What do they think, what do they want,
what are they capable of? Written by Greet De Keyser and Miel
Dekeyser
First of all, I'd like to say that- whatever the title implies- it must be higly unlikely that all US citizens think alike.
I picked this book mainly because Greet
De Keyser was the Belgian on-the-spot-correspondent in the US for
many years. She always came across as being passionate about her job.
Everything you always feared to be true
about America, is in fact:
disturbingly true (at least according to this book)
So, to make this summary very terse:
what do Americans want, according to this book:
*they want to drive their SUV's
everywhere (though mostly within the US) without paying attention to
how much gasoline their tanks-without-cannon soak up, no they don't care about the environment
*they seem to evaluate everything on its size. The bigger the better. A large farm is necessarily better than a small farm, in there eyes. They decide this without even considering that the small farm might actually be producing a bigger crop than the larger one.
*they want to pay the lowest possible
price for their gasoline, sending off boys and girls to get blown up
by an IED somewhere in the sand, is not concern to them in this respect
*they actually believe in the American
dream, they are blind to the American nightmare, being poor in
America is your own damn fault
*the state doesn't regulate social
security, so most Americans are very much into charity and will try
to contribute something to orphanages, shelters for the homeless,
soup kitchens and so on. This has to compensate for the lack of a well-functioning social security system
*it's really hard to be well-informed
in America. Much harder than in Europe, because American news
focusses on American events and devotes very little attention to
foreign news. Most Americans are really not aware about what's going
on in the world.
*a lot of volunteers for the US Army,
only volunteer because the army pays for their education. For many
it's their only chance to get a decent education. They don't know the
real risks involved.
*the military academy at West Points
doesn't necessarily put out great officers, it mainly makes
highly effective business executives, graduates are sought out by
private companies as these men and women have an unwavering
discipline and are very loyal, they value their subordinates more
than they do themselves. West Points teaches them to lead by example.The book's message is, among other things, the US is a higly militarized society. But apart from their officer corps, quality of the troops is low, due to low motivation and not being trained for the tasks they are burdened with
(e.g. policing the strees of Bagdad)
*it appears on the outside that the US
is a very free nation. But in fact, especially the middle classes,
are very unfree, shackled to a rigid social convention. They HAVE to
attend church, they have to get their children to softball, they have
to be involved in charity work, they have to work all they can, they
have to get ahead in life or suffer social penalties.
*they've kept the pioneer spirit alive
and want to have a gun near at hand
*they are very patriotic, are not prone
to criticize their government, not even when they are willing to
admit they have a weak president (something good might still come
out of it)
*they look down and look up to Europe
at the same time. Europe is a medieval backwoods in their minds,
whereas at the same time it's also the place of art, fashion and
'grand' style
*when they say they don't invade
countries to steal their oil and overflow them with American
products, but say they do it with the best intentions and to spread
democracy and higher values, they actually believe it (scariest part
in the book)
*they are very prude when it comes to
sex, lots of 'forbiddenness' which ironically leads to a sex-crazed
youth. Nipplegate is an emblematic affair of the American attitude
towards sex. Highly hypocritical.
*America does not have the ambition,
nor the willpower, nor even the capability of actually conquering the
world, their strategy when it comes to messing with countries is:
engagement
exhaustion
exit
*president Bush knew something like
9/11 was coming or at the very least CHOSE not to know
In short, interesing piece of journalism,
more nuanced than this brief summary, but still clear that America
might be the most powerful country in the world right now, but
certainly not the smartest.
The author did confuse the American revolution with the American civil war, in such an unforgiveable manner as to give rise to the fear they got other historic facts horriblly wrong.
Not a bad book, on the whole, but not a good one either. And as will always be the case with literature on a fast developping nation: 7 years after publication it's no longer up to date, so it's certainly not the best book to get some useful insight in the spirit of the US.
this one had been on my reading list for quite a while, but when my literary compadre and dedicated road runner, Dominique Biebau told me to read it, I finally did.
I wouldn't recommend this book to people who don't combine running and writing and are fairly obstinate in both undertakings, but, the book holds some interesting ideas, for instance:
-as a writer you don't only need talent, you also need focus and endurance, running long distances regularly sharpens both
-running has a very positive effect on Murakami (and more importantly, especially with the future of Dutch Literature in mind) on Dominique Biebau. Running prevents mood swings (my friend Pieter-Jan Honoré reminded me about this one yesterday), it helps of course to keep a lean, trim figure and it helps to get disciplined in other areas of life.
This doesn't mean however that running is the solution for every one and that every one should lace up their running shoes right now. Murakami runs because 'it suits' him. Especially long distance running. So find something that suits you. Which brings us to the following:
-the book is not so much about running, as it is about listening to who you are and doing exactly what it is you want to do with your life.
To sum up:
*only compete with yourself, get to your next personal level, don't care about what the others say or do
*there are infinitely more reasons to quit a healthy habit than there are reasons to keep it up. Hang on to those few good reasons, ignore the excuses. Excuses will always pop up, so do it anyway.
*prior to starting in a swimming race: don't wipe your swimming goggles with your hands dripping in vaseline and do check if your shoes are laced up tightly before running
*Murakami is not a fun person to hang out with (he goes to bed way too early)
*Murakami mops the myth that says 'the only good artist is an artist torn apart by his inner demons, hard-drinking, hard-whoring, unkempt and unhealthy' under the carpet. He claims that the best literature comes when the artist learns to control his demons. (and Murakami does it by running)
So, go out and read this book?
Nèh, go out and run and chastice the 21st century 'evil' voices in your head.
The only way to remember the name of a
physcially unattractive woman is to sleep with her.
It's not a waterproof approach, but the
prospects of remembering the woman's name are much brighter once
you've been inside her.
And Margot is a beautiful name to
remember.
The things you said about yourself were
painful to hear.
You would sigh and say: 'Life is fair
for no one, but it's the least fair for ugly women'
I hate the word 'ugly' and never use
it, never even think it.
It's my feeble attempt at not being
superficial.
Margot, you had an obession about your
abs. 'It's the one thing I have going for me', you said.
I couldn't agree. I don't care about
abs. Abs don't do 'it' for me.
I care about long hair, big eyes and
thies.
And, not as much as I should, but
still, I care a great deal about personality.
You had a lot of that going for you, if
you hadn't cut yourself down with every other sentence that sprang
from your pitifully pale and thin lips.
But you were fun. You were such fun to
hang out with. And you were a babe magnet. A real babe magnet.
We'd go places and you'd be chatting
with a ton of good-looking girls in an instant. Maybe you didn't pose
a threat to them, but no, that can't be it, you were simply that much
fun, let's leave at that.
And ok, at first I went out with you,
primarily for that magnet quality, but seriously, there were soon so
many times the best part out of a night out was when we were slumped
back in sacks used as chairs and talking about anything. You had a
sharp, quick-witted mind and you were amazingly well-read.
'Girls like me don't get asked out
between the age of 14 and 20. So I had plenty of time to do a hell of
a lot of reading.'
'What happened after 20?'
'I realized the stunning imbecility of
waiting around for guys to ask you out to start a social life. I only
had two dates in high school. One was with a guy who wanted to figure
out if he was gay. He thought he was after our date, but no. He
hooked up with the girl next door a week later.'
'And the second?'
'The second really was gay.'
I don't really know why I waited till
then, but I kissed you. Right smack on those near invisible lips,
which seemed to have developed attractiveness out of, well, thin air.
'Is this going to be a pity fuck?', you
asked.
Talk of kill the mood...
'No,' I said, 'I really think you're
hot.'
And you really were hot. Not in a
beauty magazine kind of way. But who in a right mind cares about
those?
I saw it. Right that instant I took in
your beauty. And the old rock and roll of attraction found its
devious rhythm.
And we could have been great together.
We really couldn't have been something.
If it hadn't been for streets.
There are a lot of streets in this
world.
And couples walk those streets and get
stared at.
And I saw your beauty. But the others
wouldn't.
Evil others.
Evil me.
I never deserved a slap more than the
one you gave me when you walked out on me.
And the truth is that I miss your
unique look. It's not that you were unattractive, it's just that you
were totally different.
A bit like a sinewy Viking woman with
droopy eyes and an albino complexion.
I think it's good a writer knows the official rules of writing, so he/she can totally ignore them. So every now and then I read one of those 'learn how to write guides' which people buy as the first and often only step to writing their bestseller.
Though I liked Storm's blunt style -hard not to be blunt with such a last name- I got very bored halfway through the book.
Only useful info I gleaned from it:
Storm suggests a writer should ask him/herself 4 questions after writing a story:
1) Is what you're trying to write not too direct and too purely personal? In short: make sure it doesn't escalate into a therapeutic treatment. (after years of making this stupid mistake I most certainly agree) 2) Is what you want to write your kind of story? Does it fascinate YOU? 3) Is your story going somewhere, is there an evolution in it or something intriguing that makes the reader turn the page? 4) Is there something at stake for your characters?
Still not convinced I should be reading a lot in order to write better. This one was a waste of time.
Storm isn't positive about 'the secret of the writer', an other such guide by the hand of Renate Dorrestein, I happen to have lying around.
This not bode well for Dorrestein, I am willing to give her a 5 page chance and if she bores me, back to the library with these superfluous guides to the back benches of literature.
The best writing rules still come from Kurt Vonnegut (see elsewhere on this blog)
So, the maxim 'I don't read, I am read' is clearly sent packing.
The series 'A song of fire and Ice' was highly recommended to us and we read the first part.
The plot twists and character list are very impressive, it's a higly entertaining read, full of fluff and just a tiny smitch of fantasy elements. Not the usual 'peasant boy turns out to be the saviour of the world' kinda crap.
Most of the characters are so backstabbing the book breathes the atmosphere of a teacher's room with more blood.
Highly recommended indeed.
The amount of evil in it, makes it immensely human.
If you like Russian classics with over 200 characters, but you like them better with more action and shorter sentences, go for it.
A man-woman friendship that ends in sex, ends well. Well, maybe it doesnt end well, but the friendship usually ends.
We
werent allowed to have sex. We werent available, so we shared any
physical pleasure we could without resorting to sexual intercourse.
Restaurants,
snack nights, sun bathing, massages, swimming, running, cycling,
windsurfing, wrestling (a lot of wrestling), but mainly:
Alcohol (mostly cocktails with dirty names), food (lots of red fruit and melons) and talk, talk, talk. Talk about anything.
Also a lot of shopping for clothes. Only sort of legitimate way I get to see your breasts.
I
never had so much fun with a girl. Wed go outside during the summer,
walking arm in arm under a UFO-sized, yellow umbrella. Telling people to
step out of the way who were already miles out of our way. Sneaking
into cinemas by the backdoor, so we wouldnt have to pay. The money we
saved I spent on cherry flavored candy for you.
I swelled with
pride when we walked the streets together. You were a pretty hot looking
chicks. A real hardbody with big steamy eyes, like a libidinous bambi.
When
we did have sex- Somewhere near the end of one of our wrestling
matches. Somewhere under your kitchen table- it didnt even feel like
our first time together. More like the 1000th time in a three year
relationship that still has fire in the belly and gone over to the first
step of kinkiness. Some biting, some mild to medium bruising, some
rough kissing that makes your lips feel like chewed gum.
We
wanted to keep the authenticity between us intact. We figured if we
started a real relationship we would cheat on each other within the next
three to four months. Probably even sooner. So we decided to leave it
at that one time.
Back to restaurants and all the rest.
But the ersatz activities didnt do it any more. So we were doomed anyway.
Its better to burn out than to fade away, you texted me.
I understood. We were that close.
Close enough to both realize at the same time, it was time to cherish the memories and be forever apart.
Church bells. If the music is not too loud, church bells
accompany our every fuck.
We are sharing two rooms in an old house, right next to a
small church. You fantasize about doing it in the backyard or in those box-like
cabinets where people come to confess their sins. There are videocameras hidden
in every corner of the church, so we end up not doing it.
Standing naked for one second in our doorway, is about as
far as you go, acting out your exhibitionism.
Sex is still relatively new, a bit newer to me than to you,
but still new enough to you, to make even doggy style sort of experimental.
Im really not used to being so intimate with a girl. So it
sort of feels like you are boy, only way prettier, with breasts and no penis. I
have no idea how to handle whats going on.
You break up every routine I have. I used to go running 12
kms every other morning. I dont do that any more. Sleeping in and having sex
with you, beats the hell out of getting up at 6am to go and run ten laps around
a park.
Your blue eyes and black hair will be on my wish list for
years to come after you are gone. Thats past now. I buried you, in a way, when
I buried the little boy inside me. His death knell started echoing when I met
you. I didnt realize it then. Though the song in the background No way back,
felt like some kind of adrenaline filled
omen.
Most first loves have to die too. Or at least be destroyed
at some point, before they can be allowed to be reignited. Our love died.
Mainly because I thought any pretty looking girl was exactly
like you. And so pretty looking girls should have been interchangeable. Nope.
They werent.
So our path didnt lead to church bells and two whispered I
dos.
You did break my autistic patterns. I still dont know if
thats such a good thing. It gave me the strange and rather self-sabotaging association
that a disciplined life cant be combined with great sex.
I should mention the obvious part: you left me because you
couldnt stand my ongoing self-analysis any more. I dont blame you.
If a relationship depended on sex and sex alone, wed still
be together.
I like your firm back, your broad American football shoulders,
the length of your shiny brown hair. And though your eyes are a bit small, they
burn brightly like glistening chestnuts. Your legs look slim in pants, but are
full and round naked. The red lipstick on your lips a blazing fire made of
flesh.
You are highly sensitive and cant watch drama movies for
fear you will break down and cry. You cry often enough, Ive come to see the
inflationary rate of your tears. Theres no sadness in your crying, only the
joy of living. With wet cheeks you have the mesmerizing beauty of a sad
sea-green mermaid.By the way, you look
the hottest, with your sea-green blouse and fiery red skirt.
Sex with you is only perfect if you end up bruised, with
islands of blue and purple marking the spots where I claimed you. Youre an
easy comer. And youre an animal. A ferocious glutton. If it gives you pleasure,
you have no limits. Its a miracle youre still so thin. And its a miracle you
havent dwarfed me and locked me back in your womb. You are that excessive.
When you are with friends, you look like you havent been
socialized yet. An eternal teenager, ever the playground outcast, your ways are
studied, non-spontaneous and crude. You give boys slaps on the backs that twist
their collar bones.
And maybe for that exact reason, you make such a lasting
impression on people. Men around you, are either too intimidated by your looks
to approach, or they turn into little school boys who play the equivalent of
pulling your hair, with their verbal teasing. Sexual tension behind every tiny
insult they throw at you.
You are everything I could ask for in a woman. Your height
dwarfs me, you are a divinely soft retreat from the scary outside world, in
your arms its suddenly ok to have a fear of life, all I have to do is cover
you in continuous caresses, youre a natural axiolytic with breasts. Tiny
breasts in comparison to your height, which arouses me all the more. They look
like perfect sculptures with no risk of ever sagging.
Transcendental. Bi-polar opposites attract, goes the song
in the background. I never thought my weaknesses could turn on a woman. I crawl
in your pantzer and you close the steel vaults behind me. I love the feel of
your protective pincers in the skin of my neck. And you relish the security
that I could never hurt you. A feeling you find contradicting, because: I am
never attracted to sweet boys. Maybe its because Im the only one with whom your
sweetness is not pretended.
A goddess. A monotheistic goddess. My Isis, your Osiris. You
keep me on a tight leash. No glancing at other women allowed. Granted the fruit
of your gifts, I will subject myself to you, to you and no other. Or you will
shun me and leave me to dry on the beach in the hot callous sand.
You text me about 150 times a day. It drives anyone around
me crazy. Im unable to hold any kind of coherent conversation with anyone any
more. Up until the point that people dont want to meet up with me if you are
not there in body and spirit, so at least we arent texting.
You are about an inch taller than me. Its strangely
soothing. And subversively pleasurable. People frown at our height difference.
Whoever made up conventional male-female roles was a dreadful bore. You wear
high heels on purpose to make it even worse. Normally, you wear comfortable,
sneaker-like shoes.
For months on end we are locked inside each other. And when
we wake up, its like arising from an opium dream. Eyes still misty and vision
still blurry. Head and body slightly numb.
Last week weve agreed to have children.
And maybe, just maybe Ill ask you to marry me.
If you dont beat me to it, though I think well adhere to
tradition in that respect.
You read and criticize everything I write, except this female
Alphabet.
Why do you have to do that? I at least hope it has some
commercial value for a change.
Its the perfect time for me to muse about bygones, because
youre the last one.
Dont be so fucking corny, or Ill have to tie you up for
the third time today and beat all the emo shit out of you
So you like my fledgling breasts do you, my lecherous
pedophile?
While I suck your tiny nipples, I think:
A)You read too much classics
B)No, I keep cupping them to keep my hands warm,
what do you think?
What do you mean, pedophile?, I ask.
Well, you ARE a pedophile, arent you?
What?
Im 17 and you are what? 24? Ergo: you qualify as a
pedophile.
My other three girlfriends are adults. Im a 25 percent
pedophile at best.
I hope you are kidding, promiscuous pedophile.
I am in fact kidding. I only have two other girlfriends. And
they are mature in age, but not in spirit.
You are my first groupie. If writers are entitled to have
groupies, that is. We started emailing after you read something on some site
where exhibitionist writer types post things to beg for attention. Sometimes it
gets you exactly that. Most of the time it gets you as much as what your writing
is worth. Nothing.
Are you naked in my bed because of what you read there? Or
in spite of what you read there?
Your self-control amazes me.
How do you mean that?
This is the third time we are naked, and you havent tried
to penetrate me.
Well, you are a virgin.
And you intend to keep me that way? Like a toy you dont
unwrap from its package? Is there some kind of perverse pleasure behind it?
No, I just dont think I should be the one to do it.
Why not? Am I not attractive enough?
Im not sure if what we have will last, so I dont want to
be the first and then leave you.
Oh, so you are planning to leave me?
I didnt say that.
But you implied it.
You sigh.
What?, I ask.
Nothing. I was just imagining what it would be like, if you
thought I was so attractive you just had to take me. Even if you knew youd
break my heart after.
Sometimes I think you read too many 19th century
classics.
When I read what you write I start to wonder if you ever read
anything at all.
Really?
Haha, ooh, got a soft spot there.
Arent groupies supposed to throw themselves at your feet,
unconditionally and uncritically?
You know, if you would just penetrate me and be done with
it, you might actually have something to write about.
I guess not.
Look, if you are so bloody intent on losing your virginity,
we CAN do it right now, you know.
Yes, it is a bloody intention, I must admit.
Now I sigh.
No, it isnt, Ive never seen it to cause any sort of
bleeding.
Said the expert.
Why do you make me feel like I am your study object?
Well, I am a psychology student for a reason.
You should be studying literature. Avant-garde stuff. Suits
you better.
Thats like taking a course on how to end up unemployed.
I wish I had your insight in the dynamics of university
education at your age.
Now you sound old. But seriously now, why cant you just
say you are not really that attracted to me?
I am attracted to you.
Then penetrate me.
Fine. I will.
Why are you such a slave to what you think I might want or
not want?
Look, I dont mind psychological analysis. Its very
fascinating, but its not exactly setting a sexy mood, is it?
Ok, Ill shut up. How long do I have to shut up?
What?
Well, how long does it take? On average.
I grab you at your waist and pull you on top of me.
You do it yourself, I say.
Ow, and you can wash your hands in innocence, right?
Pedophile Pilate.
This way I can be sure you really want it.
I demand the universal right to be passive during my first
time.
I nod to my right and you slide next to me again.
What s the big deal anyway, I ask myself.
When you got what you came for, apparently, you ask:
So are you going to write about this?
Maybe you should write about it.
I dont want to be a writer. I want to be happy.
You are not very fond of writers, for someone who reads as
much as you do.
So if I like cars, I should naturally like the people that
build cars? One can like books without liking their authors. How new are you to
being in the writer business?
What if I told you I already have two girlfriends?
I would say: tell me something I dont know already.
How do you know?
I didnt until now.
Silence.
What are they like?, you ask. No, wait, dont tell me.
They are in your latest story, right?
I nod.
I should do some research. Something about the harem
longing.
I think theres no research needed. Every man wants to have
a harem.
No, Im talking about women longing to be with men who are
already taken.
Oh that.
You are making me miss class, you say as you give a hard
squeeze in my balls.
I dont think you ever started that research.
You are a bass player in all girls band. The lead singer is
an Irish cousin of yours. You write most of the lyrics.
I used to read them, to see if you mentioned me anywhere.
But I dont think you did.
You wrote the only writer Ill ever like is the one who
knows he will die if he finishes a manuscript , knows that the manuscript will
never be read by anyone, but finishes it anyway with tipex on my laptop
screen.
Its still the most eloquent way someone told me he/she didnt
like me.
You lie tied up on the bed. It's like we stole it from some medieval castle, velvet roof included.
Your
wrists and ancles look even better, even more enticingly vulnerable,
with the thick rope curled around it, like some adamant snake, that
seems intent on strangling off your limbs.
I come and lie
next to you, repeating your question. For the past two weeks you have
been bombarding me with questions about my past exploits. Despite the
huge age difference, sex is sort of new to you.
'Why so many, hey?'
I take a deep breath and say:
'I don't know. Every woman is an adventure. A university of life moving on killer legs.'
'What do they teach you?'
I caress you, with slow strokes, my hand barely touching your naked skin.
'Some
teach me to enjoy life, to be less tense, some teach me to get a grip,
some heal me, some teach me about women in general, how to be good to
them, what it is they need. I enjoy pleasing them, I guess it heals the
wounds in my fragile manhood or something. Apart from giving me the
deepest pleasure I know.'
'What am I teaching you?'
'That the most freedom loving people find it most exciting to give themselves over to the feckle will of an obessed womaniser.'
'Don't flatter yourself.'
I grab your breasts, and kneed them like dow. You want me to come between them.
You are more excited than I am. I prefer to come in different fashion.
When
it's done, it's like there is a white jellyfish sucking on your neck. I
rub it off with my hand and put my fingers in your mouth.
'Why does it taste like salted coffee?', you ask.
'I don't know. It just tastes like that.'
'Is it because you drink so much coffee?'
'I don't know. Some say you can sweeten the taste of it by eating a lot of fruit. But I don't believe it.'
'Why don't you give it a try?'
'I don't know. It's time-consuming to eat a lot of fruit.'
'Then drink smoothies. You should take better care of yourself.'
I'm tempted to say 'yes, mummy', but given the circumstances, I don't.
'Choke me', you say.
Your sea-green eyeshade looks really hot. It's my fetish colour, but you don't know that.
I
straddle your belly and put my right hand firmly round your neck. Do
all girls like this? Maybe not all, but I'm starting to think 20 percent
is a fair estimate.
You breathe heavily and I move away to go down on you, my right hand still gripped tightly around your neck.
I lick you to the rhytm of the song 'When the levee breaks', by Led Zeppelin.
You come shaking and trembling, the bed moves a few inches.
I untie you, and you lie there, beaming, curled up, like a little child, half awake, half asleep.
I put on 'Summer of 69'
It's meant to tease you. You were born in '68.
You are the best friend of my aunt.
My
aunt introduced us. She thought it was exactly what you needed after a
24-year marriage to a guy who tried to plaster his insecurities with
lots of booze and lots of insults thrown at you. You have two children.
The eldest is already copying his father and calling you 'a limp brain
chicken'. You let him, you have no self-defence mechanisms. Your mother
was an alcoholic. The world crashing down on you, is your idea of normal
every day life.
Apart from a wrinkle here and there and the stretch marks on your belly, you look like you have just turned 18.
When I go down on you again, 20 minutes later, you say 'thank you'.
That's
the difference between 18-year old girls and 43-year old girls, the
former you thank for letting you go down on them, the latter insist on
thanking you.
I say you have nothing to thank me for. To me you really are 18.
My tongue moves so slowly, you almost sound like you're in pain.
I stop and say I give you 24 snail paced licks, for every year spent in a sham marriage.
'You make it almost worth it', you say.
When you come a second time, you say: 'good boy, very good boy, that was...lush'
You stroke through my hair.
A woman who understands dogs, has all the knowledge she needs to keep a man happy.
Before
we fall asleep, you say: 'I know I have to find someone my own age, but
for the next six months or so, you can give me all the licks I have
been missing out on.'
Orgasms do something to the spirit of woman. It makes them more self-confident.
When
you kick out your oldest son and send him packing for calling you names
again, I say, with a big smile, I think you can move on now.
'What was in it for you?', you ask.
'I never pass on beautiful 18 year old girls', I say.
'You're crazy', you say.
And you smile, with such radiance, I just have to give you one last kiss.
Women often try to fend off a compliment, because they know it's impossible for them not to believe a compliment.
When I close your frontdoor behind me, I'm also smiling.
In the bible of seduction, 'the game,' they say: always leave them better than you found them.
We had both started work on a PhD.
Different faculty, same building.
We met at the coffee machine. We called him
Eddy.
Giving names to things you both use,
creates a first layer of intimacy.
You always had some trouble putting
together a regular outfit. That day you were wearing a flowery dress with faded blue yeans
underneath. You always looked bored, because everything was just too easy for
you. I liked the way you dragged your feet passed my cubicle. You looked so
convincingly sleepy, it made me smile.
In a very quiet sort of way you radiated
more self-confidence than any girl I had ever met. When we would go for lunch
in the garden of a nearby restaurant, you would blurt out things like: 'By that
time I will already be head of the department'.
Your cocksure attitude gave me a feeling of
peace.
'If you behave I will hire you to serve me
coffee. And maybe if you really behave, you can serve me something else too'.
In your attitude towards me, you displayed
an uncommon degree of verbal cruelty.
I would say:
'We can have a candle light dinner on the
roof of the faculty building'.
And you would say:
'Great, I can throw you off after. Or right
before. More food for me'.
'Be sure to make it look like an accident'.
'Oh, don t worry, everybody knows how
clumsy you are'.
When we did have the candle light dinner I
asked:
'So when do you plan to throw me off?'
'Oh, I have decided it's too soon. I want
to torture you some more first'.
We only met when you felt like meeting.
Which wasn't often. You took your PhD very seriously easy work or not and
you had three girlfriends who were entitled to spend at least one night a week
with you.
Whenever you texted me to ask if we could
meet, everything had to give.
I started rushing as soon as I had put my
mobile back in my pocket. A whole battle plan would develop in front of my
eyes:
-get home, hit the shower
-change clothes
-perfume
-50 push-ups to pump up the muscles a bit
-buy a bottle of vodka and multivitamin
juice to make your favorite cocktail
-buy one freshly baked brownie at the
chocolate bar
I never arrived at your door without a
sweaty brow.
Friends started to wonder why I had let a
girl enslave-kiss me to life, would have been more exact- me virtually
overnight. They looked at me like I was volunteering to shovel coal to keep
hell's furnaces blazing. I couldn't answer their questions. I was puzzled
myself. It had something to do with with the adamant, stern, inflexible look on
your face. Like it was sculpted. It was hard to please you. I could almost
never do anything right.
I would be two minutes late and I would
apologize and say:
'I am sorry, but I had to walk my friend's
dog. He is in the hospital, so he can't do it himself.'
'Well, it's interesting to see where your
priorities lie.'
I'd bring a bottle of wine from a shop on
the outskirts of town where they were supposed to have the best wine North of
the Seine and you'd say:
'White wine? To go with spaghetti?
Interesting.'
When you did say something nice, it washed
my brain with endorphines, because I knew it must have been a very sincere
compliment.
What was I looking for? A strict,
disciplinary mother or just a hard to please girlfriend? Me falling asleep on
your chest and not the other way around, made it all the more worrisome.
I felt like a puppet on your string, but
the puppet felt he belonged there. Any other girl would have cut the string and
chucked the puppet out of the window. Who can stand someone who passionately
pursues the fulfilment of your needs? Who seems to thrive on satisfying you?
You could.
'I never needed anyone to feel complete,
but still you complete me. You complete what was complete already. I think the
most important thing is that with you I can combine the freedom of being single
and have the security of having someone who embraces my uniqueness, without
trying to mold me onto something I'm not and you are there when I want you to
be there.'
One year into our relationship, friends had
to recognize I was a stray bullet who had finally found a direction. You were
the only girlfriend they all respected and didn't look at with pity, but with
enthusiast glee.
I renamed you Zenobia. After the famous
strategist who bested the Roman legions more than just a few times.
The same quiet confidence, dignified
realism and unpretentious beauty emmanate from her portraits.
And it starts out with a Z, because my
story ends with a Z
