-
- -the naked prisoner of glass
explored the lingering liquid blush
- - - - - - - -which
- - - - - -like smoky fever
- - -could almost have broken
the translucent joy of her embrace
(copyright: A.)
Friday, February 27, 2004
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Carottes a la Creme
-
1 kg carrots
2 onions
100 gr creme fraiche
40 cl chicken stock
50 gr butter
1 tsp (coffee spoon in French recipes!) sugar
bouquet garni
parsley
Peel carrots and cut in little wheels. Peel onions and chop. Saute onions in the butter, add carrots and sugar after a few minutes. Add stock, salt, pepper and bouquet garni. Simmer for 20/25 minutes. When carrots are done, reduce the juice, if necessary. Add the creme fraiche and serve with lots of parsley.
(from Les Recettes Secretes des Jardiniers de NORMANDIE)
Food fit for conquering Willies!
1 kg carrots
2 onions
100 gr creme fraiche
40 cl chicken stock
50 gr butter
1 tsp (coffee spoon in French recipes!) sugar
bouquet garni
parsley
Peel carrots and cut in little wheels. Peel onions and chop. Saute onions in the butter, add carrots and sugar after a few minutes. Add stock, salt, pepper and bouquet garni. Simmer for 20/25 minutes. When carrots are done, reduce the juice, if necessary. Add the creme fraiche and serve with lots of parsley.
(from Les Recettes Secretes des Jardiniers de NORMANDIE)
Food fit for conquering Willies!
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
The Library of Congress
-
The Library of Congress is an institution for the American people. It stands shaded by its master, the US Capitol, but it is still an impressive building.
When I studied there about thirty years ago, it was really for the people. There was a casual atmosphere. Although there were policemen about to defend the haven of knowledge against intrusion and theft, they did not seem to be much concerned about these disasters, for they were usually joking among themselves when you entered the building. And when you left they would drop a bored look into your bag and wave you on.
In the main reading room the voices of the library assistants and readers and the banging of the flap door in the main desk echoed into the height of the copula. Books came down with a soft thud on the circles of wooden desks around the middle area, their pages whispering on being opened.
I was greatly awed by the machinations of the biggest library in the world. By the maze of stacks, accessible to the readers with a stack pass, that stretched deeper and deeper into the vaults underground. I was impressed by the bookcases full of reference books that circled up on balconies under the rotunda, and extended into intimate little rooms beyond. The catalogue could not be housed in the big catalogue room anymore and spilled into the hallways around the corner.
Sitting at a desk at the center of the temple of knowledge I learnt to concentrate and let the noises be the backdrop of my study. Other readers were going seriously about their business, and so was I.
The Library of Congress was truly for the people. One day the person sitting at the next desk was not reading. He was leaning his dishevelled head on his folded arms on the desktop, his shabby overcoat hanging loosely around him. As I staked out my place, he looked up with restless, paranoid eyes and smelled his breath of alcohol. Only when I had settled in, did he lay his head down again.
He was one of a kind. More common were the shopping bag ladies, who would come in during the winter like field mice into a house. These street women would sit at the only two available tables in the little coffee shop off the underground passageway from the Main Building to the Annex. Their big bags in which they hauled all their possessions would block the passage and we, the readers, would be drinking our muddy soup from Styrofoam cups, crammed between the walls and the vending machines that sold soggy sandwiches.
The little coffee shop was the underworld in comparison with the lofty reading room. Either was equally open to all the people of America.
But that was then. And this is now. Times have changed, and no doubt the Library of Congress has changed with them.
The Library of Congress is an institution for the American people. It stands shaded by its master, the US Capitol, but it is still an impressive building.
When I studied there about thirty years ago, it was really for the people. There was a casual atmosphere. Although there were policemen about to defend the haven of knowledge against intrusion and theft, they did not seem to be much concerned about these disasters, for they were usually joking among themselves when you entered the building. And when you left they would drop a bored look into your bag and wave you on.
In the main reading room the voices of the library assistants and readers and the banging of the flap door in the main desk echoed into the height of the copula. Books came down with a soft thud on the circles of wooden desks around the middle area, their pages whispering on being opened.
I was greatly awed by the machinations of the biggest library in the world. By the maze of stacks, accessible to the readers with a stack pass, that stretched deeper and deeper into the vaults underground. I was impressed by the bookcases full of reference books that circled up on balconies under the rotunda, and extended into intimate little rooms beyond. The catalogue could not be housed in the big catalogue room anymore and spilled into the hallways around the corner.
Sitting at a desk at the center of the temple of knowledge I learnt to concentrate and let the noises be the backdrop of my study. Other readers were going seriously about their business, and so was I.
The Library of Congress was truly for the people. One day the person sitting at the next desk was not reading. He was leaning his dishevelled head on his folded arms on the desktop, his shabby overcoat hanging loosely around him. As I staked out my place, he looked up with restless, paranoid eyes and smelled his breath of alcohol. Only when I had settled in, did he lay his head down again.
He was one of a kind. More common were the shopping bag ladies, who would come in during the winter like field mice into a house. These street women would sit at the only two available tables in the little coffee shop off the underground passageway from the Main Building to the Annex. Their big bags in which they hauled all their possessions would block the passage and we, the readers, would be drinking our muddy soup from Styrofoam cups, crammed between the walls and the vending machines that sold soggy sandwiches.
The little coffee shop was the underworld in comparison with the lofty reading room. Either was equally open to all the people of America.
But that was then. And this is now. Times have changed, and no doubt the Library of Congress has changed with them.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Hoofdzorgen
-
Er zijn hier drie hoofd zorgen:
- haard (vesta): moet er nog een houtblok op het vuur?
- brood (panis): wat zullen we eens eten vandaag?
- spelen (circenses): gaan we eerst wandelen of gaan we eerst een spelletje doen?
De week lijkt nog lang.
Er zijn hier drie hoofd zorgen:
- haard (vesta): moet er nog een houtblok op het vuur?
- brood (panis): wat zullen we eens eten vandaag?
- spelen (circenses): gaan we eerst wandelen of gaan we eerst een spelletje doen?
De week lijkt nog lang.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Winter diepte
-
Ze hebben de toppen uit de bomen in de heggen gezaagd. Hun stoere stammen liggen met de billen bloot keurig opgestapeld in de berm. De heggen zijn geknipt en geschoren. Het land ligt er schoon gepoetst en netjes gekapt bij.
Het ligt te wachten tot de aarde zich weer langzaamaan gewenteld heeft en het de vingertoppen strekken kan naar de gele zon.
Nu aait de wind nog wild van noord naar west langs het veld dat ineen krimpt. De takken ruisen in golven van donderend protest.
Mens en dier vlucht naar binnen. De haard brandt. De poes spint. De breipennen tikken ter geruststelling.
Wacht maar. Het komt weer. Het komt altijd weer.
Ze hebben de toppen uit de bomen in de heggen gezaagd. Hun stoere stammen liggen met de billen bloot keurig opgestapeld in de berm. De heggen zijn geknipt en geschoren. Het land ligt er schoon gepoetst en netjes gekapt bij.
Het ligt te wachten tot de aarde zich weer langzaamaan gewenteld heeft en het de vingertoppen strekken kan naar de gele zon.
Nu aait de wind nog wild van noord naar west langs het veld dat ineen krimpt. De takken ruisen in golven van donderend protest.
Mens en dier vlucht naar binnen. De haard brandt. De poes spint. De breipennen tikken ter geruststelling.
Wacht maar. Het komt weer. Het komt altijd weer.
Friday, February 20, 2004
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Twijfels
-
Zit de kunstenares Ans Markus bij zo’n flemer van de EO. Praten over haar kunst: vrouwen in windsels, en een schilderij dat ze van een lijdende Christus heeft gemaakt. Het staat levensgroot in de studio.
Waarom heeft ze dat schilderij gemaakt?
Omdat het een prachtig, aangrijpend verhaal is.
Dat antwoord kent de flemer niet.
“Gelooft u?”
Aarzeling. Wel dat er “iets” is.
Hij wijst. “Maar de Heer staat daar achter u.”
“H’m.”
“Hij is er ook voor u.”
Ze geeft niet toe. Ze twijfelt. Daar kan de EO niets aan veranderen.
Ze twijfelt. Goddank twijfelt ze!
Geloof is stilstand. Twijfel is groei.
Bij twijfel staan alle wegen nog open. Het zand drijft angstig onder de voeten. Er wordt gewikt en gewogen, gedacht en getobd. Het is tasten en zoeken naar wat misschien toch nog anders kan.
Zo krijg je kunst. Levenskunst.
Gelovigen zijn de betweters, de Marxisten, de kapitalisten, de wereldverbeteraars, de presidenten van landen en bedrijven, en de flemers van de EO. Verkrampt gelovend.
Je ziet het aan de verbeten grijns van sommige van die betweters die het te veel voor het zeggen hebben.
Nee, ik noem geen namen. Ik wil hun namen niet meer horen. Voortaan noem ik alleen nog maar de namen van de weifelaars en de twijfelaars.
Te beginnen bij de kwetsbare, aarzelende Ans Markus!
Zit de kunstenares Ans Markus bij zo’n flemer van de EO. Praten over haar kunst: vrouwen in windsels, en een schilderij dat ze van een lijdende Christus heeft gemaakt. Het staat levensgroot in de studio.
Waarom heeft ze dat schilderij gemaakt?
Omdat het een prachtig, aangrijpend verhaal is.
Dat antwoord kent de flemer niet.
“Gelooft u?”
Aarzeling. Wel dat er “iets” is.
Hij wijst. “Maar de Heer staat daar achter u.”
“H’m.”
“Hij is er ook voor u.”
Ze geeft niet toe. Ze twijfelt. Daar kan de EO niets aan veranderen.
Ze twijfelt. Goddank twijfelt ze!
Geloof is stilstand. Twijfel is groei.
Bij twijfel staan alle wegen nog open. Het zand drijft angstig onder de voeten. Er wordt gewikt en gewogen, gedacht en getobd. Het is tasten en zoeken naar wat misschien toch nog anders kan.
Zo krijg je kunst. Levenskunst.
Gelovigen zijn de betweters, de Marxisten, de kapitalisten, de wereldverbeteraars, de presidenten van landen en bedrijven, en de flemers van de EO. Verkrampt gelovend.
Je ziet het aan de verbeten grijns van sommige van die betweters die het te veel voor het zeggen hebben.
Nee, ik noem geen namen. Ik wil hun namen niet meer horen. Voortaan noem ik alleen nog maar de namen van de weifelaars en de twijfelaars.
Te beginnen bij de kwetsbare, aarzelende Ans Markus!
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Levenslang zonder Pensioen
-
Een mens heeft levenslang met zichzelf.
Dan kun je d'r maar beter voor zorgen dat je d'r lol mee hebt!
Want:
Het leven gaat niet met pensioen!
Een mens heeft levenslang met zichzelf.
Dan kun je d'r maar beter voor zorgen dat je d'r lol mee hebt!
Want:
Het leven gaat niet met pensioen!
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Spraak Zwijgt
-
Spraak zwijgt,
neigt verstomd
naar binnen,
kan de tong
niet overwinnen,
door onmacht
gekromd.
Spraak lispelt
verlegen,
zoekt
wegen
eruit.
Dan breekt
de mond
in uiten
naar buiten.
Spraak spreekt!
Spraak zwijgt,
neigt verstomd
naar binnen,
kan de tong
niet overwinnen,
door onmacht
gekromd.
Spraak lispelt
verlegen,
zoekt
wegen
eruit.
Dan breekt
de mond
in uiten
naar buiten.
Spraak spreekt!
Monday, February 16, 2004
Homing Pigeons
-
There are no two ways about it. We will have to scrap an expression in the English language. Birds don’t move “as the crow flies”. They follow roads, canals and railroad tracks! Just like us!
Scientists in Britain have attached GPS transmitters to the backs of homing pigeons, and let them loose in country familiar to them. Instead of relying on their inner navigation instincts and fly in a straight line, they were lazy and followed man made transportation channels. Some would even follow the ring road and take the correct turn!
Apparently, there is something that is more important to pigeons than saving energy, was the conclusion of the scientists.
You bet there is! This is something that humans seem to have forgotten, but children still know.
I remember our trips to school when we were young. So much was more important than efficiency. So much distracted us from getting from A to B in the quickest way.
We lingered to pick and eat beechnuts, not knowing they contained cyanide. We ate tons of them and never got sick.
We would lean against the gates of the big house, where Miss Mees lived. To us she was a cross between the Wicked Witch of the West and a Fairy Godmother. But we never saw her, and our interest in her waned.
On the corner stood the wooden stand of Mr. Koeman, who sold tobacco and sweets: licorice laces and diamond shaped marshmallows, called “spekkies”. My favorite was “black on white”, a salty licorice powder the color of pepper. You would drop it from a small paper bag into the palm of your hand and lick it up with a wet fingertip.
One day a truck came driving past us on our way to school. Right in front of our eyes it lost one of its front wheels. The driver jumped down from his cabin running after the wheel, that was still happily rolling off into the distance across the sandy plain. It seemed so silly: the truck driver hurrying after the runaway wheel, and the truck left behind, a sorrowfully kneeling cripple. We felt powerless, and continued on our way.
We had other adventures. We buried a dead bird, digging its grave with sticks and covering it with brown leaves. We felt terribly important. And I’m sure we were!
We impersonated the Famous Five, and made up endless stories.
And yes, after we had dealt with all those more important matters, we would eventually arrive at school.
And at the end of the day, like the pigeons, we would always come home to roost.
There are no two ways about it. We will have to scrap an expression in the English language. Birds don’t move “as the crow flies”. They follow roads, canals and railroad tracks! Just like us!
Scientists in Britain have attached GPS transmitters to the backs of homing pigeons, and let them loose in country familiar to them. Instead of relying on their inner navigation instincts and fly in a straight line, they were lazy and followed man made transportation channels. Some would even follow the ring road and take the correct turn!
Apparently, there is something that is more important to pigeons than saving energy, was the conclusion of the scientists.
You bet there is! This is something that humans seem to have forgotten, but children still know.
I remember our trips to school when we were young. So much was more important than efficiency. So much distracted us from getting from A to B in the quickest way.
We lingered to pick and eat beechnuts, not knowing they contained cyanide. We ate tons of them and never got sick.
We would lean against the gates of the big house, where Miss Mees lived. To us she was a cross between the Wicked Witch of the West and a Fairy Godmother. But we never saw her, and our interest in her waned.
On the corner stood the wooden stand of Mr. Koeman, who sold tobacco and sweets: licorice laces and diamond shaped marshmallows, called “spekkies”. My favorite was “black on white”, a salty licorice powder the color of pepper. You would drop it from a small paper bag into the palm of your hand and lick it up with a wet fingertip.
One day a truck came driving past us on our way to school. Right in front of our eyes it lost one of its front wheels. The driver jumped down from his cabin running after the wheel, that was still happily rolling off into the distance across the sandy plain. It seemed so silly: the truck driver hurrying after the runaway wheel, and the truck left behind, a sorrowfully kneeling cripple. We felt powerless, and continued on our way.
We had other adventures. We buried a dead bird, digging its grave with sticks and covering it with brown leaves. We felt terribly important. And I’m sure we were!
We impersonated the Famous Five, and made up endless stories.
And yes, after we had dealt with all those more important matters, we would eventually arrive at school.
And at the end of the day, like the pigeons, we would always come home to roost.
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