The DMF

Out of the ashes we were born and to the ashes will we return. All things in life are temporary. Vilfredo Pareto once said that history is a cemetery of aristocracies, an everlasting circle of birth, death and rebirth. Nothing lasts and nothing can escape its inevitable demise.

It got me thinking as to how our lives are all comprised out of cemeteries, not just limited to the political or historical domain. Throughout our lives we are confronted with friendship, love, career and so many other earthly joys. And at some point these begin to wither and dissolve, giving rise to cemeteries of past lovers, past careers and past friends, as I've recently come to learn. No matter how hard we try to cling to these raptures, somehow they always seem to slip away from us. We've all seen friendships bloom, thrive and then collapse. So too have I, more than once, I'm afraid to say. The latest death of a friendship occured just a few weeks ago, in fact.

For starters, I was never one to proclaim that friends are forever and that the people we meet in kindergarten are also the people who'll be with us for the rest of our lives. It's a nice thought, however, a very nice thought, but in my case, it has been proven to be just that many times over. No one has control over the destinies of others so therefore we cannot make people stay in our lives. At some point, a fork appears in this shared road that causes some to go right, where others go left. If we are lucky, these split roads meet up again at a later time, but sometimes they never do.

So, back to this friend I once had and I deliberately use the past tense, because there is no way our roads will ever join together again. I guess there's no point in that anyway when the other party says that they don't see the point in trying to salvage that relationship. Needless to say it didn't feel good when I heard that, but it also forced me to re-evaluate our four-year relationship. When two people come this far, having shared years of tears and laughter and what not, they become intertwined, attuned to each other. So I can tell you in all honesty that I never saw this one coming.

When I asked as to how she came to this conclusion, she said it was something she'd been thinking about for some time now. Another cold, hard slap to the face. The strange thing is, she wouldn't tell me what I'd done wrong to push her to do this, and now I guess I'll never know. In her mind, she thought it best to just let things sort itself out and hope the situation'd turn around. But when things didn't, she decided it was best to let the whole thing die.

I didn't know what I was hearing. Here was this girl I've known for years. We'd talked for hours, went on vacation together, partied, laughed and argued at some point, but after she said she didn't feel the need to fix things between us, I saw her in a completely different light. It was as if a veil had been lifted from those four years and I began to see things clearly. Now I'm not going to hang out all of the dirty laundry and personal details, but I just felt that I had to express the way I experienced this whole ordeal. I found it shocking to hear, but as time passed on and she slowly began to leave my thoughts, I became more susceptible to other people I'd previously neglected somewhat. I guess it's true what Pareto said: history is cyclical and where one friendship dies, another one rises up from the ashes.

So, now the remains of our friendship have become somewhat like a demilitarized zone. Two warlords overlooking territory they both feel they have claim to. Both sides opposing each other and in the midst of it all, their once shared world. Friends, lovers, places, memories, gifts and photographs. Battlelines run rampant across all of these things and a veritable "Who gets what?" atmosphere presses down on it all. This Demilitarized Friendship can't last forever and at some point, a division of assets must take place. Sadly, it's not as simple as carving up a pie, it involves real people and real relationships. For now, the status quo seems to hold out, but how long before one of us starts their war for possession of it all?

Good parenting

Dear diary,

- thought it'd be funny starting at least one of my blogs this way, since I already feel so familiar with this medium and I like to think this is the place where I can open up and speek freely. As if common courtesy could ever stop me from saying what I want to say, but etiquette calls for a more curbed approach, doesn't it?

Anyways, today I spent another eight hours surrounded by children. Wait, let me rephrase that: I spent the day being ridden by kids - almost giving myself a hernia in the process, I sat an accumulated hour and a half sitting next to a trampoline while continuously chartering children on and off the thing, I spent the whole eight hours talking baby-talk and appearing to be visibly rivetted by everything they say. The baby-talk is propably what gets me the most, because I see it as a personal insult since it limits my vocabulary to saying empty phrases and dumbing everything down. Sometimes I find myself talking to them in English or Spanish even and I see that look in their face, that confused look that says to me: dumb it down, Laurens, the kids aren't getting it! And most of the time I heed the little voice inside my head, but there are times when I just think: fuck it, they gotta learn somewhere, right?

Another thing I learnt today is that I really, really want to have kids. And I want them pretty soon. I'd hate to be this father that has completely lost touch with what's going on in my children's heads. I want my kids to get my inside jokes, to understand the things I'm talking about. Of course, I'm not gonna force them to watch something they don't particularly like - wait, who am I kidding? As long as I've got majority rule on the remote control and a dvd collection at my disposal, I think I'll pretty much dominate the whole television scene, so they will have no other choice than to watch what I'm watching. Sort of a television-nazi, aren't I? Oh well, I'll just chalk it up to the same old saying: Daddy knows best. Why, you ask? Because Daddies are older and wiser, that's why! Parenting isn't a democracy, it's a meritocracy!

I want three kids. Four if two out of three are twins. Wouldn't want that last one to feel left out, now would we? Of course, if numero quatro are twins as well, we're going to have a little situation on our hands. But those are worries for later! Right now, I gotta meet the girl, fall in love, see where it's going and when she least expects it, BAM, knocked up! Naturally, I'm kidding. I'm not that kind of a dog. I'll buy her something shiny beforehand! I'm not a complete animal! That's how Casanova played it, you know? Probably waved some fake jewelry around and before he knew it: professional womanizer! - I can only imagine what Women's Rights Movements would make of all this! Bet I'll have set back feminism half a century or so!

Today the cutest thing happened at work. Every week or so, a wickedly cute kid would catch my eye and I become totally mesmerized by it! So, like clockwerk, this unbelievably charming kid scuttles across the day care, his face locked in between a smile and a cry. He runs into you and immediatly holds up his tiny little hands, wanting you to pick him up. At this point, there is zero hesitation and without wasting a millisecond, you take him into your arms. You put him on your lap and let his tiny hands run across your face - silently, you pray to God he hasn't touched anything nasty with them - and you just know you want to be a Dad so badly!

So while he's sitting on your lap, his arms resting on your sides, you can feel him looking around, trying to make sense of the world around him. And sometimes, - this is what I really wanted to say - when you move, even if just a little bit, you can feel his miniature hands clutching you slightly harder. That sense of protection and safety is what completely overtakes you. The idea that this little person, this child of barely 5 years old, is holding on to you, expecting you to keep him safe. I can't imagine a more fulfilling feeling than that.

Infinite possibilities

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

Sometimes it feels like all we do is make decisions. Most of them are good, but some of them seep through the cracks of our judgement system and turn sour. Some decisions you come to regret while others you come to love. It's a fine line between knowing what you want and what you think you want.

Sometimes I think I should've stayed in Ghent. I should've clawed my way through the August exams and arrived in the second year of university. I didn't. Instead I chose the easy way and changed schools.

I'm not saying I regret making that choice, but I can't help but wonder what would've happened to my life if I was still in Ghent? Would I've patched things up with her or would I've found someone else? Would I've made it through the second year without failure or was it doomed to be a repetition of the first year? Only halfway through?

I like to think of choices as ripples in a clear pool of water. No matter how big or how small the stone you cast into the sparkling water, it always produces a certain effect to its surroundings. The ripples could be shallow and barely noticeable or they could become veritable tsunamis that can threaten to wipe away all that you have built up.

Everytime we make a decision we stand on the edge of possible armageddon and absolute happiness. The near-translusence of that fine line can work intoxicating and cloud our better judgement. Of course sometimes we just don't want to see clearly out of fear of what we might discover so we perpetually choose to look the other way.

I like to believe that the choices you've made helped forge the person that you are today, but sometimes you just have to wonder what your life would like had you made a different choice?

They say that people love you for who you are, but what if you're not the same you anymore if you'd have chosen differently? Can one choice make or break someone's character? Can one yes or no ravage someone's identity and twist it into something else entirely? What does that make us? Tabula rasas or bottomless vessels?

Will the words I write here ensure my future as a writer? Will they push me further and further towards the journalism branch or push me away out of fear of rejection? Are my words important enough to cast ripples in a clear pool of water? Am I that important?

Yes?

Or no?

Two words. Five letters. Infinite possibilities. Infinite outcomes.

Who will I become? 

Cautionary tale

In just a few hours I'll start my ninth day as a children's monitor in the Boudewijn building in Brussels. Each new day I am flooded with nerves. Nervous about how I'm going to cope with this heatwave that's been badgering us for so lang, nervous about how the hell I'm going to try to get those ten to fourteen year olds exited about something other than their -currently- very narrow mindedness. Each day is a battle between bending yourself over in a million ways to please them and the dormant -yet very anxious- need to strangle the life out of the insubordinates. Of course, the latter is something Child Services would very much indeed frown upon. But in this private and unprejudiced environment I think I can safely say that there are a few children -as wellas several of their parents- who would fare well with a good ol' fashioned beating.

Take the case of young David and Maya for example. David is a ten-year old boy with ADD. Outside of the holidays he must be quite the delight when he's high on Ritalin, but -as per his mother's wish- he is currently under no medication. So we have the pleasure of enjoying the extremely undermedicated David in all his glory. He is unable to pronounce syllabils which means that all children's monitors should forcefully become fluent in Davids.

"I an to ay" roughly translates to "I want to play", although frankly, 99% of the time it's just guesswork.

The poor boy is also -supposedly- unable to wipe his own ass, even though he has no problems signing the procedure to you! And to make matters worse, his rear end is plagued by a dreaded case of eczema. Real winners in this family, wouldn't you say? No mystery as to where poor David picked up this kind of malchance in his life! The mother's a sight to see as well. The term 'white trash' almost seems too kind.

And then there's little Maya, or as I like to call her, Damien 'The Omen' Thorne's follow-up. A girl with more faces than a full-bred hydra. Meet cute Maya in front of Daddy-o! Meet vixen Maya when she doesn't get what she wants! And animalistic, loves-to-scratsh-and-mutilate Maya when she's just plain bored. A girl so vindictive, cunning and serpent-like, she puts He Who Shall Not Be Named to shame. Guess I picked the wrong age category of children to monitor?

Oh well, next week it'll be the six to niners who'll have me running for the fire escape or the edge of a very tall building.

Still, in order to still want children after going through this ordeal, you have to tell the white lie all young parents say to themselves when smacked in the face with cold hard evidence that children really are evil, little monsters: "Our children will never be like that!"

Ah, the lies we tell ourselves to get through the day...

Generation past

I spent the day with my grandmother today. She's been through a lot lately and I can't stand the thought of her being lonely, so I try to spend as much time with her as I can. It's funny because to me, she's my grandma and I've known her as none other, but to my Mom and Dad she is this completely different person, different from the version that I know. To them she is a Mom and a Mother-in-law. Sometimes I see a glimpse of the woman that they told me about, the woman she used to be, the woman they see in her and it makes me question just who she really is? Has time changed her, grinded her into the way she is now? Or have I simply chosen to ignore all other opinions and see only what I want to see in her?

The lines on her face and arms are beginning to grow deeper, turning her once marble-like skin into wrinkled paper. A sort of map that tells of the sorrows and worries that have haunted her these past decades. I still can't believe that she actively lived through World War II. I can't imagine all of the terrible things she must've seen or done. It's like there's this huge chunk of her life that I will never be a part of, that I will never get to know because time has eroded most of it away and it seems cruel to ask her to bring all of that heartache back up again. Still, I cannot help but wonder how her life was before she had my Mom or before she held me in her arms as her second grandson.

I wonder what she feels when she watches the news now and when she sees how screwed up everything's got? Is it a sense of desperation because she sees that all the past sufferings meant to bring about a new era of peace and prosperity have only led to more conflict and death, now shown in technicolor on international television? War for all to see? Is it a sense of nostalgia? Longing to go back to a more simpler and quieter existence, before the War? Before things got so bad?

There are so many things that I want to ask her. I want to get to know her. The real her. Not limited to her grandmother personality. For some reason, whenever I see her, it's like there's this invisible clock ticking somewhere, warning me about the fleetingness of time. This platform we're on only offers temporary support before it collapses and is swept away by the current, whereafter I can never go back and get to know her. It almost seems morbid talking about her this way, but time is not on our side, I know this and I know that if I don't do this now, I will never be able to muster up the strength to ask about her when she's gone. Partly out of fear that I'll only get to hear a biased version of her and partly because I know that with each passing second, memories tend to fade away or details that seem so insignificant -but in fact carry an important value- are left out. Of course, everything we do and say or everything we don't do and don't say is biased and subject to oblivion, but I like to think that I'll be able to distil some sort of truth from it all and that I'll be able to fight back the waves of erosion.

I admire my grandmother for having lived her life despite all of the adversaries that fate has thrown her way. She has faced war, economic crisies and terrorism. Yet, she soldiers on bravely. I guess the WWII-generation has been blessed with an indestructable ability to find the beauty in the world and to cancel out all negative impulses. One day, I'll be able to fracture just a piece of her armour and see her for the woman she is, the warrior that has lasted for more than seven decades in this unforgiving world that takes nothing for granted. One day I'll see her. Wholly.

My brother (Part 2)

Lately the situation with my brother is on shaky grounds again. I can almost feel the ground begin to break beneath us. Small cracks have already compromised the stability of the living conditions we've formed over the past months. Rules were set. Boundaries established. Yet somehow we let them all fall apart.

When I look at him, I feel two distinct emotions: pity and happiness. The two couldn't be further apart. Neither could my disposition towards him.

I pity him because of all the experiences he will never have and the life that has been so forcefully taken from him. There are so many missed opportunities and so many goals that are impossible to attain. It seems harsh to say that I pity him, but I can't really say that I'm happy about all of it. Fate really is a bitch, isn't she? Is it wrong to pity a man who doesn't even realize he has something to be pitied for?

Luckily, I'm also tremendously happy for my brother because somehow I know that this terrible and cruel world will never get to him. He will never have to suffer the pain of bad judgement or the shame in humiliation. Maybe he does, but I don't think so. I think in some way, his mind has chosen to block out certain negative impulses to allow my brother to live some semblance of a life. Therefore I honestly believe him to be content with his current situation. The humble joy of helping the elderly, the dignified sense of belonging from going out to buy bread or the newspaper, the chance to live life without regrets.

Sometimes I wish I could follow him around for just one day, see the way he spends it and how he feels. Most of the time, it's guesswork as to how he's feeling or what he's thinking. It always fascinates me to think about how he feels when I say something to him or even the things he'd dream about. I think that if I could just take a peek inside his head for one second, I could gain an infinite amount of information and a new -and better- way to approach him and his situation.

It's never easy to deal with autism. It was hard before I knew he had it and it's still hard after the verdict was passed. I can't imagine I'll ever feel different one day. Guess it'll just be one of those things you carry around for the rest of your life. I can only hope that one day I'll be able to understand him better and then maybe we can slowly start the recovery process back to the place we've long ago drifted away from.

Ragtag

I always try to find a general topic to center my blog around, because personally, a blog in unison looks more appealing than a ragtag collection of subjects. But apparantly, my brain isn't wired in that way. The most random of subjects pops into my head that makes me want to write something.

Usually, I've always got my iPhone in the immediate area so I can write these impulsive thoughts down, but after mistyping one too many times, I habitually throw my hands up (after I've put the little black delight down) and call the whole thing off.

Still, to give you an idea, here are some of the excerpts from that makeshift-blog:

In the city of dreams,
you get caught up in the schemes
and fall apart in the scenes
- Kevin Rudolf

I'm not who I was at seventeen,
because everytime I walked away,
I left a part of me behind
- Kevin Rudolf

A life told from the posters on her wall. A whole array of carefully and meticulously selected scraps of paper to represent nineteen years worth of living full throttle. Parties that have been visited, movies that have been seen and pictures of friends that once populated an important area of her life. Maybe they're still there, or maybe they've made room for new posters on the wall. What does she see when she looks at them?
Does she see a life well-lived or does she see nothing but missed opportunities and shattered expectations?


It's almost July, which means Summer isn't too far off. A time of -hopefully- undisturbed and unconditional peace followed by hours of around the clock doing nothing. Careless, carefree, care-ridden. It's also the perfect time to get reaquanted with forgotten treasures in your game collection. My hidden gem is 2K's BioShock, a wonderfully disturbing tale of a man who tried to create Utopia, but saw his dreams submerged by greed and corruption.

For the ignorant among us, BioShock takes place in 1960, one year after a civil war decimated Rapture, a secret underwater city founded by Andrew Ryan. The city was founded as a means to escape from the treacherous and parasitic powers that ruled across the mainland. Rapture became a beacon for freedom and independence, a world without morals, without constraints. A world where man was his own boss, a world where man didn't have to answer to anyone. Ryan's dream started out quite admirably, but he saw his ideals of a free world crushed when he discovered the greed that ran amongst the elite that populated his city. After the discovery of ADAM, a substance capable of rewriting the human genome and granting superhuman abilities, the city fell into chaos. A year later, Jack stumbles across the decaying city. That's where the game begins.

For those familiar with the game, there are those memorable moments in the game that you will always remember. Such as the first time you inject yourself with an ADAM syringe or the first time you choose to attack a Big Daddy and subsequently harvest/rescue a Little Girl.

The holidays offer a vast gallery of opportunities; from making money to fusing your ass to the couch with a remote control in one hand and a can of Red Bull in the other. As for me, July means work, work, work. I've been hired to watch children in a company day care center for one whole month. The job interview went something like this:

She: "Have you ever worked for us before?"
I: "No."
She: "Do you have a degree in first aid?"
I: "No."
She: "Do you have any experience with working with children?"
I: "Euhm, no."
She: "Okay, we'll let you know by the end of April."

Three hours later...

She: "We didn't want to keep you waiting any longer: you've got the job!"
I: "Huh? I mean, thanks!"

And that's how I got the job. Don't ask me how I'm going to get through those four weeks of juggling kids around, but I'll definitely keep you posted! First day's coming up this Thursday, so stay tuned as I corrupt Belgium's newest generation of kids!