Relic from Amsterdam

 

I must have had something either illegal or immoral in Brussels, because I was still in a funny mood in Amsterdam. As if someone else had written this - whilst I am quite certain I did. Had it started in Amsterdam, I wouldn't have been surprised, but it continued there.

Of course I remember where and when I wrote this. Odd bits and pieces that fitted together at the time. I had just visited the Rijksmuseum and been profoundly inspired by many of the paintings there, notably Rembrandt and Vermeer, even though this one, which is very lively, made me think of something completely different. I had also visited the Van Gogh Museum, and amongst many others, this one left me with a peculiar feeling.

All in all I was very much 'into' the visits I made, taking my time to look at the pictures which 'talked' to me. Even looked at me. The starting point of this day-long maturing thought is this self portrait by Rembrandt, which eventually became the backbone of the text. Text which I like, if I may say so.

P.S. (Pre Scriptum): I'm sorry if the text is monolithic, but it appears in this fashion on my notepad...Sometimes one can't stop to just breathe.

Amsterdam, 29 VII 2010, evening.

Chiaroscuro, like the lucid painter did when he was twenty-two, chiaroscuro in life and in death. Light is always behind us and we like butterflies are mesmerised by the blind dark spot behind it. Our figures look more familiar. White faces contrapunted on a dark background as if cut from the rest of the body by a black collar which covers it down to the feet. Hard- pressed to find the grey area where the grey people stand and wait. Sometimes a dash of red daubs the canvas and oil spilt and my brethren wait eagerly for the second when the picture will be utterly marred. A split second earlier the woman stood in the doorway, beckoning. Now the heron flies to the other side of the pond because the barking was not so much a threat than a vibratory nuisance. Unfortunately all this comes at a certain price. Chiaroscuro is nothing short of an invitation inside. And people swarming about like horse-flies. The anonymous rest plods on, heavy-muddied. Never shoes are nonchalantly arranged. Casually is hear enough to come by. A smoking skeleton is common enough though. Once removed the backlight, every thing seems vain and disposable. Quite unlike a signature dyed in blood and etched upon the sea, upon the crowd. Like a family lunch that goes awry. There's nothing easier than arson – writing perhaps. Even when you're starving, nothing comes to your mind but spending your last foreign coins in a museum. Humming your way around a bit of paint carefully or absent-mindedly applied on a piece of canvas. Proof was given to the general appraisal that the whore was naked and willing to have sew with whoever could pay for it. And the boy had actually so much girth he wouldn't fit in the back alley, he couldn't go see the whore. Disappointment was carved upon his face, as if light was worming her way through his sinews and his skin. But – there floats, in the rigid pool of red air, the nicest fragrance ever – that of crises, but I might be wrong. The dragonflies deemed it unworthy to settle on the cringy, puckered-up, unnerved faces of the disappointed. And the wind turned the leaf over, and I found not a treasure, but words glittering on the page. Tea is comforting like a blanket, but the face of the girl sitting next to me is even warmer and her hair is thick and curly at the end. Thence comes the perfume. Some are eyeing my pen flowing like a dragonfly hovering over a water-lily. Choice is best when no blank space is left for the blackening. Nightcold curtaining the sitting crowd. Hands rub the knees more easily. People hunch and munch. And brood. Bantering over trifles. Watching chiaroscuro veil every word which chance upon the air. The lucid painter, following the Polymath, foresaw the end, saw the essence of things and drilled through us like a radial arm drill press into bare wood. Rubber bands acting like muscles to the undiscerning eye – perhaps just to the neophyte. And the chianti like Ariadne's string, tying parts and parcel together. Because like paper it can be tamed, shaped, felt from the fingertips. Sunflowers band to observe the shape of the discarded fingernail clippings. Candles have a tendency to be forgotten once lit, except by the discerning few who wait for their precise, personal, instant. Rivets are way harder to find when light takes her time. A slight halt in the gait matters as much as a split nether lip, obviously. Everyone on board this bar has a share in what's being said, thought, hinted at. There are more ideas per capita per square mile than there are people here, even though people leave without warning and forget to notice one is late, or dead. People flutter by because they feel they are in a field. But wheat grows in between the clouds and regroup into a cornice or a window-sill and show us the way out through the window opened wide. Or ribboned around the neck of some poor soul who drowned herself because all the butterflies die, eventually. One could hear a pin drop in the pub noise. One did. Had the rest heard that pin drop, that would rub the smile off their pretty face. I'm not sure if I know the answer to that. On the other hand, destination sounds too much like destiny. One bog trip via many a place. Can one have everything one desires? Scars scattered on a once scared body. Blood like burgundy sometimes. A faint trickle from the mouth down the chin, or the gash and the pain literally forgotten on the spur of the moment, only to resurface as a memorabile of the good old days when one was a strapping, snappy young fellow. Going East sound like going to the point. Replica of a relic of bygone times. The very least effort one can muster is to raise a concerned eyebrow and nod. Or get a tattoo round the ankle bone. People get nervous when facing a Northern gannet, a viper of when addressed to in gentle terms. Because Amsterdam is like anywhere in this world, coming to wind and tide, and discussion. Or backpain. Or the quality in brick-manufacturing and brick-laying. Or not. Species specify. Like a crotch craftily modelled by slim pants. The golden age of polyglotism is dead and buried. Arching my back against the wind is not enough. Is not just about right. It feels like swimming against the current. Took me a while to figure that one out. Nothing appeared more obvious than this, though. What a blithering idiot. How to make a fool of oneself in one lesson. Like a man with only half his face shaved or who has left his underchin and neck unshaven. I have learnt the lesson.