Texts from July II

What is the reason we experience scary things?

As a small girl, on the years before I went to school, and even some time after that, it never occurred to me to be afraid of the dark. I wasn’t afraid of mice either, or bees, spiders or high places. After all, I was a child who knew about things and it was perfectly clear for me that such things couldn’t hurt you. Come to think about it, I wasn’t even afraid of nightmares. Because each time I was having a dream, I was perfectly well aware that it was just a dream.

In one of those dreams, I was walking in a gloomy forest with some other children from the kindergarten. As I saw the other children getting scared, I tried to convince them there was no reason to be scared, because it was only a dream. That was perfectly clear to me, though I don’t remember if the other children in my dream believed me. Such things seem to be hard to prove... In any case, as I then finally opened my eyes, all the other children were gone, so there was no-one left to say “I told you so”.

My real nightmares were of totally different character.

***

One of them sort of had to do with making friends. When I was five years old or so, I got acquainted with a girl from the same neighbourhood. Even before that I had spent time with some other children, but mainly to avoid any worse consequences. With Anna, we used to go swinging for hours. She was okay, although there was one thing that puzzled me. It seems she once stole one of my beautiful blue hairpins, which sort of came between us, because I never really could prove that she had taken them. Eventually I even doubted it myself, for it was after all only my word against hers. I tried to be as if nothing had happened, but after this, it never really felt the same. Still for outsiders, she could pass as a friend. This meant that making acquaintance with her was one important step on the road to perceived normality.

Once Anna and I got an idea to go selling hand-picked buckets of wild flowers to all the people living in our courtyard. The people weren’t too impressed, so it took a bit more time than expected and we wondered quite a bit away from my home. She didn’t seem to mind and I also pretended I didn’t. All the time I was trying to ignore a slight warning somewhere in the back of my mind, that my Mum wouldn’t be so happy about me being late. That I had gone beyond the home area, was also not exactly a positive thing. Maybe my Mum would never find out that part, but I couldn’t leave out of my calculations that she would.

However, for a good while, I managed to push away those thoughts to the back of my head, saying to myself that preserving good relations with my friend was an important thing in life. Up until the moment came that we had to part, and she started heading towards her place, where she would have dinner with her family.

I went to sit on a small rock on the edge of a forest near my home. I looked at my house from further away and started calmly to weigh my alternatives. I knew a family close by and they were quite nice to me, but my Mum would eventually find out I was there, and that would just make matters worse. The forest itself was too small to hide into and additionally it was only May and I didn’t have any extra clothes or food with me. Few days would be possible, but at some point I would have to come out of there. Even though it was spring and not any more so cold at night, I just had to be realistic. After some thinking, I came to the conclusion that being only five years old, I could not survive without my home in the long run.

So I had no other choice but to go behind our front door and ring the bell, no matter what would happen. I was whispering desperately: please, let not nothing bad happen to me, let it pass at least for this time. After a few seconds my Mum opened the door, and looked exactly like I thought she would. It's hard to describe her expression, though I still saw the same face twenty years later in my dreams. But to my surprise, she didn’t say anything else except “so you came late” in a strangled voice. After some seconds still, I thought it okay to sneak into my room, where I hid for the rest of the day and read one of my countless books. I knew that by next morning, the whole thing would seem much milder, and if I was as quiet as possible for a while, my Mum might not bring up the topic more than once or twice after that. Though of course I knew she would not forget.

***

One evening around the same time I was waiting in my bed in the evening for my Mum to come and say me goodnight. We had this goodnight-poem which had seven different parts, and it ended with “see pictures of the princess”. I was begging her countless times and always she told me she would come soon. Finally I lost my patience and crept behind the bathroom door, where she was doing laundry.

"Can’t you just learn to live with a simple 'good night'", she asked.

“But I can’t fall asleep if you don’t say the whole thing”, I tried to explain with tears in my voice.

After a while she did recite the whole poem through the bathroom door. Except for the last bit, the one with the princess. I started to beg desperately for the last verse. Suddenly she yelled: "This is the last time I will say more than 'good night' to you!"

Having heard that, I simply paralyzed. All the time she had been behind the door and the door had remained locked. After this I knew there was no point to fight. This door would never open again. I remember that I cried in my bed for hours before going to sleep. She was maybe still inside the bathroom or maybe elsewhere. It didn't matter, since I knew I didn’t have to do anything else except just to be, to stay in my room and not make any special effort, and she would seize to exist. I had learned long before that to anticipate the moments when I absolutely would need her, so that I could save energy to fight for her being there at those moments.

Thinking about this now, I must ask myself why I bothered to cry. After all, I could be very realistic and had a habit of acting rationally, so I must also have known she would never come no matter how long I cried. I can't be absolutely sure, but I guess somewhere very deep inside me I thought it must be enough, not to do anything but to cry. Though it took a further twenty-one years before I learned that it indeed was so. By that time, of course crying could appear in many other forms, such as philosophy, psychology, ambition and a desperate search for love.

***

When I was around ten, the nightmares moved from my home to my classroom.

I always had the same strategy. To turn as colourless as possible till the storm calmed down a bit, to act like I didn’t care, to make myself believe I didn’t hear, and to wait for the next morning to come, which would make the whole thing seem smaller. And for the next morning, and the one after that. Until different kind of worries would step along.

***

As a teenager, the nightmare was my eyes. My contact lenses were difficult to use, easy to drop and made my eyes sore, but those times, they were the only thing that guarded me from the horrors of the world. The times that I happened to drop one of them, I made some of the most desperate prayers I remember. For years I avoided looking my Mum in the eyes, so that she wouldn’t see how my eyes looked like. I knew that if she knew I was so dependent on one thing, she would force me to give it up. In her logics, being dependent on something must be bad for you.

But at that point, I didn't exactly listen to her advice for living my life. There was no way of trusting someone whose life was so empty of feelings that she didn't even notice when she was treading on those of others.

***

Some years after that, my nightmares started to become more complex. It was unpleasant for me to stay in the dark, so I would rather not do that. I hated spiders, so I chose to leave the room if I saw any. I could go to the university lessons when I wanted to, and I didn’t need to see my Mum too often. All in all, I had managed to climb the ladders of normality surprisingly well. There were a few times I sort of wondered off from my courtyard with someone, at least partly for the reasons of appearing normal. But from such journeys you eventually need to come back, and the further you go, the more difficult it is to come back.

***

During these years, it happened a couple of times that I met someone who actually seemed real. But even then, it wouldn’t take long before some small thing happened that brought the nightmare back. Again, my strategy was the same: to act like I didn’t care, to make myself believe I didn’t care, to go back to my own little room, and to wait for the next year to come. And the next, and the one after that, and the one after that.

***

Somewhere along these long long years in between – I guess the nightmares just became nightmares. In many of those dreams there was someone big and terrifying who had enormous powers, like a witch. First I always first tried to be calm my fear and calmly negotiate with her. I first succeeded, at least up to a point, but in the end I started losing my strength of will. I always woke up just in time, and in one breath went through all the prayers I knew, until I finally more or less managed to convince myself that it was only a dream.

But, in a time when I for some reason had managed to empty my life of all things that somehow resembled life, the truth was that I was fascinated by those dreams, for they were one of the few things that made me feel something.

I think that's a point which is important to remember.

***

In those times, I started to hear rumours of one of my cousins.

I had lost contact with her a long time ago, regardless of the fact that she was one of the only people who were real to me when I was a child. Those times, she had prettier hair than mine, a princess-like Swedish accent and the ability to make funny jokes, but she was always the one who was afraid of spiders, bees and the nightly silence of our grandparents' country house. But I guess at some point in our teenage years some small thing had happened which offended me, and I started to act like I didn’t care. It was easy, because she lived far away and we both had then a lot of other things to think about.

The rumours said everything was not alright with her. She had started a schooling, one after another, but then always soon quit, and locked herself inside her house. After a while, they said, she had even troubles going out of there, as every time she went outside, she would go into a panic.

I hadn’t seen her in many years, and I knew nothing about the details, but when people talked about her, I stayed quiet. Her nightmares were not foreign to me. People thought of course, that I was the one who would do well in life, and that for some strange reason, my cousin just didn’t know how. However deep down I knew there was no big difference between quitting schools and quitting people you cared for. Only difference was that the latter you could hide and pretend that you were perfectly sane and normal.

As long as nobody knew that you did care.

***

But maybe the worst nightmare of all came one day when I looked back at my life and I realised I had carefully followed the strategies of my mother. I didn’t know if I was awake or sleeping, but it didn’t matter. Thinking logically, it meant I would also be leading my future children to take the same path as me. Ironic, since the only thing I really had wanted to do in my life was to prevent that.

Of course putting all things together, in the end this was also a kind of nightmare only I knew about. Looking from the outside, my life looked totally different from my mother’s. After all, she knew nothing about philosophy, psychology, or ambition. In my opinion, not so much about love either. However, this made me puzzled.

All these years and all those nightmares, I never really expected that things could be different.

***

Until one sunny August morning when I was twenty-six, he finally came into my life.

Thinking of my past, all the stories, histories, philosophical and mystical theories of my culture I had grown a part of, everything I had learnt, all the paths I had taken which never really ended up anywhere, it never had even crossed my mind that I might one day find what I was looking for. And when I did, nothing could be more simple. He was not one bit mystical. At the moment that I decided to follow his path instead of my Mum’s, I still had no idea what he was really like, though he knew who I was. For a few weeks I was in a safe place where nothing could touch me. And it was a place where I wanted to take all my friends with me. But that was not what he wanted to give me.

In those weeks, it happened one evening when I was working at a grocery store nearby, that I got a visitor. Suddenly I just knew it was he who was there. I had to stand behind the counter so I had nowhere to hide. Each time a customer came in, my blush got deeper and I realised he saw the whole thing, he saw my embarrassment, he knew all the very human feelings I had in me, and he just stayed. I couldn’t help smiling, and the people looked happy and smiled back at me, but after a while I just couldn’t take it anymore, I murmured: “I’m sorry” and rushed to the back room.

***

Then very soon, all my nightmares started somehow coming back to me, one by one. I found the present and the past ones, and some nightmares of my friends and family too. I was overflooded with them, until I was so surrounded that I couldn’t look away any more. Then I had no other choice but to start to find my way out of the mess.

I can’t understand how, but after making acquaintance again with all the nightmares I have ever known, there have been moments that the life itself starts to fascinate me more than my dreams. And I guess somewhere deep down I know they are only nightmares.

***

So what is the reason we experience scary things? I’m still not totally sure. But for me personally, it's kind of hard to trust anyone who has never seen a nightmare.

Light

Light. It’s one of the most beautiful words I know. You know what it is when you see it, but it isn’t so easy to describe it.

*****

I finished the last sentence, waited for the file to be stored in the computer, gathered together the large stacks of papers and placed them beside the shelf on the floor of my Brussels apartment. The morning sun had already lit up the room and I let my thoughts and body go numb. I closed the curtain and placed myself on the bed, making myself believe I was going to have a good night’s sleep.

I opened my eyes after an hour. My limbs and my brain were heavy. I was much more tired than hour before, which was good. It was the same morning, but it felt like I was waking up to a new day. The same sun was shining but it was slightly hotter. I went to shower without feeling refreshed, changed my clothes mechanically, closed the front door and lay my feet on the cobble stones of my home street.

The stones were warm from the July morning sun that had dried the light rain over the night. I half ran and half walked along the street, not quite sure whether I was too late or too early. I gasped a bit which I understood as a sign that I was running fast enough, even though of course my lungs didn’t work properly after not having slept more than an hour.

*****

Finally a stone was lifted from my heart. I was expecting my heart be now filled with joy over the soft deep green of the trees on the Sainte-Catherine square, by the warmth of the summer morning sunlight, with refreshing water of the fountains in the square, by the music of the birds. Let alone by the thought of my friends. Come to think of it, couldn’t remember how many weeks it had passed since I had read my emails.

In the meanwhile, the summer had come. I knew that in my country, at this point, the abundant light of the two summer months had finally managed to melt the last remains of snow from the hearts of the people, who could now easily breathe in the mature green scents of the July. Without hesitations they would walk with their bare feet on the warm grass, totally forgetting that the grass had ever been covered with frost. I knew it was July, I saw the light, I felt the sun on my skin, I heard the birds sing, but I didn’t know if I was warm or cold. I was gazing at the July light behind a window covered with frost patterns. I knew the summer was there but I couldn’t feel it. But at least I knew it was there.

*****

On these long wintery nights in July, my mind had started to wander back to one of those nights of February. Like that particular night, though one of many, when the four of us were standing under the starry February sky in the 10 degrees of frost. All four of us, feet frozen, noses bleak and mouths in constant smile, were standing in the crossroads of the always windy Eastern Long Street and the hilly Newland Street, and for the third hour we kept talking constantly, like on so many Sunday nights before. I hadn’t felt my feet in an hour, but of course I acted like I didn’t care. I saw by the smile in Joonatan’s eyes that even he started to have the same problem. We didn’t stop talking even for an instant. And like always, we were saying to ourselves we’d only chat for five minutes more, before we would all have to leave to different directions, me to West, Joonatan to South, Samuel to the East and Johannes to the North. Of course we knew we’d stand there for two hours more if nobody would bring up the prospect of having to wake up early tomorrow.

Samuel looked totally weird in his sandals but that didn’t stop him from smiling heroicly. For some reason, he really didn’t have cold in his feet. He had two large bags with him, where he carried two of his favorite editions in some strange languages, together with all the other equipment we never dared to ask about. Joonatan’s long hair was framed with frost that was made to shine by the street lamp behind him and the alternating green and red colours depending on the street lights that kept on blinking despite the late hour. And Johannes, the youngest of us, with his overwhelming joy and equally overwhelming authority. Who knows how long we would have stayed there, until Johannes finally broke the silence. “Come on guys, let’s take Joonatan to his place so he doesn’t have to walk alone!” Of course the idea was totally insane, we were tired and frozen and had to wake up early in the morning, and the journey would take almost an hour. All in all, this sounded probably the best idea anyone of us could have.

Around five in the morning, the three of us finally left Joonatan's place and walked back across the quiet frosty city. And in the meanwhile, the summer had come. I had to stop and turn around to look at all the four cardinal points, but still I was puzzled. I knew it was February, I could see the white streets and parks all around me, I could feel the frost nipping at my nose, I could hear the snow scrunching below my feet, but still I couldn’t convince myself. By the warmth in my heart, I knew it was a night in the middle of summer. Like the summers of my childhood.

*****

Two weeks ago on Sunday morning, I was at my church in Brussels, sitting a bit grumpy on a bench, streched to the extreme because of the long days of work. I felt so stressed and lonely that at that particular moment, I didn’t care to be polite to people. I felt a bit cold and the people next to me seemed so as well.

Having heard the words of the pastor I felt colder still. There he went on telling all about undeserved love and then suddenly started to make a fiery speech warning against the dangers of hardening your heart. Any other day I could have spent a moment, trying to do search my soul and analyze, whether I indeed had the right mindset. But today – it frankly didn’t even cross my mind to try.

Listening to the sermon, I felt my blood pressure rise and the feeling of indignation warming up the blood of my vains. In the end, the preacher asked softly whether somebody had felt there was something in their lives they needed to bring to the light, so they could come up to the front. But when it came to me, the softness was totally in vain. I marched determinedly to the front and stated bluntly to the preacher that I didn’t need a prayer but instead I had some ideas about his speech.

Being unshakeable in the justness of my cause, I asked him how on earth could he talk in such cold words and lay down burdens on peoples’ shoulders. It couldn’t possibly matter to God whether your heart happened to warm or cold, soft or hard. Well, of course he didn’t exactly react the way I would have wanted to. He was listening very reluctantly and looked like he was ready to turn away any minute.

I finally understood that it was like talking to a wall. Most certainly he was one of those pastors who thought they should do all the talking and others should stay out of this religious business, the women should keep quiet and so on. It was like I was trying to lit a match in the darkness but only created unneeded friction. In the end, he said coldly he would take into account my concern in the next sermon, but it didn’t sound to me very credible. And now additionally, I had to bear the guilt of being so disrespectful. If he didn’t understand anything, I was arguing for no reason.

Over these couple of weeks, I found myself often thinking of this frighteningly cold and condemning person and for my surprise, I felt something warm and new in my heart. That you would put your mind to your work and then hear somebody mock it down, and still endure that courageously. Seeing this, I realized what kind of person he really was. And I was waiting to see him again.

Yesterday I went to the same church again. I was thinking on my way whether I should go and apologize to him. But as I got there, I realized I was so tired I could only lean on my chair and try my best to stay awake. I could hardly concentrate on what the pastor was saying.

But all of a sudden, I saw a bright candle lighting up in his speech, I heard him use the most beautiful expressions such as sharing the word, the spirit of prophecy and the like. Upon his invitation, many people came in the front and told their stories, and over and over again, I saw a candle light up after another, till the whole room was lit. I looked at it and I recognized it, and I remembered it: the light. I wasn't sure whether I was warm or cold, whether I would dare go walking on the grass with my bare feet, but at least I knew the summer was there.

Sybille's creative pieces in French

Hello!
I have been writing a few more pieces, both in English and in French. I figured out that I would post them in another blog, as some of you may not understand French. I'll keep posting on this blog as soon as I write something good.
The link is http://creativemishmash.blogspot.com/
Don't hesitate to leave your comments!

Kurt Vonnegut's 8 basics of Creative Writing*

1. 'Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

The greatest American short story writer of my generation was Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964). She broke practically every one of my rules but the first. Great writers tend to do that.'

* Bagombo Snuff Box

Belfast calling Brussels

A quick note at 3 a.m. to say thanks for being such Nerds. Sad I missed your last days but we will be back. And we will always be here. Thanks Monica for organising us, Bibil for working so hard on my pics and for trying and get me on to the blog and to Dottir for succeeding. I love all of your recent posts. keep them coming. The worlds your stage, summer stagie's.