybody was convinced the Netherlands were in a decay that had started several centuries ago and where any form of jubilation or pride was immediately cornered and eliminated by the ruling sentiments of melancholy. Some would try to get away from the canals, trees and leaded windows overlooking cobblestone streets from old façades but those who exchanged the outside interior with that of the insides of the library's reception room found nothing but more of the same, this time accompanied with a perfect silence.

The library didn't have any staff of it's own. Owned and maintained by the university; a secretary would be sent to take charge at the reception desk for the three days per week it was open: a different one every time. Visitors looking for specific works were on their own as a result though the secretary's reaction would vastly differ from person to person. Some would simply raise their shoulders, others would help and look but most recommended a visit to alternative institutions.

Despite the size of the hall behind the reception desk, circumstances dictated solitude had the best odds for lone visitors and so Gabriel found himself completely by himself in the antique residence that barely outdated the works it held. Gabriel was in his early thirties and preferred to be on his own since his wife and 2 year old son had died in a fire one year ago. Ever since his life had been devastated by that tragic event; he had spent more and more time in the library, to the point where his thirst for knowledge had lead him to the brilliant idea of offering to become caretaker for the old building free of charge just so he would be in possession of the keys. And since he had managed to pull that off, there would be days on end where he wouldn't see any day light whatsoever. Most of his motivations to live this unusual routine consisted of sheer despair. He had never understood death nor loss and was looking for answers but he was swiftly running out of books in this, the library of poetry, without having even found as much as a resemblance of a satisfying answer.

Unimpressed by him, Gabriel decided to take all of Shakespeare's works and stack them up so he could reach for some different items in a corner where the ladder had proven to be useless. And although logic had never appeared to be in the vicinity of William Shakespeare during his life time, it had clearly never fully abandoned Gabriel as the books he was standing on started to slide under the pressure of the leaning man. He tumbled down and slowly rolled from his side onto his back to catch a breath. That's when he noticed the hatch in the ceiling.

Thirty minutes and some acrobatic performances later, a hatch flew open on a ceiling where nobody had been in a very long time. To Gabriel's disappointment, the third room in this building appeared to be empty but when he crawled in and stood up, he noticed a small window covered up by a curtain moths should have found centuries ago but apparently never had. He opened the curtain and the window and noticed a book on the floor when he turned around. He approached it, but failed to read the faded title. Merely the author's name was visible: AE Housman.

He opened it and his eyes were immediately drawn to one passage:
In heaven-high musings and many
Far off in the wayward night sky
I would think that the love I bear you
Would make you unable to die

Gabriel read words and sentences and passages. He went through poems, often illegible, and found words and meanings. Resemblances of answers. Things could possibly be coming together. Until he turned the final page where all had become illegible except one last sentence, nine final words:
Ask me no more, for fear I should reply

Gabriel collapsed. He finally gave up. Whatever answer he might have found, he now realised it would have been completely subjective. Whichever theory existed had in the end be invented by a living man. Poems, religions, philosophies... written words of man. Subject to believing and thus subject to choice. He couldn't possibly make a conscious choice to believe in one certain concept; he was much too cynical.

He picked up the book and threw it out the window in one angry swing. Outside, two girls saw a book fall from the sky and land in one of the city's canals. Looking at each other, one of them drew a necessary conclusion: "Could have been worse; if that had been a pig, I'd have been in serious trouble"

The secretary at the reception desk was mildly startled when Gabriel rushed past her and she only just managed to ask him if he had found what he was looking for.

"No, I haven't", he replied, "Nobody really knows, you see"

this actually makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

2006-01-09T20:54:00.000+01:00

Mort Rainy
You scored 60% villainy, 36% crazy, and 47% love or lust!

You are the writer Mort Rainey from 'Secret Window'. You are someone who appears to be quite normal, but you're actually more of a criminal. You seem together, and keep to yourself, but what we (and apparently you) don't know is that you can go on a killing spree at any minute. Did you say you heard voices in your head? I hope one of them is not the crazy leprechaun telling you to burn them all.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The which Johnny Depp character are you test

miscellaneous XVII

2006-01-08T19:30:00.000+01:00

Title: We got it, we got it. Don't worry about it!
Category: Fiction
Style: Satire
Written: 08 January 2006
By: Erik Pleyte

WE GOT IT, WE GOT IT. DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT!

Two unusual men appeared without being noticed on a square in downtown Amsterdam. Easily hiding because that's what they did best, they discussed their next move:
- "I need to get this robe washed. It's got stains on it..."
- "Relax, you're invisible to these people anyway"
- "Where's Sean?"
- "He's on rainbow-duty"
- "Poor sod, I hate rainbow-duty. Dragging around those stupid buckets of paint just because the Boss made a promise to Noah thousands of years ago. It's not like anyone really notices them anymore anyway..."
- "We need to get to work, the sooner we get this over with, the better"
- "Where's the list?"
- "Here you go"
- "Looks like a standard job. Two people, love at first sight, blahblah. Let me guess; the tall fellow reading that flyer and the blond girl on her bike over there?"
- "Would you read for a change? It's those two guys over there"
- "Eh? Oh, right, right. Stereotypes, you know"
- "Alright then, suggestions?"
- "I say we trip one of them. That usually works"
- "We're not tripping anyone!"
- "Meh, your call then"
- "We'll wait till they happen to look each other in the eyes, then we cast some magic"
- "How banal..."
- "Ah, there's our opportunity, say it with me now..."
- "Oops..."
- "Oops? What did you do?"
- "I might have accidentally caused that cat to be run over by a car"
- "Oh for God's sake..!"
- "Hey, at least I didn't just curse the Boss. You're so going on rainbow duty if he ever finds out"
- "Let's just do what we came here to do and get out of here, alright?"
- "Can I trip one of them?"
- "...Fine, fine. Hurry up"
- "Score! I'll be right back"

on yer bike now

2006-01-04T21:09:00.000+01:00

There's only one company in Holland daring enough to give passenger train travel a shot since it was privatised in the late 1990s and that's the NS. It suffers from strict governmental rules and was fined heavily by the transport department for failing to let 86,5% of trains travel on time in 2005. The actual number that was reached was a disgraceful 84,8% and despite being able to point to all sorts of uncontrollable factors (storms and suspicious travellers/potential terrorists - let's just ban the Arabs from public transport altogether), they were irrevocably fined such a heavy amount that the company is on the verge of bankrupcy.

Not that you would know about the dismal financial state of the company if you had never heard the figures. In order to secure its future; the NS has invested in several prestigious and expensive high speed TGV lines throughout the nation. Combine that with rising petrol prices and the government's campaigns to stimulate 'alternative methods of travel to the car' and the future looks very interesting for Europe's most densely populated nation.

Super high speed trains thunder through towns and cities. People on the roofs are hanging on for dear life as suitcases and wooden shoes occasionally fly off under all the pressure, joining the suspiciously looking Arabs, lying by the sides of the tracks, who were catapulted off the train by security guards. The last three carriages are lost in storms and fires but never mind, we have to keep going: "Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be skipping all stations in order to make it to our final destination on time. We apologise for the inconvenience"

a test of character

2006-01-03T13:02:00.000+01:00

View from a tram-stop in The Hague's East End where ice rain has turned the streets into mirrors:

A front door opens; #473. A man fiddles with his keys and coffee, steps out onto the sidewalk, slips, wobbles, drops his coffee and falls painfully with his behind on the threshold. He sits there for a second or three, gets up, mumbles something along the lines of "Screw this", goes back inside and slams the door shut.

A front door opens; #475. A man fiddles with his keys and a newspaper, steps out onto the sidewalk, slips, wobbles, drops all he is carrying and falls full frontal onto the sidewalk after having hit the doorpost. He gets up, mumbles something along the lines of "Cheeky bastards", carefully continues his journey and joins me at the bench of the tram-stop in front of our houses where I greet him with a big smile and an enthusiastic "Good morning brave soul!!"

Winter is a test of character.

you know you're poor when...

2006-01-02T16:43:00.000+01:00

...you find yourself standing at Media Market™, staring at the cheapest possible washing machine, dreaming about how perfect your life will be when you will be able to purchase it some day in the distant future.

every ending equals a new beginning

2005-12-30T19:15:00.000+01:00

'This might have been a bad idea...'

It tends to take a while before I admit I've made a mistake but struggling to gain even a few meters through a raging blizzard and largely blinded by snow, I'm ready to admit I made a colossal error in thinking I could make it to the supermarket on time before this storm would erupt.

To those of you who are new to this blog, allow me to explain writers have a second voice in their head and so do I. It allows the writer to look back at his pieces and judge them fairly objectively but it has a habit of popping up in other situations as well, sometimes when you don't want it to. Some writers have given it a name, others would refer to it as 'the judge' or 'the one who knows better'. I, however, refuse to go down that path. Fear of multiple personality syndrome, I suppose... My own personal 2nd voice has been blessed with a cynical sense of humour that I've come to appreciate:

'Well... Now is as good a time to die as any, I suppose...'

I carefully continue my path with a broad smile and I use that perfect word 'die' as an introduction to commence my evaluation of the past twelve months, like I always do when the year is slowly perishing. I admire the word 'die' for it's clear lack of lingual difficulties but vast array of meanings and mysteries attached to it. It's an fine example of how a word is being kept simple because its meaning couldn't possibly be caught in grammar, but I digress.

2005 has been a great year. From 1992 until 1999, the balance has always convincingly swung to the negative side and the four years after that were frustrated by neutral outcomes lacking in progress. 2005, however, has seen me book massive victories on so many fronts that I would struggle to name all of them. In short; having lived in Southern Italy for 6 months has taught me more about myself than I thought there was to know and I've emerged a stronger and happier person because of it. It has allowed me to strengthen friendships and draw up a balance of things I find important and gain significant improvement on almost all of them. Looking back; I'm not just satisfied; I'm happy and proud.

Seemingly eager to warn me that every ending equals a new beginning; a gust of wind blows ice and snow in my face and blinds me, causing me to slip, fall and slide down a small hill for a good 5 meters until I hit a tree which offers me an opportunity to recover.

'You're not done yet, lad'

Many goals remain, battles will have to be fought in 2006 as well. I've made great progress and that's something to be satisfied about but that doesn't mean I've reached the finish line yet. Like a bus that just departed from Amsterdam may be 'on its way to Paris and nearing' but that doesn't mean it's even remotely close to its intended final destination.

'A final destination that may very well not lie in this country'

There, it's been said. I'm not done travelling yet. I've lived in England, in Italy and in different places in the Netherlands and that isn't nearly enough. Over the past few weeks, the desires to travel that were largely put to sleep by my experience in Italy earlier this year have awoken again and it won't be long until I pack my bags. Of all roads I could travel on, I'm likely to pick the one that takes me furthest away. It's who I am.

Have a great 2006; may we all reach our desired goals. And when the road gets dark, use a pen to lighten it up.

a Christmas tale | part 3 |

2005-12-21T22:05:00.000+01:00

Inverness Memorial Hospital was pretty much the same as any other random hospital anywhere in the European Union. Christmas decorations failed to hide the true nature of a building where people only came when they were in trouble, making the daily presence of the medical staff inside these walls all the more remarkable. Cameron MacGillivray felt rather miserable about his own particular presence here as he waited for his family to enter the room after the doctor had explained the situation to them. But the first person to enter wasn't a relative; it was Alastair, who took a chair and sat down in silence before he finally opened his mouth and spoke:
- "You will be fine then?"
- "I only have to stay here for a few days. I've been lucky I suppose. Although I could've done without the broken leg and bruised ribs", Cameron replied in a cynical tone
- "And the concussion, perhaps?"
- "Not much to be shaken up in there, Alastair"
Both men burst out into laughter that held on for some time before they calmed down and Alastair picked up the conversation again, steering it where he wanted it to go:
- "You and I, Cameron, we do not possess large amounts of remaining time on this earth..."
- "I know"
- "I conversed with your daughter this morning, she does care, you know"
- "Care about what?"
- "About everything you value as well. But her ways to reach said goals are different to yours, due to both circumstances and choice"
- "She's a good daughter and I'm proud of her but fathers always want the best for their children. I do, anyway"
- "Have you ever told her that?"
- "Well... not as I recall", Cameron said with an attempted smile that failed to cover up the tears that filled his eyes
- "Rather late than never, Cameron. I will ask her to come in here, will I?"
- "That's probably a good idea"

A few moments later, Kate entered the room, uncomfortable and still recovering from the shock of all that had happened in the past few hours. Lost for words, she still attempted to break the silence:
- "Dad, I..."
- "Kate", Cameron said as he raised his hand, "There's something I have to tell you. I can't do much with words, which stops me from expressing what little of all emotions I feel that I actually understand. But one thing I have always felt and still feel is pride. Of you. Of all you've achieved. I could never do any of the things you've done and succeeded in"
- "Thanks, dad, that means a lot", Kate answered
- "So can you forgive an old fool?"
- "Only my old fool", she said with a smile
- "Not much of a Christmas, I'm afraid. You should go back to the villa with the children, this is no place for them"
- "Absolutely not! We've already solved that problem, anyway. Wait, I'll get Heather and the children"

It had taken some persuasion of the medical staff, but they had agreed in the end. As a result; Heather, Alban and Aileen had taken a small trip to some little shops down the road and had returned with enough junk food and Christmas decorations to turn the ice cold hospital room into an acceptable place to celebrate Christmas Eve. The three of them and Duncan, Kate and Timothy entered as if they had just won the national lottery and they quickly conquered the room for the evening. It took them a good half hour to realise their mystery guest had disappeared when Alban noticed the disappearance of Alastair, the man who never even revealed his last name to any of them but whom they felt close to nonetheless.
- "That cheeky old bastard", Cameron said with a smile, "I think we might've spent the past day in the company of a good old fashioned Christmas miracle, people"

A car came to a halt just outside Inverness. A stylish old man wearing a Siberian hat got out and thanked the driver. Humming an old Christmas carol, he walked off and slowly disappeared into the forests of Northern Scotland. A man whose existence was based solely on the belief in him by other people, and who just successfully lengthened that existence with another couple of years. Little could be done about the ways of a cruel world, even by him, and so little is what he had vowed to do. Just a little every year, for many years, and many people.

The end.

a Christmas tale | part 2 |

2005-12-16T15:05:00.000+01:00

Dawn in Northern Scotland and a man who called himself Alastair was getting ready for another cold day. He had been invited to stay the night at the Villa of the MacGillivrays, just as he had expected would happen. There had never been any doubt, really, but that was just the way his existence worked. Being a man of style and class, he carefully followed his daily routine that ensured he projected an image to the outside world he was satisfied with. He dressed appropriately for a freezing but bright day and left the house, looking for a person he knew he would find down the sand path in the Northern parts of the estate. A fifteen-minute walk later, he had reached the shores of a nearby Loch and saw Kate MacGillivray sitting on a rock, overlooking the natural beauty of these vast territories. He approached her with a smile when she had noticed his arrival and gave a cryptic answer when Kate asked him what he was doing up here:
- "Perhaps the same as you"
- "You're a troubled man if this place brings you the same memories it brings me, Alastair", Kate answered
- "You've suffered a tortured childhood, I presume?"
- "Quite"
- "It never is fair when a person finds out life can very hard at too young an age, is it?"
- "Did that come from personal experience?"
- "Partly, not entirely. Tell me, Kate, has the blame been passed yet?"
- "There isn't really any blame to be passed but if there were, it would be passed to myself. I was never happy here, Alastair, I experienced growing up here as living in a jail. I could've tried to make the most of it regardless, but instead I wasted my time day dreaming of the moment I could leave and when it came; I left without looking back. I am happy now, you know, but I just wish my family would support me in my decisions"
- "There is nothing but resistance?"
- "Mum used to understand me but she never had a chance to let my father see my side of the story before she... well...", as soon as she had spoken those words, Kate started to wonder why she was opening up to this complete stranger. There was something reassuring about this man... Or perhaps it just felt good to share her feelings with someone new who wasn't prejudiced towards the situation or the people involved in any way.
Alastair broke the silence with something he had been meaning to say for a few minutes now: "People like your father and I, Kate, we tend to struggle to adjust to these modern times. Even more so when it involves people we care deeply about. The fact that he struggles so greatly with it at least means he cares; which is surely better than indifference, isn't it?"
- "I suppose it is... You appear to be much more open minded yourself though"
- "Well I am a bit older than your father. When you come to my age, everything becomes relative and as the years grow shorter and shorter, a sneaking suspicion arises that you just might have had it all wrong for all this time"
- "Sounds like I might be in for a ride", Kate said as she got up, ready to return before the cold got the better of her
- "You just might be indeed", Alastair answered with one of his broad smiles

Back at the villa, the atmosphere was rapidly changing for the better under the guidance of the children, who couldn't wait for Christmas Eve to finally arrive. After a long lunch which lasted perhaps a little too long for Alban and Aileen, who rapidly disappeared back outside to play in the snow as soon as they could, things had returned to normal in the MacGillivray mansion. The issues that mattered were being ignored and superficial news and happenings were the topics of discussion. They would all love to resolve their issues, but were all aware of their communicative struggles in reaching that goal and a mutual agreement to ignore them had, yet another time, been quietly reached.

Alastair knew his part in all of this would finish today and he prepared for his final carol, knowing the events to come would deeply impact all members of this family

Cameron MacGillivray had come to an age where hanging on to what is and maintaining happiness over it by not shifting focus anywhere else was the only way to live. Feeling excited over the fact that everybody he held dear was under one roof, he looked forward to Christmas Eve when he would have the chance to express what he felt for everyone through the presents he bought weeks ago, after months of preparation. He had decided it was best to take a short nap before an undoubtedly draining evening would arrive and so he was on his way to his bedroom on the first floor of the impressive villa. About halfway up the staircase, his hand slipped off the railing and he was on the verge of losing his balance. He wobbled with wide open eyes, trying to retrieve his balance as he waved his arms around and then he got it. He grabbed the railing with both hands and let out a deep sigh. He laughed, as he mumbled: "Cameron, you old fool..." Relieved, he continued his way but had not learned his lesson as he paid little attention to what he was doing. He put his right foot on the next step, but misplaced it and slipped. Fate didn't give him a single moment to retrieve his balance this time and he fell on his knees and then backwards, tumbling down the hard wooden steps, which was more than his old body could handle. By the time he had reached the floor, he had lost consciousness and was in a very bad state. Duncan, who had heard the noise, came into the hallway from the kitchen and got the scare of his life when he saw his father, lying unconsciously on the floor: "DAD! Heather, ring an ambulance!!"

To be continued...

a Christmas tale | part 1 |

2005-12-08T22:12:00.000+01:00

The car came to a halt about halfway between Invergarry and Kincraig in the Scottish Highlands where an exceptionally strong winter holding Northern Europe firmly in its grip had covered the countryside with snow. A man who introduced himself to others as Alastair in this part of the world got out, thanked the driver and verified his location by looking at the stars as the car drove off. Cold winters were nothing new to the old man who was suitably dressed for this type of weather with a set of clothes that, in terms of style and class, wouldn't have been out of place in Cambridge or Oxford. He arranged his scarf and Siberian hat and turned right onto a small and snow covered road in doubtful shape. He knew where he was going and although it was still quite far away, he knew he was going to be right on time.

Further to the North in a villa far away from any other settlement, the MacGillivray family was preparing for Christmas. Just like every year the head of the family, the old Cameron MacGillivray, had invited the rest of the family to his house where he spent most of his time alone ever since his wife Fiona had passed away several years ago. His son, Duncan, was married to his wife Heather who had grown up in Birmingham and was always thrilled to travel up to the vast and empty territories of Scotland. She had always easily managed to transfer this enthusiasm onto their two children Alban and Aileen although the ten year old boy cared more for embarking on careless adventures on the rough and challenging terrain and didn't share the passion for the animals, in particular the horses, that his mother and 7 year old sister Aileen had in common. He accepted the horses as part of the scenery, but that's as far as his interest went.
Duncan felt very close to his father and had no doubts about the fact that he would one day end up in this villa with his own family, which made his trips here from Edinburgh, where they lived and worked, not just trips, but journeys home. That couldn't be said of his sister Kate, who had escaped Scotland as soon as she could and was now living together in an apartment in London with her partner Timothy. They were both career people of the 21st century who considered marriage to be something that simply didn't fit into their livestyle and little thought had been paid to the concept of parenthood in their modern household as neither of them had any desires towards raising children at this point in time. Those last two facts were painful realisations to Kate's father Cameron and many discussions on those subjects had often lead to a worsening of their relationship. Contary to her brother Duncan, Kate considered her trips up North to be uncomfortable reminders of a past she wasn't in the least bit appreciative of. The only reason she still came here annually for Christmas was because she didn't want to be responsible for a break-up with the rest of the family even though that sometimes sounded like a good idea. Timothy approached all of this with a certain neutrality and welcomed the peace and quiet of Northern Scotland as a nice break from the tube in London which he had come to despise. Any issues between Kate and her family were their issues; not his and he felt that if he did anthing else but offer a listening ear and a helping hand, he would be interfering in business that wasn't his, turning him into the type of person he had never been very fond of.

On this evening of the 23rd of December, Heather and Timothy were giving the children a hand in decorating the Christmas tree. Not that the children appreciated the adult guidance an awful lot but they hadn't been given a choice as Heather and Timothy had taken the opportunity as an excuse to leave Cameron alone with his two children in another room. They all knew the old man's biggest regret was that he hadn't been able to keep his family together and the death of his wife had made him realise he only had a few years left in which he could either give it his best shot to repair the damaged family ties or die a guilty man.

The atmosphere in the dining room was extremely fragile and they all realised it. Cameron MacGillivray was sitting at the head of the table that hadn't been cleared yet with Duncan to his right and Kate to his left. He tried to revive the sentiments from the time when they were all still living under this roof but struggled greatly at doing so:
- "I hope you both realise how much I miss you", the old man said
- "You can't expect us to drop by every week, dad", Kate answered
- "I know, I know"
- "You know Heather and I will move in here with the children as soon as our financial situation allows for it, right?", Duncan said as he attempted to fill a silence void of hope
- "I like that idea", Cameron admitted and he turned to Kate, "Maybe you could too, some day. The house has been in the family for generations so it wouldn't cost you that much and there's plenty of room, even for raising more children...", he hinted
- "Oh my god...", Kate let out a sigh as she put her wine glass down and got up
- "Kate, please", Duncan said, trying to calm her down
- "Will you ever stop with this nonsense?", Kate said to her father as she ignored her brother's comment, "Exactly how many more times are you going to make me feel like a disgrace to the family? It's one thing that you disapprove of my life and how I share it with Tim, but I will not sit through one single more judgemental rant!"
- "But you have to admit", Cameron said as he raised his hand to get everyone's attention, "That yours is not the most honourable way to live. Are you going to be an editor for a newspaper for the rest of your life, Kate? Is that all there is to it?"
- "I will be whatever I want to be for however long I want it", Kate hissed at her father, "And tell me how this is honourable", she continued as she spread her arms, dragging the villa into the discussion, "This place reeks of loneliness and unfulfilled potential. And Duncan", she turned at her brother, "If you want to spend the remainder of your life trying to give your children a childhood comparable to yours although that was never nearly as pleasant and nice as you made yourself believe it was than that is your choice but don't either of you ever tell yourself you have the right to judge me for searching for happiness outside this godforsaken place"
- "This is home, Kate", Duncan replied, "Mum enjoyed living here, why can't you?"
- "Don't you dare bring mum into this!", Kate yelled, "Mum might still be alive if she had lived in a civilised place near a hospital. Heart attacks aren't always fatal, you know!"
- "KATE!", Cameron shouted as he got up faster than his old body could handle. His chair fell backwards onto the wooden floor and he had to lean on the table in order not to fall over. He looked at his daughter fiercer than he had ever looked at her before and said; "This conversation ends here"
- "This was never a conversation. A conversation requires more than one listener", Kate said as she looked at her father and brother before she turned around and left the room, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind her.
- "Are you alright, dad?", Duncan asked as he picked up the chair and helped his father to sit down"
- "I will be", the old man replied as he sat down. Suddenly the doorbell rang
- "Have you invited anyone else, dad?", Duncan asked
- "Not that I recall but it could be that I've been spending a little too much time with my friend Al Zheimer", his father replied, trying to lighten up the tense atmosphere
- "Alright, I'll go see who it is", Duncan replied with a smile

Duncan opened the impressive front door and saw the back of a man in a long coat, wearing a Siberian hat. The man turned around and looked Duncan in the face: "Ah, so you have heard the doorbell, thank goodness. My dear lad, I seem to have got lost and I was wondering if you would allow me to warm up a bit before I continue my journey", the man said.
- "Well...", Duncan hesitated. He looked at the man, who projected a rather stylish and wealthy image and concluded it wouldn't harm anyone if he let him inside; "Alright then, do come in. My name is Duncan MacGillivray and you would be?"
- "The name is Alastair, my lad. Thank you so much for your kindness", the man replied as he entered.

To be continued...

the alternative (social) traffic rules

2005-11-29T16:58:00.000+01:00

A pram does not grant you primacy
Doorways are for passing through, thou shalt not stand still in them
When walking on a busy street; maintain a straight course. Thou shalt not suddenly stop, turn, wobble or zigzag
No matter what your form of transportation: sudden, drastic changes in speed are absolutely forbidden
When lost or confused, you must always eliminate yourself from traffic in order not to annoy other participants with your stupidity
A shopping cart was not meant to be used as a battering ram
Children should always be tied to something, stripping them of any authority and freedom of movement
Pets are outlawed in traffic; they leave the house at their own risk

miscellaneous XXVI

2005-11-25T21:43:00.000+01:00

Title: Be at peace, but keep your eyes open
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Thriller
Written: 25 November 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

BE AT PEACE, BUT KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN

Sergei Grachev was on the phone with his wife to let her know he had finished his work for the day and would be on his way home from the FSK building in downtown Moscow shortly. They were going on holiday later that day and would spend a good two weeks at the nation's beach resorts around the Black Sea. He paid little attention to his assistant Irina when she walked in and put a yellow piece of paper in the 'Incoming mail' box on his desk. The Cold War had ended 6 years ago and this type of message coming in from the West had become more and more frequent since then. Sergei usually handled quite a number of such messages in one day and had come to realise most of them weren't anywhere near important. And so he ignored it when he hung up the phone, put on his coat and left the building in a very good mood.

Moscow was largely snowed in on 25 January 1995 in another cold and long Russian winter. The president of the federation, Boris Yeltsin, was taking some rest in one of the many rooms of the Kremlin with the aftermath of a few glasses of vodka easing his many physical pains. But neither the alcohol in his blood, nor his soar body had had enough time to ease when one of his servants came pounding on his door, shouting the president was needed this instant. His voice revealed an imminent type of haste; time was swiftly running out.

Before he had had a chance to realise exactly what was going on, Yeltsin suddenly found himself in a room down the hall where most of his cabinet was present, be it in person or via videophone. An unidentified missile had been launched from Western Europe; its course unknown. The cabinet had ordered the activation of the Russian nuclear command systems, but none of it could be fired without the president's order.

They had to assume the missile was headed towards Moscow and if that were so; they only had minutes left to respond with a devastating attack. The army's command centres were still failing to predict the path of the missile, and the situation was becoming more hectic by the moment as Yeltsin's staff was urging him to press the red button. All he had to do was press it and the West would be wiped off the face of the earth. And he had to press it now, or never. Time ceased to be important and the cabinet went quiet as the president raised his right hand.

Mere millimeters away from armageddon, he pulled his hand back. It felt wrong, and not just morally. His instincts told him this situation wasn't what it seemed. Things just didn't add up.

Seconds after the moment of truth had passed, the command centres established the missile wasn't heading towards Russian territory and all alert systems were switched off.

-------------------------------------

The missile launched that day from Spitzbergen, Norway, was scientific in nature. A week before, Norway had notified Russia and almost 40 other nations of the launch but that message never reached the right people in the Russian Federal government. Miscommunication and human errors nearly resulted into a nuclear holocaust that would've ended the world as we know it.

On 25 January 1995, the heritage of the Cold War brought us all much closer to annihilation than almost 50 years of polar tension had ever done before. A human being living in constant fear or under constant threat develops a sense of alertness that knows no equal. The Cold War is long over but with the nuclear arsenal still in existence, peace could prove to be our biggest enemy.

no inspiration makes a writer cranky

2005-11-16T16:22:00.000+01:00

whaddaya lookin' at, punk?

miscellaneous XXV

2005-11-13T19:06:00.000+01:00

Title: The choices we make...
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 13 November 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

THE CHOICES WE MAKE...

An uneven, sandy path followed an illogical course through the pine forests that were gently covered in a light fog. A lone traveller came walking down, carrying a backpack over his left shoulder and leaning on a stick he was holding in his right hand. If this were a Hollywood scene, it would've been accompanied by violins or possibly a piano but nothing of the sort was around. The path of life was empty, stripped of all things considered luxuries.

Suddenly a choice had to be made. Without mercy, the path split itself into two; one half going to the right, the other straight ahead. Neither path revealed much of its nature, disappearing swiftly into the mists.

"A cross point", the traveller mumbled. He sat down on a rock, knowing he had to choose but realising a mere 25 years of life experience did not come with a great deal of navigating abilities or knowledge of criteria best considered upon making a decision of the sort.

To continue straight ahead, was to continue on the path he already found himself on. Not necessarily a bad path, but what good is passing time when it does not come with improvement of life? To turn right, however, was to stumble into unknown territory. It could very well lead him to his hopes and dreams, but just as easily to the edge of the world. He looked down at his tired feet and his bleeding knees. The path behind him had been quite rough at the beginning, even though it had stabilised later on. He had fallen several times and though most of the wounds were healing, some would never complete that process. But real people pick themselves up, bleeding knees or not, because they have to. Because what other option is there? Perhaps even, because no matter how bad a situation; they always cherish hope.

"Onwards then!", the traveller concluded. And because 'onwards' contained somewhat of a sense of hope in trying to reach a friendlier path, he turned right. He could not see or know where he was going, but he deemed it worth the risk if there was even the smallest possibility of finding what he had been searching for all those years.

The traveller disappeared into the mists and the cross point vaporised. The world where he had just been ceased to exist because time travelling does not lie within our abilities and we are the sum of the choices we have made.

miscellaneous XXIV

2005-11-06T11:54:00.000+01:00

Title: It's balance that matters
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 06 November 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

IT'S BALANCE THAT MATTERS

NB. Names of characters and situations have been altered to protect the privacy of people involved yet produce a legible story.

"Good evening. This is the eight o'clock news directly from your capital city of Amsterdam. My name is John Murray and this is our top story today:"

As the images changed, Thomas was standing there, paying full attention as he was holding dripping dishes in his hands. The brief overview of the headlines right before the broadcast had made him hurry to the television set. The story started:

"The derailment of today's youth is inevitable. The generation born from 1990 and onwards has been treated in all the wrong ways by society, creating a situation where stress-related health problems are on their highest ever for that age group and their mental abilities to cope with demanding issues is at least questionable."

The image switched to a reporter standing outside the houses of parliament in The Hague:

"Our children have been urged to lead active lives since the moment they could walk out of a new and modern belief that this would help them prepare for adult life. This belief turned out to be false as parliament discussed the alarming figures of youngsters in trouble and the causes for phenomena such as the abnormally high number of young adolescents who receive psychological treatment or guidance today."

After a number of alarming statistics, the image switched back to the reporter:
"Children nowadays have heavier workloads at school than ever before. In addition, it has become socially unacceptable for children and adolescents to refrain from taking part in at least several other social activities, be it the local football club, music school, art class or anything else along those lines. Then from age 13, when it becomes legal for youngsters to find a parttime job, that too is added to an already overcrowded schedule. The modern youth is swarmed with work 7 days per week and has little time for rest, enjoyment or even plain old simple boredom. The lack of time to play or even just be bored has now been proven to stall the mental development of young humans, leading to great problems for a large group of children."

Thomas switched off the box as he had heard enough; he had already suspected all of this but it felt good to have it confirmed on national television.

He thought about the 14 year old that he had come across via his volunteer job just a few days earlier. An adolescent preoccupied with so many things it made Thomas' life seem dull and quiet; yet he was constantly trying to find a balance between university, a job, a volunteer job and at the moment his final paper in addition to that. It made him wonder why anyone would deem youngsters to be capable of dealing with all of it. 'If you never learn to develop an inner calm through boredom or relaxation', he thought, 'how can you be expected to be a balanced soul?'

The 14 year old in question was struggling with all those things and was unfortunate enough to have other issues he couldn't do anything about as well. Parents in divorce, a grandfather that had practically raised him, now living his last days with an aggressive form of Alzheimer's and so on. The child had come to Thomas because he had found ten free minutes in his schedule. He had rambled out his worries to him for 8 of those minutes, then looked at his watch, had excused himself and had prepared to leave. Needless to say Thomas wouldn't let him:

"Where are you going?"
"I have guitar lessons"
"Sit down"
"No, but I have to..."
"You will sit down, now. A vital ability you must possess if you are going to get anywhere in life is to be able to set your priorities. Either you do it now, or I'm going to do it for you"
"But"
"No buts. Your family has fallen apart, your grandfather is in hospital... Have you even allowed yourself to cry over it?"

He collapsed, Thomas' words had reached him. He spent the remainder of the afternoon drawing some conclusions together with the child that he was going to need. Through a difficult selection procedure, they narrowed down 2 things he would like to keep on doing after having analysed a total list of a staggering 9 at least weekly, sometimes daily, activities he somehow took part in. There was school and football and that was all; the rest was going out the window.

Later that day Thomas thought about his own youth. How school was pretty much his one and only obligation and how growing up at the countryside had helped him become who he was today. 'You learn a lot about yourself and life in general if you go out looking for adventure every other day', he thought as he looked outside, 'Crossing a lake in an old bathtub and sinking half way through doesn't just teach you bathtubs don't make for very good boats; it teaches you how to deal with failure, not to shift blame to your friends and that those obligatory rescue swimming classes (with clothes on) you had to take several years back did serve a purpose. It teaches you about responsabilities.'

Responsabilities that had changed through time and now made sure that Thomas was going to use his own, calm, youth to help others with a lack thereof to balance out their lives.

miscellaneous XXIII

2005-11-05T16:22:00.000+01:00

Title: Sneak preview; part II
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 05 November 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

SNEAK PREVIEW; PART II

I got up as I heard disturbing sounds coming from my kitchen. I slowly walked towards it and the closer I came, the more convinced I got that it was some sort of animal... I opened the kitchen door and saw a lion.

"Excellent. This is a dream then", I said out loud, relieved yet also slightly disturbed as to why I was dreaming this.

"Yes it is", the words had come from behind me.

I turned around and stared into a familiar face; "Oh, it's you. It's been a while..."

"Thursday, 9 December 2004, to be exact. But who's keeping track"

"You know what you need to do? Visit me outside my dreams. Make it more real for me, more understandable even perhaps. Besides, dreams get blurry after a while"

"You know that's not how this works. And if dreams get blurry, why don't you write them down. Say, on that blog of yours"

"Yeah why not, I've been a bit low on inspiration lately anyway. So, what's your business this time?"

"You need fixing"

"Well, goes without saying when you're here. Care to be more specific?"

"You stopped dreaming, which is dangerous for a person like you"

"I beg to differ; seems to me I'm doing a great job. There's a lion on my kitchen table", I said as I pointed behind me over my shoulder with my thumb to where the beast was finishing the last of my fruit.

"It looks bored out of its mind. Disillusioned even. Aren't you a Leo?"

"Sorry?"

"Zodiac sign. Isn't yours Leo?"

"Yes but what does that have to do with... Oh, ooohhh. Nice symbolisation, kudos!"

"Let's change the scenery a bit, shall we? Take my hand"

With one bright flash, we found ourselves half way around the world. San Francisco.

"Top of the Golden Gate? Whatfor?"

"To help you remember. Now turn around"

Behind me was the skyline of what I once thought to be one of the most gorgeous cities in the world. Bathing in the sunlight of November, calmly going about her business as if she existed beyond time and space.

"I realise", he continued, "That you've suffered quite a number of disillusioning experiences over the past few months but what you should never have done was give up on your dreams"

"What's the point of this particular dream though?", I said, "It blew up when it became more than clear this autumn that I wouldn't be able to move here for my workplacement. Or move here at all, even"

"You're a fool. Your short-sightedness has always led you to believe nobody ever receives a second chance and that when a dream perishes, it perishes forever. You are wrong. And this particular dream was so big, such a deep-rooted wish, that when you let go; you let go of a part of yourself. I'm surprised you didn't notice the link between that, and the chain-reaction of terrible events that followed"

"Well that's why you exist, isn't it?", I responded bitterly.

"You need to retrieve it. See beyond where you are now; for things will not remain this way for very long"

"They won't?"

"No, but you know I cannot reveal too much of the future to you for your own good. Now, think. You are in your last year of university. If all goes well; you will be graduated this time next year. Then what? Find a job? Settle down? You'll be 23, far too young. Why not pack your bags, move to San Francisco, if only for one year, and get by on various jobs along the lines of bar tender or bus driver?"

"That's an inspiring thought"

"Exactly. Inspiration is the key! Retrieve it and don't dawdle; your soul is off its course and won't be able to exist for very long on a strange path"

"Now you're just creeping me out..."

"Good, then maybe you will listen for once. I must go, time passes by faster on this level and your alarm clock will go off in a few seconds. Remember what you saw here!"

miscellaneous XXII

2005-11-05T11:10:00.000+01:00

Title: When emotions materialise
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 05 November 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

WHEN EMOTIONS MATERIALISE

It's just a little box that I passed on; a little box containing my hopes and dreams that I gave to my best friend. I no longer had any use for them. An ending was near.

Accompanied with music, because that is how my mind works. First the piano, followed by the violins and a cello. Always a cello.

Isn't it true that you hardly ever find what you were looking for? Isn't it true that everything eventually perishes, that you could very well be left with absolutely nothing, until you perish yourself?

We couldn't pull it off; it was a relationship bound to fail. Too much pressure, too many circumstances far from in our favour. There was love, but it wasn't enough.

Come one then, one last hug. You're still not sure exactly what you were looking for, but you're damn certain of what you are about to lose. But you're not alone; we're both here. It's alright, it was an inevitable ending. As the world moves on in it's eternally cruel way, we perish and fall in one last kiss. The ending is a sword that easily cuts out the heart in one stab.

We are the world's most beautiful losers. But little thought is wasted on those who fail in a world obsessed with success.

miscellaneous XXI

2005-11-03T17:10:00.000+01:00

Title: Loneliness is always optional
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 03 November 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

LONELINESS IS ALWAYS OPTIONAL

He knew they were too big. It was the only thing he knew as he continued his way through the streets of Utrecht. November and it was cold and wet but more than anything it was empty. People had sought cover inside their houses, which offered a nice view for the few people out on the streets as the curtains are almost never drawn shut in Dutch culture, unless in times of mourning or sorrow. He saw families getting ready for dinner, couples cuddling on the sofa embraced in candle light and children playing their final games before they had to go to bed.

Too big and that's why he couldn't deal with them. All the issues that he kept inside. The issues that would never leave his mouth; not because he didn't want them to, but because he simply couldn't verbalise them to save his life. Ironically, saving his life is exactly what that might do.

He had come to the discovery that people don't stick around if you don't open up to them. Depending on how much they're interested in you; they might last a little shorter or longer but never for eternity. He wasn't sure if he was just too slow in opening up or simply incapable; but all he knew was that he wasn't doing it the way he was supposed to.

It's an odd form of loneliness. To be in a room filled with people you've known for either all your life or quite some time one way or the other, be it family or friends, and find that none of them really understand you. It was the worst type of pain he had ever known; and he had suffered many.

He couldn't write, sing or paint. He couldn't speak any other languages besides Dutch. And so none of it would come out. If only he could find someone he connected with so amazingly well that... No, he realised love wouldn't be the answer to it; if his issues were going to be dealt with, he would have to do it himself.

From down the street, a woman came running at him and grabbed his arm. She was clearly panicking and struggled to speak; "Sir, you have to help me. I can't find my daughter. She's gone."

He tried to calm her down by taking her hands and looking her straight in the eyes: "Calm down, we'll find her. Take a deep breath and tell me what happened."

The woman seemed to calm down, be it not much, and started to explain: "I went to drop off a package and I told her to stay in the car but when I came back, just five minutes later, she was gone. She's only 7!"

"Did she say anything before you left the car, did she protest?", he asked.

"Oh gosh, I don't... uhm... Wait, yes. She said something about Saint Nicholas..."

He smiled and said; "I think I know where to find your little girl."

He took her by her hand and started walking back to the car and past it, another 50 meters in the same direction before he halted near a shop window filled with Saint Nicholas decorations and the many sweets and chocolate bars that go with it. The little girl had both her hands on the window and her nose pressed firmly against the glass as she looked at some toys, trying to decide which one she would like best for Saint Nicholas Eve on 5 December.

"Sara!", the woman called and ran towards her daughter, holding her so firm it appeared as though she would never let go. When she did, she kept holding her little girl's hand and walked back to the man she now saw as a saviour; "Thank you sir, if it hadn't been for you..."

"I'm sure this evening would still have had a happy ending", he replied.

"I suppose", the woman said as she started to walk back to her car. She halted, turned back around and told him; "It's your eyes, you know. There's a lot of experience and understanding in them. It's reassuring. You've come a long way haven't you?"

"Well... I suppose I have."

"Well, thanks again", she said and walked away.

He overlooked the street and the many windows with light and warmth behind them, drawing the conclusion that even seemingly perfect situations are never safe from derailment. And what if, he thought, he could help those who have fallen, indirectly also helping himself? It seemed like a reasonable thought.

The holidays might be a lot less lonely this year, he concluded.

miscellaneous XX

2005-11-02T23:58:00.000+01:00

Title: If you leave me
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 02 November 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

IF YOU LEAVE ME...

Two o'clock in the morning and I let out a sigh as I stared into the bathroom mirror and leaned on the sink. Bloodshot eyes stared back at me, windows to the soul. I opened the little cabinet next to the mirror and got some painkillers and sleeping pills that I quickly swallowed with some water, hoping they wouldn't restrict themselves to physical pain in doing their duty.

I headed back to the bedroom; which is just about the last place I wanted to be. I stood still at the treshold and realised I'd been there for long enough; lying in my bed, sitting on the lone chair, standing in front of the window... I couldn't possibly spend a minute in this room in a place I hadn't already been today, thinking thoughts I hadn't already thought.

The living room was just about the same when I got there, with the exception that it was now bathing in orange light from a lamppost outside. I never close the curtains in the living room out of a firm believe that the living room should at all times be part of life and never sealed off from it. Life itself seemed to have passed me by, however, as I sat down in front of my 'hall of fame', which consists of a couple of square meters on a blank wall that I completely covered with pictures of family, friends... and him.

"Word it, you fool", the voice in my head cried, "You're a writer; word it... or perish"

I started to think, for the first time since the break-up, I started to really think instead of being paralised by devastating emotions. But none of it passed my high quality demands. They're tough standards and completely self-imposed; if I think of something and I don't feel absolutely comfortable with it, it never leaves my head. I didn't get anywhere as I stared outside, then I looked back at my picture wall, at him, and thought of one little perfect sentence that expressed what I was feeling to the very smallest detail. I took a thick marker pen and wrote it below the pictures on the wall:

If you leave me, could I come along?

miscellaneous XIX

2005-11-02T12:46:00.000+01:00

Title: The million dollar question
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Noir
Written: 02 November 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

THE MILLION DOLLAR QUESTION

They had warned him it would happen, and he had expected it. But this was no time for emotions. Anything else but not emotions. He recalled his lessons as he started to focus on the task at hand and started to count his motives, carefully and precise, one by one. It made him feel slightly better, reassured that he was indeed doing the right thing, but he failed to defeat the nervosity which came soaring back by the time he had come to the end of his list of motives.

It was odd. Very odd and he didn't like it. As the commuter train moved on to the next station under a gentle spring sun, he started to realise he hadn't felt like this in years. The emotions, the doubt, the nervosity... The training he had received was supposed to have dealt with all those things. He had been convinced that at this moment, he would be at complete peace. He wanted to be at complete peace too, rather than feeling things he thought were dead.

He looked up and out the window to verify where they were, how much time he had left. Then he look at this fellow passengers. None of them seemed to have noticed him very much. Good, that's what he needed. He started to recall the hatred of which deep down he knew it wasn't his, it was planted there amidst the confusion that had been his. He started to realise he had let it happen, he had allowed the hatred to grow and that it was unjustified to a large extent. Doubts rose, confusion awoke and nervosity started to scream at the top of its lungs. But it wouldn't work because he lacked a balanced view. A balanced view was all that stood between man and madness. Or man and extremism, perhaps. Doubts weren't enough, neither were suspicions.

They approached the station where he knew it would happen. He waited quitely for his sign. He knew it would come and he knew what he would do. The questions were fading as the task came closer and the conviction grew again. Then, there it was; a mild rumble from distance. People looked up to see where the sound had come from. An unusual sound in a city like this, but most of them would never verify its origin.

He pressed the button on the side of his bag and a powerful explosion ripped apart the train carriage and the station around it. The fire consumed everything in its path as death and terror spread at the speed of light. It was the eleventh of March and Madrid was shaking on its very foundations. Almost two hundred people would perish in the worst terror attacks in Western Europe in centuries and the world could only guess how the terrorists felt when they pressed their buttons.

miscellaneous XVIII

2005-10-22T00:51:00.000+02:00

Title: In reverse
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 22 October 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

IN REVERSE

A lone car slowly struggled through the mists that had invaded The Hague from the sea. Its headlights were on, but failed to reach very far, forcing the driver to maintain a low speed as the car headed east, away from the harbour. The night came accompanied with silence in this part of town, the last ship had sailed several hours ago. The ports of Rotterdam were undoubtedly still busy as always, functioning fully aligned with the modern 24-hour economy of Dutch society and the same rules applied in Amsterdam but The Hague's seaport, caught in between and struggling to stay up under the fierce competition from its neighbours, had considerably less to do after sunset.

It allowed suspicious characters to go about their business unnoticed. In one of the many back alleys between warehouses and small shops, one man was working his way through a window in order to gain access to a warehouse filled with a shipment of technological products imported from Japan. Low on moral and money but substantially higher on greed, he started to look around, searching for boxes with products he could sell for the most money. The best deal imaginable was something small and light but relatively expensive. He passed by the television sets and ignored the dvd players but halted when the light of his torch caught a stack of boxes filled with ipods. He looked satisfied and easily opened the doors of the warehouse from the inside; after which he started to load his inconspicuous dark blue van.

Around the corner stood a guard. He was nervous. New on the job. He recalled his training as he gently took his gun out of its holster and he took a deep breath. Realising it was now or never, he turned around the corner in a quick and subtle movement, ordering the criminal to halt his business immediately and raise his hands in the air. But the criminal caught the young guard by surprise, in a duel that was proposterously out of balance. An old and experienced robber without a conscience against a young guard, barely wearing his uniform long enough to be comfortable in it. The burglar drew his gun in a matter of split seconds and fired it without hesitation. The bullet soared through the air faster than the eye can witness, but not nearly fast enough for a writer to fail to catch it and describe it. Its head had no trouble fighting off the futile and little resistance put up by the air as it picked up speed and continued on its straight course towards the chest of the guard, who saw his life pass before his eyes. His parents, his friends, his girl whom he had planning on proposing marriage to. All of it seemed futile now. Empty, even, as his life was about to end.

Stop.

The scene froze, the earth came to a stand-still. The bullet hung powerless in the fixed sky as seconds turned into eternities. Out of the fog came a shadow, a man. Humming an old and popular song, he smiled as he approached the rooted scene. He stopped at the bullet, bended over slightly and leaned towards it to get a good look. His face was mere millimeters from the lethal object, as he let out a sigh and mumbled: "No, this just isn't right..."

He gently touched the bullet, holding it between thumb and index finger before turning it 180 degrees so it faced the opposite direction. He looked at the scene once more and drew his conclusion: "Much better. Couldn't very well let this happen indeed. This is my story, after all. I am the writer."

Now, if only I could do this in real life...

miscellaneous XVII

2005-10-16T16:22:00.000+02:00

Title: Despair is a poem
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Poetry
Written: 16 October 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

DESPAIR IS A POEM

The highest point in the province was a dune-top that few visited this time of year, as autumn had a strong tendency to be windy or at least wet. It never stopped the poet, who faced wind and rain to make it to the top. He made it despite the resistance of the elements and spread out his arms as he shouted his despair to the wind:

THREE MORE YEARS!
I give it three
More will never come
Longer will never last
The life put out before me
Will not reach its end intended
The pain, the sorrow, the hardship
No more, no more

What did I do to earn this fate?
I give up, hear it and remember
This is my cry
My final cry

THREE MORE YEARS
Until I pull the plug
Just a couple more
Already I'm eager to finish
But hope stops me from doing so right now

Futile hope
Naive and pointless
It's always been around
Never answers the question why
Never justifies its existence
An existence without foundations

THE REASON
Is gone
All I ever wanted
Was an end
An end to this
All this
Loneliness
Pain
Depression
But I failed
Nothing I tried worked
I tried hard
Very hard
But it hasn't changed a thing

THREE MORE YEARS
To the date
25 I will turn
26 I will not
I have given up
I leave it all to chance
Chance has three years
To the date

let's talk football

2005-10-02T13:21:00.000+02:00

An exam on Monday morning has been messing up these past few days as I have to study for it (of course) as well as meet deadlines of other courses. As a result; I haven't seen much social activity the past couple of days and I decided to go to a football match on Saturday evening just so I could be out of the house for a couple of hours.

FC The Hague is a steady mid-table team in the Dutch Premier League after their promotion a few years ago. They have some good players but above all, a rich history and nice fans; disregarding the small group of hooligans who insist on calling themselves fans despite being something completely else.

I bought the cheapest ticket I could find (14 euros) since I'm a bit short on money these days and I sat behind one of the goals as a result. This picture was actually taken from the stands where I was sitting:

Those stands look like this when you're sitting somewhere better:

It was an excellent match where The Hague sensed it could get some points off of RKC Waalwyk (equal mid-table team, although, credit where credit is due: their players are better individually speaking). The match had everything; goals, yellow cards, a red card, a hands-ball by a The Hague player in the penalty area but the referee didn't notice it and much more. A short summary:

15' The Hague scores: 1-0. A superb counter attack where Jonas Kolkka flies down the left flank, passes the ball to the centre where striker Geert den Ouden volleys it in the goal.

18' Jonas Kolkka pulls into the penalty area but is floored by RKC defender Van Diemen, who receives a yellow card. The referee awards The Hague a penalty kick but the keeper saves a mediocre kick by Saeijs.

27' RKC are going forward, inspired by their goalkeeper who saved the penalty kick.

38' RKC's greatest talent Benjamin de Ceulaer from Belgium outplays two defenders on the right flank, passes a low ball into the centre where Van de Haar needs but tap it past the keeper: 1-1.

42' Defender Van Diemen of RKC tackles The Hague midfielder Elia but comes too late and receives his second yellow card of the afternoon. The crowd demands victory and goes wild.

49' The Hague builds up the pressure in the second half.

57' A corner kick for The Hague: Kolkka aims it well at the centre but shots by Saeijs and Elia on the rebound are blocked. However, RKC fail to get the ball out of the area and Roy Stroeve manages to get his foot against it in a skirmish in front of the goal and the keeper reacts too late to stop it: 2-1 to The Hague.

68' The Hague are in control but RKC occasionally break out with a sharp counter attack, usually through Benjamin de Ceulaer; but he fails to get past The Hague keeper De Vries.

77' A handsball by Saeijs in the penalty area and it should have been a penalty kick to RKC. The referee didn't see it, however, and allows play to continue.

89' In the final minute of the match: The Hague nearly make it 3-1 from a counter attack but Kolkka shoots only just wide. The referee whistles for the end.

So an excellent match overall. Too bad it started raining worse than I had seen in a long time around and during half-time:

Now, I actually missed the winning goal because the stadium (built in 1925) leaked worse than the Titanic and I was fishing my bag out of a puddle of rain water that had formed under my chair. Thank god they're building a new stadium.

Anyway, I had a nice night out. Now it's back to studying.

miscellaneous XVI

2005-09-27T18:31:00.000+02:00

Title: Bruocsella no longer burns
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 27 September 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

BRUOCSELLA NO LONGER BURNS

The sounds were the worst. Oh, he hated the sounds. The metal of the swords, the screams of men dying. Good men, most of them. Men with wives and children.

Pull yourself together or a certain death awaits, you fool!

Routhen of Jhet struggled to breathe as he attempted to control his panic. He had to get up if he was going to save his life. He had to get up and fight his way out of this mess. But getting up was exactly what all his insticts were telling him to avoid. The illusion of safety provided by the small blackberry bush he was hiding behind may have been an illusion; but it kept him out of the battle for the moment and that was enough to create a sense of reluctance towards any movement the rational part of his mind was urging him to. But Bruocsella was already burning and time was swiftly running out for the town situated on the banks of the river Zenne as the enemy had entered the gates and the fight had moved to the streets where fire consumed houses and castles alike.

The sixteen year old husband and father of a beautiful daughter got his act together and stood up. Now full of concentration and rage, he looked around, spotted his targets and started running towards them, unaware of the powerful yell that was coming from his mouth. The first soldier barely saw him coming as Routhen sliced his throat open in one movement, moving on while disregarding the blood of his victim that had spraid onto his face. The second soldier repelled the first strike as his sword collided with that of Routhen. They looked each other in the eyes before Routhen wore him off and kicked him in the chest hard enough for the experienced soldier to fall onto his back and loose his weapon. Routhen's sword came soaring down but only hit sand as the soldier swiftly rolled over to his right and kicked Routhen's feet from under his body. Struggling to get up, Routhen was too slow and got punched in the face by the soldier who attempted to buy time to retrieve his sword. Routhen quickly responded as he saw the injured soldier crawl to his blade: he grabbed his knife from his boot and started running at the soldier with only one goal in mind; killing him. The soldier reached his sword, turned around and held it up as Routhen threw himself down with the intent to cut the soldier's throat. The sharp blade quickly tore through Routhen's weak armor and cut through his body in a split second. The soldier pulled his sword back and pushed Routhen to the side, where he landed in the dust, already in the process of drowning in his own blood. The soldier crawled back until he hit a brick wall to lean against and was left overwhelmed as he stared at Routhen, who turned his head in the direction of the soldier, looked at him, reached out with his hand and whispered for help. Routhen coughed up blood, gasped for air and then perished as his body surrendered to internal bleedings and punctured organs.

Nearly 1,000 years later, dust had been replaced with marble, and brick walls with glass and steel. Men in suits walked around in hallways of immense buildings filled with light. One such man was slightly nervous but also excited as he headed for the AVDITORIVM where he was going to address the European Parliament in Brussels, the heart of Europe. He climbed the platform and the gigantic room went quiet as he cleared his throat and started his speech: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the people of the European Union. Goodmorning and welcome to this special meeting of the European Parliament in which we will take one day to look back and remember why we do our jobs. Our motives are diverse and some are quickly forgotten or taken for granted; such as peace. Sixty years, ladies and gentlemen, sixty consequetive years to the day has Western Europe lived in absolute peace. Did you know that is a record? Never before in history has peace triomphed for such a long period of time in our corner of the world. That alone, is worth the existence of our Union."

A powerful applause erupted in a place where war reigned supreme until 1945. A place where skyscrapers now rise and make for an impressive sight but even these powerful buildings are deeply humbled by what has been achieved behind their doors.

miscellaneous XV

2005-09-20T22:03:00.000+02:00

Title: The sound every actor loves
Category: Truth-based Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 21 September 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

THE SOUND EVERY ACTOR LOVES

"Solid acting again, mate"

Wednesday evening and I had dressed up to go to the theatre and see my friend Thomas play in an amateur production of Romeo and Juliet. Thomas, of course, played Romeo. Who else?

"Yeah, I'm pretty good aren't I?", Thomas said, giving me one of his trademark broad smiles.

We'd been friends for many years, despite being complete opposites of each other. There was Thomas; lively, social, optimistic and popular and then there was me; struggling in most aspects of life but trying to make the best of it as I deliberately avoided popularity by staying in Thomas' shadow. 'Don't try to be what you're not', was my motto but Thomas preferred to live by his own rule; 'Find the limit, then kick it's arse'

"You know", Thomas interrupted my line of thought, "This is the best part of theatre for a person like you. Come over here", he tapped next to him on the edge of the stage, where he was sitting.

I joined him, curious, and asked him to clarify; "Hardly a place a writer would call home, this..."

"Sshh, just be quiet and lie back. Listen", Thomas told me.

Lying on our backs on the edge of a stage with our legs dangling down, I was reminded of how we used to dream when we were young. I looked and saw fading lights. I listened and I heard creaking, abandoned chairs.

"To an actor", Thomas broke the silence, "This is the sound of fulfillment, probably even success. I love this sound"

I said nothing.

"But I know that, to you, this is the sound of solitude and defeated hope. Abandoned chairs, an empty stage... You don't possess the talent to look beyond the first dimension"

I still kept quiet. That was unacceptable for Thomas, it always was. He knew my thoughts because he knew me and he, unlike me at this point, knew exactly where he was going with this. And I would go along, whether I wanted to or not.

"Come here", he said as he pulled me into his arms and I put my head on his chest, "I know you need confirmation every now and then and I'll keep giving it to you: you will not end up alone, OK?"

"You don't know that", I said in sincerity.

"People like you don't end up alone, Rikkie. If you can't trust the ways of the world, at least trust what I say"

"I can do that", I said after which a short silence was followed by a realisation that made me laugh.

"What?", Thomas asked.

"I'm lying in the arms of Romeo", I told him with a chuckle.

"And a damn good Romeo at that!", Thomas replied with a smile, "Now if you would kindly retreat so I can get up; I promised Sandra I'd meet her backstage and besides, my arse is starting to feel a bit flat..."

"Such a good arse too", I said as I got up.

"You'll be fine?", Thomas inquired.

"Always. Go, your girlfriend is waiting"

In a now completely deserted theatre hall where my presence was the only thing to counter the emptiness, I started walking towards the exit. I opened the large wooden door and it creaked. So did some persistent chairs.

"The sound of success, then...", I whispered with a smile, before I turned around and left. The door closed with a bang, confiding the sound that every actor loves to an empty room where nobody could hear it.

a sunday on the verandah

2005-09-18T16:52:00.000+02:00

- "Exactly what are you doing up here?", my brother asked me.

"I'm looking for some good music. My music collection is too big and I distinctly remember putting a big box of LP's on the attic about a year ago..."

Or was it the cellar?

"No... I don't think so"

- "Who are you talking to?", My brother asked me, looking at me in a funny way.

"The voice in my head. All writers have a second voice in their head", I replied.

- "They do?"

"I just told you didn't I?"

Definitely cellar, writer-boy. It ain't here, that's for sure.

"Bugger..."

- "I'm losing you again", brother said.

"I think it might be in the cellar after all... Bah, I really need to find some good tunes to chill at. It's a sunny autumn-Sunday; what else is there to do but sit in the glazed verandah with a blanket, some music and a good cup of tea?

- "What happened to spending some quality time with a pen, paper and, apparently, a voice in your head which, by the way, is starting to frighten me."

"I don't feel like thinking. Oh! I found it! Aahh, the smell of victory!"

Bah...

"Regarding the second voice; if you think that's strange, you should have a conversation with a poet", I said to my brother as I opened the box filled with LP's.

- "They have more?", he asked, only mildly fascinated.

"Poets are out of their fucking minds, pardon my French. Oh, I need you to take that with you while I carry this box, please", I said to my brother as I pointed at my laptop.

- "What for?"

"Diana e-mailed me some music from her cousin; Santiago Vazquez, isn't that a gorgeous name, by the way? Anyway, he plays in a band called Abika and they're quite good; they're just in it for fun I think but they write all their own music and I kinda like it. I'll show you their website in a minute."

Ten minutes later in the glazed verandah and I had successfully turned my brother into a fan of the band Abika by letting him hear the song Muñeca.

I wish you all a great Sunday, with some enjoyable music (I really recommend Glenn Miller on an old phonograph for such occasions). Take it easy, forget about yesterday and tomorrow and just relax. I know I will!

miscellaneous XIV

2005-09-15T17:07:00.000+02:00

Title: (When it's raining) Harder than you can handle
Category: Fiction
Style: Noir
Written: 15 September 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

(WHEN IT'S RAINING) HARDER THAN YOU CAN HANDLE

Probably the only thing Tobias had learned from the events in the past few months was that it's all about moments and a logical but unjust assumption that there will always be more. He knew this, but didn't think about it much; he spent most of his days reminiscing about the past and he did the same this time as he got dressed in front of a large mirror. While he was tying his tie, his mind wandered off to his first moments in this house on the countryside. They hadn't been nearly as lonely as the current space of time.

He stopped and thought about that moment 7 months ago when Anna had come through that door with a box in her arms, saying that was the last one. They had shared a candle-lit dinner on a blanket on the floor in between countless, unpacked boxes and they had made love like never before later that evening.

The house was empty again, now. Except for one last suitcase and the mirror that Tobias was going to leave behind. He thought back again, as he reached for his coat.

Five months ago, Tobias had come home from a day's work and had found the mirror in their bedroom when he had gone to change clothes. Upon asking Anna about it, she had replied it was a present from her aunt, which was also the only reason she hadn't thrown it out yet. She had thought it was hideous, but had valued her family ties. Tobias never knew a more socially-knowledgable and diplomatic person than Anna, he realised. He sometimes hadn't been able to help feeling hopelessly incompetent around her on social gatherings.

He satisfied himself about his outfit and general look one final time by looking into that same mirror, before he turned around, picked up the suitcase and started walking towards the front door, thinking about how Anna had left this house through the same door on a foggy Monday morning just a few weeks ago.

Involved in her usual messy procedure of leaving the house, which had always been more stumbling around with her hands full than anything else, she had left, yelling a goodbye and an-I love you at Tobias, which he had softly answered, focusing as he always did on not spilling tea while pouring it.

What had happened to her from that point onwards was knowledge instead of memory to him. Car accident, the police officer had said and that's all Tobias wanted to know. It was enough.

Closing the door behind him, he started walking to his car, escaping a bit further from the memories with every step he took. He didn't want to forget about Anna, all he had ever wanted was to grow old with her, but he could no longer live in this house where every square inch reminded him of her and of their love. And so Tobias had decided to leave, in a desperate attempt to escape the pain.

Because, when it's raining harder than you can handle, sometimes all you can do is run away.

going on brussels

2005-09-13T18:46:00.000+02:00

Monday morning, far too early and I managed to drag my arse out of bed. It really was in my best interest to do so as today, we would be going on a little field trip to Brussels to inspect the European institutions and the exam the following week would be based on this excursion. You know you're in for a rough ride when you get to university at exactly the right time the bus is supposed to leave and you still find yourself waiting for an hour before you actually depart.

Once on the bus I felt a desire to close my eyes but that wasn't going to happen. One of the professors (a dumb, annoying little man with a poodle-haircut and Harry Potter glasses) took the microphone and started babbling about what we would be doing that day: "So as you all hopefully know, we will be going to Brussels. Does anyone of you not belong on this bus? Haha"

Yeah, that's not funny...

After a long, long busride that I spent talking with Diana, we finally arrived in the Belgian capital. I managed to sleep through the first presentation which was really about nothing. Something about the power of the European regions blahblah who cares? I woke up about the time that it was over and Diana asked the presenter a question; which was closely followed by the poodle-haircut. Or rather, SHE was. If you're following a discussion, as an outsider, you would be looking at the person who is talking, changing view when the speaker and listener switch position, right? Not this fellow, who was a bit too interested in Diana for her liking, but to my and some other classmates' amusement.

Lunchtime and we skipped the group to fix ourselves a nice baguette downtown. My experience with speaking French in Brussels is humiliating to every extent and I would prove it to be a just record again today:

"Parlez-vous Italiens?"
"Non"
"Oh... uhm... Je voudrais... uhm... une baguette... con, eh no, avec... mozzarella, s'il vous... uhm"
"Bon"
"Et aussie une..."
"4 Euro, s'il vous plait"
"Oh...ok"

Bitch. I also wanted an ice-tea, dammit.

The second presentation of the day was the interesting part. Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the official meeting room of the Council of Europe, where Jacques Chirac and Gerhard Schroeder always attempt to screw over the rest of the Continent. Not this time though because sitting on the seat of Tony Blair, representing the United Kingdom, was yours truly and we were about to simulate a meeting in order to fully comprehend the difficulties of pan-European co-operation.

When the cards had been dealt, they weren't pretty. The topic of discussion was Turkish entry into the European Union; the vast majority was against starting negotiations and only a small minority (lead by me) was supportive of this plan.

Being vastly annoyed by all the procedures that must be followed before a meeting starts, I was listening restlessly as the European Commission presented the case (a plan to start negotiations with Turkey in October), followed by an outline of the discussion by the president of the meeting, followed by a stream of arguments from the opposing party.

Finally it was my turn. I won't bore you with all the arguments I presented but it lasted a full 10 minutes and covered every aspect, from economics to politics to history and human rights. The opposition had to cave in to this stream of fluent arguments in the English language and the case was accepted.

I received some compliments from the professors and the instructor working at the European Council who organised this simulation, although she did mention that if this had been real; I would have been likely to cause a major conflict; being far too passionate and stubborn.

Oh well. I don't want to be a politician anyway...

We took a group photo and headed back to the bus, where I had to use all my social skills to avoid the nerds of the group who wanted to have fierce discussions with me on the European Union:

"Honey, I don't actually care. I just like to win stuff... Leave me alone."

I slept through most of the way back and rang my mum when I got home.

What can I say; I'm a mummy's boy...

political column I

2005-09-11T15:36:00.000+02:00

Freud blamed it all on the parents and as is usually the case with Freud; he was wrong, but he did spark a debate of vital importance. I'm talking about homosexuality. The discovery of a 'gay gene' in 1993 revolutionised thinking, indicating it was a case of nature rather than nurture. Research into the origins of sexuality is currently booming again and some of the results are indeed astonishing. But how will we interpret the facts?

The studies are wide and will prove to be very important in the near future. Although the discovery of the gay gene in 1993 (Xq28, found in a specific region of the X chromosome) did not revolutionise the world with the exception of the Dutch Kingdom, the currently conducted studies will force us all to make some decisions in our approach to various issues, not just sexuality.

Several aspects in society are on a collision course, driven by new scientific facts. Although homosexuality momentarily has the spotlight (partly thanks to The Guardian, 29 August 2005, which sparked this column too), pedophilia, for example, will also require a new approach very quickly.

Up until today, pedophilia has usually been treated as a mental disease and, of course, a deeply criminal act once the pedophiles would act on their feelings. Many Western nations (especially in Europe) offer pedophiles who have been convincted of such acts psychiatric treatment which would cure them and give them a chance to build a new life after they did their time in prison.

One cannot, however, cure a biological, physical illness with mental treatment.

If modern scientists were to be proven right when their researches finish in a few year's time and pedophilia is indeed a matter of biology, rather than psychology, that means that every 'cured' pedophile walking around freely today is in fact far from healthy. Most likely, going by society's standards today, pedophilia will be classified as a biological illness and a medical cure will be sought as soon as the researchers finish their work in the direction they're currently going.

However, if pedophilia is an illness, why not homosexuality too?

Even the Dutch will never legalise pedophilia out of a strong belief that children should be protected at all times. However, as near-impossible as it is for any nation to even consider legalising pedophilia, that is exactly how easy it is for other nations to criminalise homosexuality. There are plenty of cultures on this earth that will take the evidence that homosexuality has biological causes and use it as proof that it is an illness.

The facts are shaping up and will soon be inevitably official, supported by enormous amounts of scientific research. How we interpret them, however, is subjective to culture and circumstances. Where do we draw the line between health and illness and how do we create laws that offer the right amount of freedom to the right people without discriminating in an unjust way? Our modern democracies are about to be put to a severe test, prepare to join the debate because we will all be affected.

Erik Pleyte
11 September 2005

miscellaneous XIII

2005-09-06T22:59:00.000+02:00

Title: Dedicated to the victims of depression
Category: Fiction
Style: Noir
Written: 07 September 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

DEDICATED TO THE VICTIMS OF DEPRESSION

The dark pine forests were abandoned in the midst of a cold winter night that seemingly breathed peace and quiet under a clear sky with countless stars. Sheltered in a quiet air that was left undisturbed by winds, fog was allowed to quietly conquer the silent atmosphere.

But not all was at peace. Quiet whispers without a clear origin drifted from tree to tree, echoing around as if in a cave and they were upsetting a young boy, who was lost in this unforgiving territory. With his back against a tree, he sat uncomfortably on the cold forest floor as he was trying hard not to hyperventilate in a desperate attempt to control his panic and slow down his heartbeat.

Welcome to Johnny's world. Where moments of happiness are scarce and demons are always nearby. His hands trembled as the 8 year old wrapped his arms around his pulled-up knees, quietly singing a song his mother taught him as tears rolled down his cheeks and his broken voice whispered the words: "Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky"

The whispers came closer; 'You better run, Johnny. We're coming for you'

Johnny squeezed his eyes shut, put the palms of his hands against his ears and continued: "Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are"

The hairs in the back of his neck stood up as the fog itself started to retreat for an approaching evil. Johnny screamed, stood up and started to run away without knowing where to go. Branches hit him in the face and he fell down several times but paid no attention to the bruises and the wounds as he kept running. Running as fast as he possibly could but not nearly fast enough.

Another voice called out his name. A soft voice this time. Caring, full of love: "Johnny"
He didn't stop, he barely listened as his panic increased: "I can't hear you. Nono. Twinkle, twinkle, little star"
The voice called out to him again: "Johnny. Johnny, listen to me; you have to stop running"
"I can't", Johnny replied, bursting out into tears.
"Johnny, it's alright", the voice said, "It's alright. You can slow down. Nobody will harm you"
"The demons will catch me", the boy whispered, out of breath, but now finally slowing down.
"They won't, Johnny, you're stronger than they are. But you have to face them, you can't keep running away"
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star"
"Johnny, listen to me, I can get you out of this horrible place but you have to do what I tell you"
"But... I keep ending back up here...", the boy mumbled in a testimony of hidden disillusionment.
"Don't stop trying, Johnny. One day you will win"
The boy pulled himself together and prepared himself for another quest for salvation simply because it was the only thing to be done. He looked up to the stars, wiped off his tears with the back of his hand and softly whispered: "One day I will win... Or die trying"

just a rant

2005-08-26T17:25:00.000+02:00

Fuck I'm pissed. And I mean pissed.

In the early morning, I am capable of drawing the most remarkably insane conclusions: such as this morning at 8 when I figured that if I switched off my alarm clock completely instead of using the snooze mode (don't you just hate the snooze? I can't help but lie there and count down till it starts beeping again), I'd surely wake up again in just one hour's time or something.

I was wrong.

Clock struck 1 in the afternoon and I opened my eyes. When I wake up that late, I never really wake up at all and a disastrous day is inevitable. One shower and 4 outfits later (I can never decide what to wear - I'm the reason the word 'meterosexual' was invented), I got out of the house carrying a paper cup of coffee, keys, a bag and the morning newspaper.

Despite having stuck one of those official stickers on my mailbox that read "NO JUNKMAIL PLEASE" and that actually make it illegal for anyone to still dump junkmail in there, I still had to kick a fair amount of flyers out of my door onto the sidewalk. That's right, kick, I'll be damned if I kneel down to pick any of it up!

Happily blowing in the wind were a postcard and a notice from the postman, who were presumably covered under all the flyers where I couldn't see them. Ten yards of running, jumping and cursing later, I had recovered them. The postcard from Willem in San Francisco (love you man, knock 'em dead!) was a pleasant surprise, the notice from the postman wasn't: "Dear Sir, At 9.30 this morning I did not find you at home and so I delivered a parcel that needed to be signed for at the post office in your district where you can pick it up. Sincerely, your postman"

Twenty minutes later I arrived at the post office of my own district, filled with frustration because the post office of the district next to mine is only three minutes away. Just through the door was Salesperson #1 of the day, trying to sell me an umbrella: "Sir, a minute of your time please! Sir! Don't walk away! OK, I'll follow you because you really need to have a look at my fine umbrellas!"

"You do realise I'm holding a cup of super hot coffee, right?"

Next stop was the public library where I had to print some stuff and make a photocopy of my passport for reasons I'll explain later. Gotta hate those idiots they have working at places like that. It seems to be self explanatory that as long as an institution is governmental, you needn't really work cause the money will come anyway.

"Hi, I would like to print something, here's my library card."
When a scanner doesn't pick up a card after 10 attempts, everyone draws the conclusion it's not going to work, right? Not this particular bright member of staff though. I actually had to tell him what to do: "I don't think that's going to work. You'll have to type the number of the card into the computer"
"Yeah... maybe"
At this point he actually sighed because the number had a whole 9 (!) digits. What the FUCK?!
"2...4...7...3... Oops, I forgot to switch on numlock. 2...4...7..."
"Alright, enough, give me that goddamn keyboard, GIVE IT!"

The whole thing took 45 minutes...

Outside there was, of course, one of those people conducting a market research by asking innocent people dumbfuck questions: "Sir, a moment of your time please. Sir?"
I politely refused and attempted to walk on but she actually grabbed my arm!
"You touch me again and you die."

Next stop: Zuiderpark Stadium where the administration desk of the city's football club is located. I was going to file in an application for a club card (which is why I needed those prints and a photocopy of my passport), which you need to have if you want to buy tickets to the games. Part of a new law to track down hooligans or something, whatever, doesn't matter, the damn thing is free anyway.

For those of you not familiar with The Hague; the Zuiderpark stadium can be reached with tramline 9, which travels through a less... intellectual part of town. 'Hick-city', as I like to call it. Surrounded by funny-looking, awfully-smelling and shouting ignorants, I prayed for the tram to hurry on. I hate this type of people, because they're not actually dumb. I hate them, because they're poor and they decided not to do anything about it. I grew up poor too; it's not an excuse for anything. These people, like me, were offered education. They took it, but then decided to just not use it in any way. They are the most horrible kind of people and I have no respect for them. Especially when they start annoying me directly: "Well ain't you dressed all fancy-pancy, you a rich kid, blondie?"

"Rich? No. It's called 'strong' or, alternatively, 'determined'. Now leave me alone."
"Ain't lacking in arrogance either, is you?"
"What do you think my last sentence meant, you ignorant hick? Leave me alone, A-L-O-N-E, AY-LONE."

And to think I had to bare all that for nothing... The administration office's opening hours turned out to be somewhere between midnight and sunrise and, of course, on the lovely holiday of Saint You're-Fucked.

It just wasn't my day.

miscellaneous XII

2005-08-25T00:05:00.000+02:00

Title: On the edge
Category: Truth-based fiction
Style: Noir
Written: 25 August 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

ON THE EDGE

"Why... Why did you bring me back there?", I whisper from behind my hands that I put up to cover most of my face. I slowly relocate them and run them through my half-long blond hair while my bloodshot, weeping, eyes stare at nothing.

"You had to go back there. I know it's hard but we wouldn't have done it if I didn't think you could handle it. It's important that you strongly remember those emotions, that situation", my therapist replied as she kneeled in front of me.

"Is this your idea of shock therapy?", I asked her with a meager smile.

"Something like that", she smiled back at me, "What's important is that you keep this session in the back of your head. And while you do that, remember how far you've come since those dark days. How hard you've fought and how much you've won. You forget your victories too easily, that's your biggest problem."

I stared out of the window of the old building, looking at the deciduous tree forest that bordered the city and stretched out to the horizon under the setting sun. Autumn, and nature was changing its colours. My stare was interrupted by my therapist; "Our self confidence grows after every achievement. We need self confidence to develop and grow to fulfill our potential. Your potential is great but if you fail to remember your achievements, you won't be able to realise any of it."

"Sounds logical", I replied.

"Good. Now, you have a date tonight, right? Are you looking forward to it?", she continued.

"Yes", I replied with a bright smile as I remembered Sean's great smile and magical eyes.

"Excellent. For tonight, I want you to forget all about your worries; stop thinking of the risks of dating and the slim chances of finding love and all those other negative thoughts you've put in your own head. I want you remember that, for you, every day is yours and yours alone and if you stop being so overly cautious: everything will develop to your advantage eventually. Can you do that?"

I thought about her words, about my very old and now refreshed emotions, my current life and my hopes and dreams and replied; "Yes. Yes, I can."

45 minutes earlier

"I need you to remember", the therapist spoke, "that you are only under hypnosis. You are absolutely safe. When I clap my hands, you will wake up, remembering everything of this session. Do you understand?"

"Yes", I replied.

"Good. I want you to go back to your adolescence, to when you were fifteen years old. What do you see?"

"It's the last day of August and I'm packing my bag for the first day of school tomorrow."

"OK, that's very good. Now I need you to go a bit further into time. Past the first months of the academic year and onwards to January."

"No, I don't want to", I replied with a broken voice.

"Please, you have to. Remember, you're only under hypnosis. I need you to go to the evening of a very difficult day in January, do you know which day I mean?"

"Yes", I reluctantly admitted.

"What do you see, Erik?"

"I'm cycling."

"Where to? What are you going to do?"

"The channel bridge. I'm going to jump off it."

"What do you feel?"

"Pain", I replied with the first tears rolling down my cheeks.

"OK now I need you to move a bit further again. To when you've climbed on the bridge railing. Is there nobody around?"

"No. I'm all alone. There's nobody, there never is. I'm always alone."

"What do you feel?"

"It's slippery because of the rain. It's cold and dark and lonely and I'm a failure. I only hurt people and it needs to stop. I'm crying and I can't see, I can only hear the voice in my head."

"What is the voice telling you?"

"That I have to jump", I crawled up and burst out into tears as I remembered, "I have to jump because my life is a disaster and I have to end it before I cause any more pain for other people. It won't matter because I'm worthless anyway. I won't be missed."

"But you didn't jump, did you Erik? Why not? What happened?"

"I refuse", I whispered, "I don't want to die, I want to make things right."

"OK Erik now listen carefully; I'm going to count to three and clap my hands and when I do, you will wake up and remember everything that just happened. One, two, three."

miscellaneous XI

2005-08-21T21:36:00.000+02:00

Title: Inspiration, where art thou?
Category: Truth-based fiction
Style: Comedy
Written: 21 August 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

INSPIRATION, WHERE ART THOU?

A desperate writer will do anything for inspiration and so a wooden attic-hatch flew open in an old pre-WWII building in San Francisco's East End, creating dust clouds as it hit the floor behind it.

"Oh..."

A young man in his late twenties put forward an old oil-lamp before he climbed onto the attic himself, wondering if this was going to work.

"It should be here somewhere..."

Every writer had it. Kept it, somewhere. A box filled with products of his mind that had made him shudder when he read them back after writing them. Texts that nobody should ever read but that he could not throw away for sentimental reasons. Some writers hid them so well, they had trouble finding them when they wanted to, for whatever reason.

"We have a birdcage?"

But many writers lived their lives with mild forms of schizophrenia. A second voice in their head that pushed them forward by delivering reasonably objective commentary on their products. A voice, that could also be used for other purposes.

"Where did I put it..?"

Not over here, that's for sure. That's where Sheryl always puts the winter clothes. Put it here, and she would find it sooner or later.

"Good point. That would be embarrassing."

Why are we spending this sunny afternoon on a dusty attic anyway? It's Sunday, we should be watching TV or something.

"I need inspiration. Whatever I produced that may be bad writing, might be bad writing on an interesting subject I could write better about today. I have grown, as a writer, you know."

Mhm

"Cynical bastard."

The young writer continued his search over the attic. Pushing aside old furniture and birthday presents that were brought down once per year when those who had given them came to visit. Cursing at the dust and the mess, he finally arrived at a big cabin-trunk, made in the United Kingdom in the year 1872.

"There we go."

The writer opened it carefully and removed a blanket that was covering the pieces the cabin-trunk contained. Under it, he found a piece of paper on top of all the others with a text on it that could not be missed. He picked it up, blew on it and read the text out loud:

"Don't stoop down to this level."

Sigh.

"I guess we'll just be waiting then..."

miscellaneous X

2005-08-18T17:03:00.000+02:00

Title: Wishful thinking
Category: Truth-based fiction
Style: Poetic
Written: 18 August 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

WISHFUL THINKING

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we inform you that this intercity service is about to pull into its final destination: The Hague Central Station. We request you exit the train upon arrival and please make sure you take all your belongings with you. Thank you for traveling with NS."

I opened my eyes and noticed I was still the only passenger in the six-seated train compartment. My second discovery was a drool stain on my right shoulder.

"Oh for fuck's sake..."

I wiped it off, noticed the train had come to a full stop on the flank of platform 12 and quickly tied my shoes and got my bag on my way out. The Hague was not the type of city you could ignore. An MP3 player wouldn't help you, nor would sunglasses or even daydreaming. Between bad and worse at the exit of the train station where I felt relieved for having escaped the crowd inside but equally miserable for having to throw myself into the city's racing traffic, I suddenly heard the sounds of Percy Faith's "A Summer Place" coming from a sole violin. I turned to my right and walked twenty yards towards a lonely oak tree where a presumably even lonelier, homeless, old man attempted to defrost the city's cold heart by playing gentle sounds with his eyes closed. Like an overwhelmed child who saw something new for the very first time in its life, I stood there, listening, until the man finished.

I reached into my pocket to give him some change but he politely refused:
- "What purpose would it serve?"
- "Well...", I stammered.
- "Food? Survival? Neither are much use to me"
- "You don't need to be homeless in this country, there are people, institutions, you can turn to"
- "I am a proud man, son, and besides, I lost the will to live a long time ago"
- "Are you religious?", I asked him, immediately wondering why that question had come to me as soon as I had spoken the words.
- "No. I'm an optimist"
- "An optimist?"
- "I hope, wish, think and believe there is no such thing as an afterlife, or, even worse, reincarnation"
- "Is life that bad?"
- "Yes. Although most people seem to possess the remarkable talent of life-long denial of that fact"
- "We all wish to vanish sometimes"
- "I wish to vanish forever. I'll leave you to your own, son, talking to me is of no use; I know nothing more than you. Only illusions of knowledge, fragments of hope and resemblances of philosophies", the man said as he turned around and started to walk away.
- "But", I whispered when it was already too late. It didn't matter, I had no words to follow, anyway.

I don't know how long I stood there, a few minutes I suppose, as I watched the man vanish from my eye-sight, wondering if that was the kind of disappearance he sought but already had. I was brought back to reality when a hand touched my left shoulder and was accompanied by a voice; "Sir, would you like a ride?"

I turned around and looked into the face of a taxi-driver. I gave him my bag and said; "East End. Get me out of here."

Admiring musicians

2005-08-13T16:54:00.000+02:00

There's a piece of cardboard against the window because there's a crack in the latter. That will do for now, it only needs to hold back... well, a draft. Come winter I will have to come up with something better though.

Loneliness doesn't pay any bills and sadness doesn't buy you any food. My kitchen table silently testifies of that fact of life as the amount of invoices easily overshadows a small loaf of bread. I close my eyes and smile when the sun comes from behind the clouds and shines on my face as I take another zip from my tea.

It doesn't really matter anyway, does it? I could be dead tomorrow so why worry about next week's even bigger financial problems.

But dying a lonely man is no good. I wish I were a guitar player so I could compose a sad song that slowly waves outside through the cracks in my window and the holes in my roof. Very small and simple words made immensely powerful by the strings of a guitar. Hey Mr Blues-man, could you sing me a song?

Because I'm a writer. And that just doesn't cut it.

miscellaneous IX

2005-08-11T22:37:00.000+02:00

Title: Ode to Alfred Edward Housman
Category: Fiction
Style: Poetic
Written: 11 August 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

ODE TO ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN

'Desertisation' they called it but not a single Spaniard needed the invention of that official term to describe a process already well-known throughout the nation: the inlands of their country were turning into a Sahara. Dry, bare land stretched out to the horizon where trees struggled to keep their roots protected from the sun that was piercing through the cracks in the earth. But this was the European Union and a desert wouldn't be a desert if there wasn't a high-tech highway running through it with service stations on its flanks that knew no equal in the world. No mentally sane human being would dare leave these highways and explore this vast but dangerous territory, one would say. But there were clouds of dust approaching quickly from the West, accompanied by the roar of an engine.

Americo López Covas stopped his old motorcycle at a small puddle with a few trees around it. The young Spaniard took off his helmet and went to sit by the water to think. Two minutes into this process, a piano started playing a soft song. Americo turned around and saw an old but elegant dark man, wearing a white suit and an equally white hat, sitting behind an upright piano, gently moving his fingers over the black and white keys and his feet, embraced by shiny brown leather shoes, over the pedals. Without stopping, without looking up, he casually observed: "You look troubled, young man."

"Then I look the way I feel", Americo replied when he had recovered from his surprise.
"What troubles such a young soul?", the man asked him, never taking his eyes of his playing hands.
"Loneliness, sir."
"Think no more lad, laugh, be jolly. Why should men make haste to die? Empty heads and tongues a-talking make the rough road easy walking and the feather pate of folly beares the falling sky."
"Beautiful words."
"Not mine, I am sorry to say. They were written by Alfred Edward Housman. England's greatest ever poet as far as I'm concerned."
"One cannot stop thinking."
"One cannot indeed. One can, however, take away the cause of concern perhaps?"
"That would take time"
"Would it now? That means you've identified the problem?"
"Fear. It's always fear to some degree. Truth is that I'm not particulary afraid of letting people see who I am but I'm absolutely terrified to death that people might hurt me."
"And so you keep them away? That's a common problem, son."
"If that's supposed to make me feel better, it's not working. Call me selfish but what do I care if other people have the same problem?"

The pianist stopped playing and turned towards Americo. He paused for a second, before he looked up and spoke slowly and clearly: "If people who are close to you were to hurt you, the relationship would instantly derail. That would leave you... lonely. How do you feel right now?"
Americo paused for a second as he stared at the horizon before he turned back at the old man and reluctantly replied: "Lonely."
"Well then!", the old pianist enthusiastically said as he turned back around and started playing again, "What have you to lose?"

Americo opened his eyes and looked out over the small puddle in front of him. Feeling a need to verify his day-dream, he turned around and saw trees and tumbleweed instead of a piano. He got up, dawdled for a bit, then smiled as he put his helmet back on and got on his motorcycle, heading back West.

In the shadow of the lone oasis he had just left behind, elegant brown leather shoes left a print in the sand as their owner moved out into the sunlight, looking at the dust clouds going back to where they came from at a seemingly even greater speed than they had arrived with. A broad smile revealed shiny white teeth that put the graceful costume to shame. The old pianist laughed, turned around and started walking away whilst citing the end of the poem he had used to introduce his advice: "If young hearts were not so clever, oh they would be young forever! Think no more, lad; 'tis only thinking, lays lads underground."

miscellaneous VIII

2005-08-07T00:49:00.000+02:00

Title: The writer's regret
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 07 August 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

THE WRITER'S REGRET

I recorded it, you know. Wrote it down. All of it. Testimonies of hardships, records of cruelties. Pleas for justice. I spread the words, urged people to read them, hoping it would have an effect. It never had.

I gently open the old cellardoor and walk down the wooden stairs into mild darkness that is broken by the light from the small candle I carry. There are many boxes here, containing fragments of the past.

Photo albums filled with pictures of people smiling. Pages covered with the evidence of love's existence, unsuccessfully propagandising a better world.

Disregarding the dust, I continue my walk but stop at an old piano. One touch creates a false tone brilliantly illustrating the state of this little frozen universe underground. A tear rolls down my cheek; only one. There is little point in more being shed.

I take a final step to the corner where an antique family sword rests against two unifying walls. I reach in my pocket and take out my favourite pen, placed in the small box it came with. It was supposed to be more powerful and I believed it, allowing the sword to be covered in dust as I urged the pen to demonstrate its might.

But it was all futile. It didn't help. As the foundations of the universe slowly rot away on the draining impact of violence and injustice, I admit defeat by placing the pen next to the already powerless sword. I turn around, walk away and start climbing the stairs. At the top, I glance back into the cellar, finding only what was; not what is, or has not yet come to part. I leave the cellar, carefully closing the door, allowing complete darkness to conquer the helpless beams of light originating from the candle I already blew out.

I'm sorry. I really am.

miscellaneous VII

2005-08-02T23:04:00.000+02:00

Title: The artist's despair
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 02 August 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

THE ARTIST'S DESPAIR

There wasn't much to support human life in the average-sized studio in downtown Amsterdam that was barely a studio at all. If anything, it showed resemblances to a regular attic but it carried its title with the same dignity its 78-year old owner carried out the image of himself he had created many years ago but had come to deem as his true personality over time. The human mind and memory are traitorous and we believe only what we want to believe, increasing the devastating potential of the self-destructive soul.

Sir Henry Taylor Whittaker started his daily routine at eight in the morning, as every morning. Not because he woke up at that time, but because he thought it was an acceptable time to leave the bed despite having already been awake for three hours. A decreasing desire for sleep signalled the closing in of death, he knew, and he welcomed it quietly as he got dressed. He always dressed the same, though never wearing the exact same clothes two days in a row. A white shirt, a suit, a tie, a long and classy wintercoat, designer shoes, a pair of gloves, a scarf and a hat to finalise his impressive appearance that was completely timeless. He walked past the countless books and the incredible amount of paper scattered all over the attic, which seemingly attempted and nearly succeeded at covering up the presence of a stove and a tiny bathroom in the small space with only one window, overlooking one of Amsterdam's countless canals.

He left the building, closing the front door with a mild slam. He turned right and made the first footprints in a fresh layer of snow covering the pavement; a product of the month February, which, in Northern Europe, was always pure torture. Somehow he knew it was the last time he was allowed to carry out this useless yet comforting routine of his, but it never caused any kind of emotion, possibly because he had not yet given in to this conviction of his instincts.

He never thought of himself as an honourable man. Because, as he was often quoted telling the bartender in his favourite pub; "An honourable man would never take credit for his inborn talents and an honourable writer would settle for having written pieces that had a positive impact on the lives of just a few people. I, on the other hand, always sought more. A bestseller, nothing less!"

And he had written a bestseller. Several, even. Great books of drama that had been translated into many languages for countries he didn't know and had never been. He took pride in this, but also felt miserable over it ever since he had discovered a paradox in his life many years ago. He had discovered that all his best work was written under the influences of devastating emotions: Sir Whittaker functioned best as a writer when drawing inspiration from pain. And although he never fully succumbed to the thought that he might suffer from a psychiatric disorder of self-destruction, deep down he knew there was a realistic chance something of the sort had caused him to make all the wrong decisions, leaving him with no social life whatsoever. He had never been married, had never had children and was left with no family and only very few friends. His great career, the envy of so many other writers, had come at the worst price imaginable for his insecure and lonely soul.

The darkness of failure was the only thought in his head when he crossed a canal over a small bridge and suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide open, gasping for air as his hands reached to his heart. He staggered, failed to reach for the bridge-railling and fell down but before his head hit the snow-covered pavement, life had already deserted his body; making all rescuing attempts from shocked bystanders completely useless. His death would make it to the city's largest newspaper on page 18 between a rectification and an advertisement but soon the world would forget about a great writer, but an equally miserable man.

miscellaneous VI

2005-07-26T09:37:00.000+02:00

Title: Oblivion
Category: Truth-based fiction
Style: Poetic
Written: 26 July 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

OBLIVION

It's five a.m. on a Tuesday but it might as well have been a Wednesday. Or a Saturday. Or any other day, it doesn't matter. I have no idea how to handle it, I'm perfectly incompetent. With tears rolling down my cheeks I stamp on the brake pedal and push the overaged Vauxhall to its absolute limits as it seeks to come to a direct halt from 90 miles per hour on a sand road in dismal state. Land's end, Holland's West Cape. I make no effort to park, there's no other traffic anyway. I switch off the engine and get out, leaving the car door open. Three steps see me reach the forest next to the road and I fall on my knees just out of reach of the Vauxhall's headlights as my stomach is protesting against the hysteria by reversing; banning the remains of a miserable meal and too much coffee from my body.

Minutes later I slowly get back up, feeling only slightly more calm, and I start to climb the dune that stands between the land and the sea, supported by a reluctantly rising sun behind me in the East. Having reached the top, I turn around and overlook the entire island, covered in a thin morning fog. Never mind the question of how it all went wrong; it barely matters and I think I already have the answer anyway.

Why does the loss of love lead to total destruction? What is worse? The loss of life? Or are they at the same level because both love and life become impossible to regain upon forfeiture? Loss of love could quite possibly be worse when the object of desire still exists, is still visible, and thus stimulates the futile hope of rescue we are all born with. A protection mechanism that allows us to carry on for... well, just for the sake of living perhaps.

No, it's not destruction. It's disappearance. And it leaves a great black hole, a bottomless empty space. Complete vanishment. Vanishment of... everything?

The answer comes in silence as the world starts to wrap up. A black hole that rapidly grows opens in the middle of the sky, consuming all it finds in its path. The sky, the clouds, then the sun and then the earth. The horizon briefly shivers like the string of a guitar, then snaps without making any sounds. As if it were a piece of paper sliding off a waterfall, the island bends backwards into the infinite darkness. The pine trees fall, the fog retreats, the towns are being swallowed. I turn around and see the same thing is happening to the ocean as the salt water rushes into the black hole. The closer it comes, the faster it seems to go. The wind picks up, and blows sand in my face, forcing me to cover it with my arm as I kneel down in an attempt not to be blown over. Easily drawing my attention away from my heavy, panicked breathing; my memories rewind as images shoot through my head at the speed of light, accompanied by emotions. Today, I feel empty. The day I met him, I felt eternally happy. The day I came back from emigrating, I felt satisfied. The day I moved out of my parents' house, I felt proud. My driving exam, my best friend, my football team, my first sexual experience, my first day at highschool, my first theft, my first bike ride. Pride, friendship, happiness, relief, nervosity, guilt, satisfaction. It all winds up, together with the final square yards of earth around me. Only seconds remain, three, two, one. Then I fall too, face first into oblivion.

The minute my left cheek hits the sand I wake up and realise I had a hallucination. 'Partial disappearance', I whisper as slowly get back up. Other things still remain, use them as a ladder to climb back up; out of the black hole that is love sorrow.

Parachute jumping

2005-07-24T14:04:00.000+02:00

My dad turned 50 this last December and we decided to come up with a slightly unorthodox birthday present: a tandem parachute jump. Since the Northern European climate only allows such jumps in spring and summer, we had to wait a couple of months to order it and we've greatly enjoyed it ever since as we watched dad grow more and more nervous as the days grew longer: "Isn't there an age limit?" ("Sure dad. But it's 80"), "Isn't it expensive?" ("It's a present so that's really none of your business") and, on the actual day: "It looks clouded. Maybe we should cancel..!" ("You'll be flying above the clouds, now get a move on, we'll be late").

Having touched down though, the talks changed significantly: "Jesus! That was the best thing I've ever done!! What a rush!!! Maybe I should have another hobby..."

We've unleashed a monster..!

As always, click the thumbnail for a bigger view:

Danceparade Middelburg

2005-07-24T13:49:00.000+02:00

Every year since five years ago, the very ambitious people of my hometown Middelburg (only about 50.000 inhabitants) organise a danceparade that's grown insanely over the years and went on to become among Europe's finest and most famous. So when it comes and I'm actually not on holiday outside the country, there's no excuse to skip. Here are just some pictures of Saturday afternoon's danceparade; sadly I forgot to bring my camera to Friday evening's warming-up party.

Click on the thumbnail for a bigger view:

Car crash

2005-07-22T23:42:00.000+02:00

I hate reversing. I really do.

Underground parking lot on a Friday afternoon. It's busy as everybody is trying to get home and so you can't really afford to linger. I back up out of a parking spot as I'm eager to get home but despite being relatively careful, I hit another (parked) car. I look but don't see any damage on it, and feeling relieved I drive home.

I park, get out and see a gruesome scratch on my parents' car that makes you wonder how the hell it's possible there is only a scratch and not a dent as well.

Now, if you know my parents, you'll know that I'm closest to my mum and I connect with her. So I enter the house and after the formalities ("Hey, how as your day?"), I break the news: "Oh, by the way, there's a scratch on the car. My mistake. I'll understand if you'll want to have it fixed and send me the bill."

My mum responds with a question: "Fair enough handsome. Tell me this though: does it still start fluently and drive you to where you want to go in it's relative 'comfort' the way it always has since it was built an odd 9 years ago?"

"Yes", I reluctantly reply, wondering where this is going.

"Well...", mum goes on as she leaves the kitchen with a freshly poured cup of coffee, "Then I don't see the problem. But do me a favour and be more careful next time, Schuhmacher."

I love my mum.

miscellaneous V

2005-07-12T17:14:00.000+02:00

Title: Capitalism
Category: Fiction
Style: Poetic
Written: 12 July 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

CAPITALISM

For the labourer, the worker.

The earth shivers like a small child with a heavy fever. Stand still, take a moment. A moment for the mechanic, the baker, the civil servant.

The wind picks up, the oceans stir. Look up to the sky and take a breath. A breath for the fisherman, the police-officer, the writer, electrician.

Clouds come in from the West, lightning strikes and thunder rumbles. It this climate change or revenge? Pull up your collar and hide in your winter coat. Hide for the taxi-driver, the hospital nurse, the groundskeeper, the teacher, the butcher.

This is the song of the capitalists and it's nearing its final refrain. Wealth piled on wealth, their pockets loaded with money and still they are searching for more. Limit pensions, cut back on salaries, let off those we can miss and replace them with machines. Sing, sing on! This is the song of enrichment!

The coastlines fall, the risen oceans come rolling in with a massive roar. The world is being swept away. Justice marches in to even the score. This is the end of pollution, of greed, of ego centrism.

Before you die, pay your respect. Pay your respect to the labourer, the worker, the slave.

The innocent victim.

london

2005-07-07T19:43:00.000+02:00

closure

2005-07-07T17:48:00.000+02:00

I had forgotten what it felt like to be confronted with a grave. What it sounded like to hear the silence of a graveyard and what it looked like to see the name of someone you know in the wrong kind of stone.

There are few things on this earth that can make me feel as clueless as death. It makes me feel small and I don't like it. It took me a while before I managed to quit my empty stare out of the windshield but I managed to do so after a while and I turned the ignition key and started the engine of the old vauxhall. I backed up and left Church street in the small town of Strijen and started my 100 mile long journey home but it was more than that. I left behind an emotionally chaotic five months as I finally found closure on an issue that had been torturing me for a long time.

It started in February when I had just moved to Southern Italy for an exchange that would last six months. Frequent travellers will know the first stages are always hard and I struggled to find a routine and settle down in a new and unknown place. After the first couple of weeks I was getting well along building a new life when I received the message from home that a dear colleague of mine, Patricia, had committed suicide. She had decided it was enough at age 24.

I have suffered from depression myself and I've been close to suicide a couple of years ago and this hit me hard. I was unable to get back to Holland on time for her funeral and failed to deal with the issue completely with the logical consequence that it kept catching up with me and I suffered occasional emotional breakdowns in the months that followed.

But today it all ended as I drove up north to visit Patricia's grave and finalise the process of dealing with this severe blow. We had a good talk as I spoke and imaged she listened.

Although I will always cherish the memories, it's time to let go and move on, even though that is never easy. But even in an old vauxhall, I'll get there eventually.

miscellaneous IV

2005-07-06T02:49:00.000+02:00

Title: Paradoxal happiness
Category: Fiction
Style: Philosophical
Written: 05 April 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

PARADOXAL HAPPINESS

For those who believe death is the mother of all beauty, the quest for happiness is both easily identified and hard to actually accomplish. First, you must believe that death is the mother of all beauty in this world we live in. To the extent that life is valuable because it has an ending and colours are nice because of the existence of black and white. Happiness, therefore, is our ideal goal because we are familiar with pain and misery. The quest for happiness becomes paradoxal and complicated because of our selective memory, which is beyond our abilities to alter.

Think back to your youth and most likely you will first recall the pleasant memories. The bad memories are possibly still there, but they are hard to recall and even if you manage to do so, you will not be able to fully bring back the emotions that once accompanied this state of mind. Now, if the value of happiness is directly related to our ability to recall the opposite (pain, sorrow) then happiness fades over time after you have achieved it.

The question then is whether full happiness is desirable (because it would fade over time) or whether a person is, overall, much happier when he occasionally also experiences devastating pain; for this would allow him to really value happiness for its worth.

And because life equals a roller coaster ride of highs and lows, true happiness could possibly already be achieved and need not be searched for.

Such is the paradox of life, perhaps.

miscellaneous III

2005-07-06T01:48:00.000+02:00

Title: Game over
Category: Fiction
Style: Drama
Written: 06 March 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

GAME OVER

He stamped on the gas pedal and the strong engine of the Ford came to life with a deep roar. The tires slipped, but only for a minute as the powerful machine went on to ignore the sand and gravel and crushed it, as it started moving. First gear and the canyon was only 300 meters away, directly in front.

All the devastating emotions that had been tearing Nicholas apart for weeks now had finally found their way out and they channelled through the exit in the form of anger. Pure rage. And he aimed it at life.

He wasn’t about to accept that life sometimes takes a turn for the absolute worst without any reason or warning, without any justification or explanation.

Second gear, 270 meters.

He refused to be a tool, a toy, a mere number.

Third gear, 210 meters.

He had been fighting all his life. Against other people, against depression, against suicidal thoughts. He had always just sought to live an uncomplicated routine without any glamour, but also without devastating pain; yet the latter was all he had ever received. He had decided it was enough.

Fourth gear, 120 meters.

Defence had turned into offence. Requests had turned into demands. Politeness into brutality and gratitude into anger.

Fifth gear, 50 meters.

He had seen enough of death, pain and torture. He demanded happiness and love. And he demanded it now. This was his first official warning. His warning to life, or whomever controlled it. Enough of the madness, enough of the game. He had just twisted the rules, turned the tables, dealt the cards. It was going to be played by his standards from now on. His standards, or game over.

30 meters and he stamped on the brake pedal. The Ford engaged into a direct fight with the laws of physics. A fight against gravity and velocity as the engine roared and the tires screamed. 20 meters. 10 meters. 5 meters. 4,3,2.

The Ford came to a halt at 1 meter from the ravine and Nicholas quietly whispered his demand to the wind: “My rules, or game over.”

settling back in

2005-07-05T11:29:00.000+02:00

It's hard enough to settle back in and try to pick up the routine of your old life after having lived abroad for five months but this country isn't making it easy for me. Like a small child that tastes something foul, I'm being spat out time after time.

This morning I woke up, opened the bathroom door, and found that the storm that had hit our shores during the night and that was still raging outside had caused the sewers to back-up. Now, I don't know about you, but if I flush a toilet, I pretty much do it with the happy and satisfied assumption of never ever having to see what went down there again.

But I did.

I think I prefer waking up with the world's worst hangover...

miscellaneous II

2005-07-03T21:31:00.000+02:00

Title: Common saviours
Category: Fiction
Style: Novel
Written: 10 June 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

COMMON SAVIOURS

Autumn in Maryland, USA, isn’t pretty. A small coffee shop next to a road leading down to New York State is being battered by wind and rain as travellers park their Fords and Mustangs underneath the neon lights of the welcome sign and seek refuge in the comfortable lunchroom where a small heater is bravely struggling to dry the visitors’ coats. The pine forest outside offers a sad view through wet windows and so most of the customers have focused their attention on the small television above the counter that’s been tuned into CNN. It’s only mildly busy when two ordinary looking men in raincoats enter through the small door with the “open” sign on it. They are such a common appearance that only few notice their presence and even those who do, don’t pay much attention to them. They would, if they knew who these men were, but they don’t and that was the plan. These men have put a big effort into looking common, into being unnoticeable.

They sit down on a red leather bench at a metal table and pick up the menus on it, doing what one does in a coffee shop. “Is that her?”, one of the men asks as he looks at the waitress and quickly nods his head in her direction. His colleague turns to look at the waitress, who is pouring a refill in the coffee cup of a man sitting at the counter. Her uniform and apron attempt but fail to hide her beauty. Several strays of her long brown hair have escaped from the knot she tied at the back of her head and are playfully hanging down her neck as she leans over, emphasising the perfect shape of her breasts on which a name tag that reads “Jenny” comfortably rests. She finishes the refill and looks at the man she was pouring it for, asking if he needs anything else. A negative response is her cue to step back and she starts to clean the coffee machine with a large doses of familiarity as she stares away with her big brown eyes and gently, almost invisibly so, lets out her pain and heartbreak by very quietly singing old and comforting songs. One would have to pay very good attention to spot the movement of her beautiful lips but pay good attention is what the men in raincoats have been trained to do. “It’s her”, the other man replies as he lifts up his hand in the air to draw the waitress’ attention: “Excuse me miss, may we order please?” Mildly surprised, she breaks her empty stare and starts to walk over to their table whilst apologising: “Of course, I’m sorry about that. How can I help you?” Closing the menu’s they haven’t read, one of the men replies: “We’ll just take your English breakfast if you still serve it please.” She pulls her standard smile and replies: “Two English breakfasts coming up.”

- “Definite case of a broken heart”, one of the men says when she has walked off.
- “Wrong type of man. It’s a cruel world.”
- “That’s why we have our jobs though.”
- “Let’s do what we have to do. We shouldn’t stay in one place too long.”
- “You’re right.”
They get up and prepare to leave. One of them raises his right hand towards the waitress, who doesn’t notice as she is serving someone else a few yards away. He briefly makes a sign in the air and mumbles some quick words. Then he turns to his colleague: “Done. Let’s get out of here.”

As they leave, a little girl at another table spots them and she pulls her mother’s sleeve in an enthusiastic way only children can. It causes her mother to spill coffee as the little girl calls out: “Mummy, mummy! Angels!!” The mother pays no attention to her daughter’s words: “Now look what you made me do! There’s coffee everywhere! Now sit down and be a good girl!”

The waitress automatically looks up when the door closes with a mild slam and she lets out a frustrated sigh as she turns to the kitchen: “Cancel on the English breakfasts, Steve, they bailed!”

Wondering where the decency in the world has gone to, she puts down a tray of used coffee mugs on the counter, paying no attention to another slam of the door. Looking down as she’s retying her apron, she turns around and starts to walk without paying attention. Two steps into this process, she bumps into a customer and quickly takes a step back: “Oh god! I’m so sorry! Are you alright?” She looks up into the face of a handsome young man. Dark hair, blue eyes and a youthful smile reveal a positive spirit. He takes a brief look at her nametag and replies with a brief wink: “I could make a scene and yell at you but I’d rather just ask you for your phone number, Jenny.”
- “I can live with that”, she says as she returns his smile.

Outside on the parking lot, an old, brown Chevy comes to life as the driver turns the key. He is wearing a common raincoat, so is the man on the passenger’s seat: “Where to now?”, he asks the driver.
- “Bangor, Maine”, the driver replies, “If we hurry we can be there in a few hours. And hurry we must; there’s many people who deserve better on this rotten planet and we mustn’t keep them waiting for too long.”

miscellaneous I

2005-07-03T15:49:00.000+02:00

Title: Chain reaction
Category: Fiction
Style: Philosophical
Written: 15 June 2005
By: Erik Pleyte

CHAIN REACTION

“The balance between right and wrong, good and bad is very vulnerable”, professor Morse opened his lecture with, “What we do influences others and can easily cause a chain reaction. Let me ask you something: what causes hurricanes?”

Silence was his part. Not one student out of 500 in a large lecture room at Harvard University, USA, dared to openly answer this question. Not because they didn’t have a clue, but because it was dangerous to speak in the opening part of a lecture taught by professor Morse. He had a way of asking rhetorical questions that actually didn’t have a correct answer at all and you could, hence, never be fully right when speaking up in a situation such as this. Whatever you would say would receive the same standard answer that Morse always gave: “Interesting answer, but what if…”

Finding that none of the students dared to speak, Morse smiled and continued: “Butterflies, according to some scientists. Is anyone familiar with this theory?” Morse knew a second question in a short space of time always received an answer. In a group this size, there was always at least one student who sought attention and credit for the knowledge put on display by answering the question. Credit that Morse only rarely gave due; it just wasn’t his style.

- “In short, I believe the theory explains how the clapping wings of a butterfly in Japan set in motion certain chain reactions in the climate that cause a hurricane to develop off the west coast of Africa, professor”, the answer had come from a student on the front row. It always did.

Morse turned to the student that had spoken, smiled and replied: “Not quite as specific an answer as I was looking for, but I suppose it will do”, he turned to the room again, ignoring some laughter from the back rows, “Indeed, this often criticised theory describes how, under the right circumstances, the clapping wings of a butterfly in Japan set in motion movements of air that travel and grow, finally resulting into a possible creation of a hurricane in the East Atlantic Ocean if there happens to be a low pressure area in the right place at the right time.”

Amazement, mild chatter and hurried writing now had first priority amongst the students as curiosity as to where all of this was going rose. Morse continued: “Now, this is not a physics lecture, this is a philosophy lecture and with a topic this mysterious, we would commit a crime not to transfer it to our field of study and analyse it with all our intellectual capacities.”

“What would your reaction be, dear students, if I told you that it wasn’t Adolf Hitler who started the Second World War, but instead a young man from, say, Aruba, who, on an unlucky day somewhere in the 1920s, woke up in a bad mood and gave a shoulder push to another man as he walked down the street on his way to work?”

- “I would ask you to show me evidence to support such a bold theory, professor!”, a student in the back rows answered.

“YES!”, Morse clapped his hands, pointed at the student who had replied and raised his voice, “Finally one who understands how this world works! I salute you!”

“What if”, he continued, “the smallest of actions can lead to the biggest of events in human history? What does that mean for all of us and how must we deal with this knowledge the best way we can? A wise man once said that the battle between good and evil takes place only inside of each and every one of us. That means that, contrary to what major ideologies and religions will have you believe, there is no higher power on either side; good and evil, but instead, we all hold the key ourselves.”

“Throughout history, writers, philosophers, singers, painters and even Hollywood filmmakers have been intrigued by this idea and many stories and films exist on how the life of a person could be completely different if one little thing is changed. Missing a subway as opposed to making it on time could mean the difference between escaping death on the latter carriage of the train that would derail minutes later and many more years to live because you were ten seconds too late.”

“Relate this to the butterfly theory”, Morse continued towards a fascinated and silent crowd, “and the absence of a friendly gesture towards another person because you are in a bad mood could mean the death of millions.”

Morse decided to give a clearer example as many of the looks he received were very puzzled: “Example: a young woman in Paris, France, wakes up but trips as she wants to get out of bed and breaks her leg in the process. She has to be taken to the hospital and can’t make it to work as a result. Her colleague, most knowledgeable in the woman’s field, has to take over her duties and ends up with a massive workload as a result, which is why he can’t make it to a dinner date with his girlfriend that evening. The girlfriend is disappointed and slightly angry and reacts it off by shouting something along the lines of: ‘Leave me alone!’ when she is approached by a British businessman on the streets who wanted to ask her for directions. The businessman, already tired and frustrated about being lost, develops an anger that results into him giving one of his employees the sack when that person missed a deadline. The employee, already in a difficult financial and emotional situation due to a divorce, completely loses it now that he has also lost the last meaningful thing in his life in the shape of his career, drives over from his apartment in South-London to the house of his ex-wife and their son in Southampton, shoots both of them and then commits suicide.”

“All of this”, Morse continued after a short silence, “stands in direct contact with one another and if the above scenario is possible then why shouldn’t it be possible for something small to cause something huge? And what if the colleague of the French woman who broke her leg had received help, could have gone to his dinner date with his girlfriend, who would have shown the businessman the directions to the place he wanted to go, who, on his turn, would not have sacked his employee, allowing the latter to focus on his career and slowly but certainly deal with his emotional trouble? Then the lives of a woman and her child living hundreds of miles away from the Parisian unfortunate who broke her leg would have been saved.”

Chatter filled the room as students tried to change their view on life by imagining the true existence of this theory. Morse raised his voice to urge silence and carried on: “Seemingly, this theory is evidence to the statement that good and evil only exist within us, and not as bigger phenomena that have an influence on the entire universe, such as is claimed by, for example, the Catholic Church who picture God as the symbol for all that is good and Satan for all that is evil. There is, however, a bottleneck in this theory. Has anyone managed to spot it?”

A silence followed but after a few instances, one student in the middle of the room reluctantly raised her hand and replied: “The young woman in Paris broke her leg, which is an event we would entitle as an accident, rather than a planned action.”

“Indeed!”, Morse answered enthusiastically, “And as we do not know what causes events such as accidents, we can, in fact, with the knowledge we possess today, not assume that the theory I just described to you bares any truth whatsoever.”

Morse looked at the clock and noticed the lecture was coming to an end. He turned back to the students and added with a youthful smile: “Still though, just for the hell of it, let’s try and spread some good in this world, shall we? Dismissed!”

the curriculum

2005-07-01T22:52:00.000+02:00

What do normal people do on the first of July? They're probably preoccupied with their annual summer holiday in one way or another. That doesn't go for me though as I sit at the kitchen table with a stack of papers trying to decide on my future. I have to take some resits for my university education in mid-August and after that I have to fit a major project, a thesis and extra courses into six months before I go on a workplacement in January. A workplacement that I want to do in the States, which is a long shot as my academic records aren't exactly top notch and competition from fellow students is intense. How to realise my dreams and achieve the maximum, I wonder.

"Still trying to get to America?", one of my friends asks with a touch of pity in her voice when she enters the kitchen.

With a solid sense of drama I was raised with, I stand up, point at five apples on the counter and ask her: "Can a person hold all these apples in one hand only without aid?"

She looks at me in a funny way and replies, with one raised elbow: "I wouldn't put my money on it."

I walk over to the counter and start piling the apples on my hand. After five minutes of continuous failure, I put them back down and say to my amused friend: "Alright, wrong metaphor. Not the point. What I meant to say was that I want this and I'm going to give it my best damn shot!"

She smiles, kisses me on the forehead and leaves me alone with my paperwork.

This blog, right here, is the story of a simple guy, barely grown up from a rough childhood in a poor environment who tries to realise his dreams. I'm Erik. I'm not overly intelligent. I'm not rich. But I have guts and determination and now my life is online.

Welcome.