Friday, November 12, 2010

The green grasshoppers

I have been living in the Netherlands somewhat longer than two months. In last month I think I got accustomed to the most famous way of Dutch living. Of course there will be slanders against me, because I dare to stereotype one nation into a box a category a word and there is no excuse for it. But I can't simply help it. I'm still a tourist in this state and I speak no Dutch. Strangers in the streets, but especially in the supermarkets, offer greetings in a foreign language when you are quiet and say nothing. Enough about me, although everything here is about me and no one else (perhaps one imaginary friend like the Little Prince).
I naturally speak of the green grass, I indeed label the Netherlands with marihuana.

Recently I wrote a paper and the following morning I had absolutely no idea when comparing critical theory to positivism and paradigms that circulate in the discipline of the political science. After the classes my dearest friend head off to the nearest coffeeshop and hallucinate happiness even before we reach home and clock hits three o'clock in the afternoon. You sense things that are there and you believe in things that used to be there, but not anymore. It is beginning of the disorganized thoughts that are unable to follow the timeline. Words in the space race with the stars and light and we all know after studying physics that the speed of alphabets and letters compares to snail's pace. And we all accept this notion happily. Because this is where we want to be; in the timeless & thoughtless space where anything and even nothing is possible.

One of the most memorable experiences of the space is Nneka's, a Nigerian-German soul artist, concert. Seven of us, seven e-tickets in our pockets and first thing we all do is to go a smoker's lounge and light our joint and it is the beginning of a journey. Music beams, bass dances, voice overwhelms, movements float, echoes tremble and people exist - a small black, perhaps seven-years-old, boy dances to reggae and oh if a white heterosexual man ever had to mimic the movements, we would not cease waiting. Everyone gathers around the boy, that embarrassing divorced man in a suit with his moves from the 70s, that old drunken woman that is desperately searching for her youth, that young Syrian teenager in Western clothes dancing like a Western woman, they all surround the boy and join in the middle with him one by one. And you know that you are in the space where your mind finds her greatest lover; gratification. 

However, even with everything I'm still longing & missing.
I'm alone until I live with him again.
Until I'm with him again I'm insecure.
Because I breathe for him.