05-11-2009 om 12:59 geschreven door Tederdraads  

We staired into each others eyes for about five minutes and then finally I mustered all the courage I had, lunged forward and kissed her. I was still aiming for her cheek, just to be on the safe side. But she corrected me and catched my lips with hers. After that she took over the action and drew me to her, rather violently, I must say. She drew me down on the bed and I believe she hit her head on the bed-side, but if she did, it sure didn’t bother her. She was breathing very heavily, I wasn’t used to seeing a girl get so excited, that quick.

She was so impatient and turning and twisting all the time, that we were moving around the bed like some sort of helicopter. When we finally got rid of most of our clothes we had your average run-through. She didn’t look all that pleased during it, I asked her if was hurting her, twice. I obviously was, but she simply said ‘continue’. I tried to last as long as I could, but then eventually I decided she was the kind that doesn’t climax simply through penetration, no matter how long it lasts. So I went down on her, but that didn’t work either.

I was getting tired, and I felt very dissapointed, which she noticed, because I could’t seem to pleasure her. So I asked her what she liked, promised that I’d do anything. She didn’t answer. So I insisted she ‘d tell me. Nothing she could come up with, was going to shock me. And I was obviously not doing it right. ‘I don’t know what I like’, she said, ‘it’s my first time.’

Of course, I should have known, but somehow I didn’t. Maybe I couldn’t imagine a virgin having sympathies for some of the Nazis’ Endlösung principles. She didn’t know what she liked. Yes, that did sound like something I could believe. ‘Ok’, I said, ‘then let me rephrase that, do you have any idea of what you might like? We can take our time you know.’

She didn’t say a word, but she put my hand on her neck. This small move alone got her aroused again. I didn’t need to hear more from her. I simply felt that the rougher, the tighter I squeezed her neck and the harder I ran it through her, the more she’d like it. First time or not. Afterwards I even found out she could climax by rhitmically hitting her clitoris with the back of my hand. She even asked me to tie her down, to come over her breasts and then to smear my semen all over her tits. I joked that we should go out and buy a whip some time later this week and she said the thought turned her on immensely, but that she’d like to wait a bit. Maybe in a month or so, she’s be ready for that.

When we had momentarily spent our cardinal force, she stroked my hair, which I enjoyed very much, her fingers sort of electrified my temples. I used some of her stuffed animals to act out scenes of fornication, which half shocked her, half amused her. After a while she suddenly whispered, ‘You know, you have the cutest puppy eyes, but if you ever start acting like a puppy around me, I’ll dump you, just like that. I can’t stand weakness. It makes me sick.’

(to be continued)

05-11-2009 om 11:52 geschreven door Tederdraads  

On the way over to the chocolate bar she jumped up and down like a little girl of about eight. She waved her arms about her and insisted we’d go and see the new Pixar movie. ‘Don’t you just love cartoons?’, she asked. ‘You read Latin, but you love cartoons, somehow that doesn’t make sense to me.’ She shrugged and said: ‘I’m not really into the sense making business.’

She sure wasn’t. During the fondue for two she casually mentioned that all physically and mentally impaired persons should be liquidated or nutered at least. Strange to hear that from a girl with big sparkling eyes and a purple flower in her hair, who also claims to sleep with a ton of pluche pets. I was getting more fascinated by the minute.

We did go through all the rituals, so we had to let each other in on our past romantic/sexual experiences. I let her do most of the talking. Some women like to hear every detail about every girl you ever banged. They like to hear about your insatiable hunger for pussy, because they like the excitement, the threat you pose to their inevitably monogamous dreams. Others will simply walk out on you. I hadn’t figure out just which kind she was. I suspected the former and I also feared she’d be unimpressed by an all too honest presentation of my record.

Much to my suprise again, it turned out she had almost zero experience. I didn’t even know for sure, whether she was a virgin or not. I’m the kind of Cassanova who suffers from what I’ll call ‘the slows’. It usually takes me three even four dates before I get down a girl’s pants.

We ordered an extra brownie, which got us a puzzled look from the waiter. After she had woolfed that one down also, I suggested we’d go to a cocktail bar. I had my own ‘route of seduction’ in this town.

‘No’, she said, ‘let’s go to my place.’

‘To do what?’

I know sometimes it’s just better to shut up and nod yes, but I tend to fuck such situations up by, well, not shutting up.

‘To wrestle’, she said.

‘Wrestle?’, I asked, still not shutting up, I’m pig-headed, yes, I am.

‘Yes, it turns me on like you wouldn’t believe.’

It was hard to say anything after that, even for me.

She had a spacious studio, that got very cold at night, because all the windows pointed straight to the north and she was too economically balanced to turn on the heating, she said.

‘Whenever I get really cold I just run a few laps around my kitchen table.’

I asked her if she had any alcohol. I never drink, but on first and second dates I still need to forget some painful high school rejection scenes. No matter how many girls I sleep with, the first move never comes easy with me. After that first one I’m fine, I’ll drink her menstruation fluid out of a cup, for all I care, but that first move always makes me a little bit shy and sort of feverish.

There was no alcohol. She did regret saying that, she said. ‘I should have giving you a glass of milk and told you it was mixed with rum. You’d have gotten drunk anyway.’

‘Yeah, probably.’ Indeed, she should have done that. Would have worked fine.

So we just sat on her bed, staring at large posters of cartoon animals with hysterical looks on their faces that were on every wall. I could see she was getting cold. Her hands were up in her sleeves and she was wearing two sweaters already. I was afraid she’d get tired, so I suggested a ‘no blinking contest’

(to be continued)

04-11-2009 om 19:11 geschreven door Tederdraads  

‘Let’s go through all the right rituals, shall we? I’m rather a traditional girl’, she said after a pause and taking a rather long look at me. I had difficulty guessing her age. She could be between 17 and 22, maybe even 23. She wore a  flower in her hair and she was rather muscular, she was fairly broad in the shoulders, but this only added to my appetite. Her eyes were big and bright, surprisingly they were blue and something about them told me she wasn’t going to be this average fuck. I thought she would be very tender, very clingy too though, which made her a potential liability, dump-wise.

Something in her face reminded me of a reptile or a skeleton even, she was very thin in her face, with a big nose. I always like a big-nosed girl. To me the size of a girl’s nose equals her libido. It’s a simple trick that never fails me.

‘Take me to your number one seductive spot’

‘That would be the chocolate bar’, I said almost in a robot voice.

‘What will we have there?’

‘The chocolate fondue for two’

‘Sounds about right.’

She stood up and grabbed her blanket, folded it very carefully into a tiny square and somehow managed to tuck it into her bag. Somewhat to my dismay I now saw she was about as tall as I was. In fact, we were exactly the same height, only I was in the habit of stooping, which made me seem smaller than her.

In the corner of my eye I saw my friend gesturing, a quick move of his hands I interpreted as a big sigh followed by the word ‘Finally.’

Just before we left the yard, she said:

‘It’s very rude of you not to ask my name, but I forgive you. I can’t help liking rude boys.’

I was ready to hit myself on the head with a clenched fist.

‘I’m sorry, what’s..?’

‘Thisbe. My parents called my Thisbe. They both love Ovidius. Especially his Metamorphoses.’

(to be continued)

04-11-2009 om 14:10 geschreven door Tederdraads  

I was planning on a sheepish smile with playful eyes to accompany my ‘what ya reading?’ attack, but halfway up to her, the question became redundant. I couldn’t make out the title yet, but I knew for sure, that she was reading ‘Ars Armatori’ by Ovidius. A new translation was out on the market. I had bought it myself, not because I didn’t have several editions already, but because I loved the cover. It was subtly, yet brilliantly obscene. If you put the book open, on its belly so to speak, the front and back cover together clearly made a strawberry shaped pussy, so enticing you were ready to go down on it, when nobody was looking. The reviews had more to say about the cover than about the translation, which was a pitty, because it was exceptionally fresh and well-written. I was envious of it myself. Every Latin student was.

As I hunched down next to her, unthreateningly near the border of her blanket, without so much as touching the cloth, I asked, ‘Do you like it?’

She had an amused little smile and without looking up from the pages she threw back a question of her own.

‘The cover or the translation?’

‘The translation’, I answered with the smile I had been planning to fake, but came all by itself now.

‘I read the original, but I think the translation is quite good actually.’

‘You read Latin? How come I never saw you in one of our classes?’

This time she put down her book, so it seemed like we had a juicy pussy right there between us. I was getting to like the situation, intensely.

‘So one needs to be studying Latin in order to understand Latin right? So just because you’re not in law school, I can assume you don’t know theft is a crime, right?’

She had me there, of course. ‘No, but, it’s not very common for people outside of the Classical Department to be reading a dead language.’

‘I imagine it’s not. It’s not very common for someone to act like a deranged locust around here, but your friend is doing a thorough job. What does he plan to do with all those apples?’

I simply shrugged, but inside I was pleased. She’d been observing us.

‘Anyway, he must like you very much.’

‘Who?’

‘Your friend. What’s in it for him? You get to walk away with the girl and he goes home all by his lonesome. You must tell him some very vivid accounts of your night-outs.’

I did tell my friend very flowery accounts of my nightly debaucheries. Not always as deviant or debauching, as I wanted them to be, but my horizontal exploits were fairly seasoned by then.

‘So I get to walk away with the girl, do I?’

I hadn’t expected her to be so up front.

‘Don’t you usually?’

Now she was flattering me. I took great pride in my reputation as a ladykiller, well, the reputation was always bigger than my actual résumé in the art of love-making, but even so, I wasn’t doing that bad. Compared to my high school record of fucking I had gone from zero to hero in my university days.

(to be continued)

04-11-2009 om 00:36 geschreven door Tederdraads  

I was trying to guess her name. I thought maybe Semira, Bernice or Tanné, perhaps Therese or Thalia. Finally I became convinced her name started with a T, well it had to be something exotic anyway. That did rule out Tatjana or Tamara of course. She certainly didn’t have Slavic roots, that much I could tell. 

Her skin was the colour you get when you mix too much milk through your coffee, her orange sandals with long leather straps accentuated it perfectly.  She was about 15 yards away now. My prey for today was moving with the sun. As soon as the shade caught up with her, she picked a different, more luminous spot. She would trail her cubist blanket after her, slung over one shoulder. Her waist was tiny, but she had this lifted ass, that’s more common in black girls. Perhaps she was a quadroon or an octoroon. Her complexion was too light to be a mulatto.

Up on till now she hadn’t been doing much, except for what appeared to be sun-bathing. I couldn’t imagine she was doing it to get a tan, I guessed she was doing it for the rejuvenating effect a few rays of sun can have on a person. Or maybe for the almost transcendent experience of lying in the sun with your eyes closed, as if you’re floating in a sea of light. The closest thing to a sip of eternity, I suppose, that and The little death, as the French call it.

Her inactivity made it hard for me to approach her. She could be dozing for all I knew. If I were to go over to her now, she wouldn’t even see me coming, so I would give her a hell of a fright, for sure. My friend, my ungainly, though always cheerful roommate, who supplied me with copies of his notes and translations and was in the habit of curing my sudden depressions, was with me. If I went out hunting for girls, I always tried to take him along. For reasons of contrast, I’m ashamed to admit. I had convinced myself that an average looking bird looks twice as handsome in the company of an ugly one.

Anyway, my friend was picking apples and getting mightily bored, he was pushing me to undertake some action, throwing my own adagium into my face: ‘An offensive that stalls, never regains momentum’ He’d picked several trees bare by now, so it was indeed time for some action. I was beginning to fear that some monks would emerge from the monastery to chase me and friend out of their yard. This green resort right smack dab in the middle of the city centre the clerymen had so generously opened to the public. Probably to peek at the young, sweaty student flesh. I could imagine them drueling high up there from the the miniature windows of their cells.

‘Either make a move now, or we go, alright? I need me one tall ladder if I’m to pick any more apples today. We can come back tomorow. I’ll bring some barrels and I’ll squish the apples into cider with my feet. And you can go on staring, just like a 16-year old rheumatic cat would when…’

I didn’t hear my friend finish his sentence. It was one hour before they closed the yard, but there was my chance. A book. She had reached for her bag, no bigger than a medium-sized lunchbox and pulled out a slender volume. Sound the charge, I’d say.

(to be continued)

03-11-2009 om 19:41 geschreven door Tederdraads  

Ik sta in mijn klas, het is speeltijd en ik zet al een schema aan ’t bord. Ik trek kolommen, maar met elke lijn die ik trek voel ik mij minder op mijn gemak. Ik begin mij flarden te herinneren van een droom. Ook iets in deze klas. Ja, ik sta op de zelfde plek met dit stuk krijt in mijn handen, en het schema is klaar, de bel gaat, maar er komen geen leerlingen en ik besef dat het buiten al een paar minuten compleet stil is. En dan kloppen ze en er komt een vent binnen met zo’n plastiek masker van een heks op zijn hoofd en ik denk, tiens, da’s een grap, maar die vent stapt op mij af en geeft mij zonder iets te zeggen een lap in mijn gezicht met de loop van een pistool.

En dan zegt hij dat ik vooruit moet stappen. Ik wil naar de deur gaan, maar hij duwt de loop in mijn nek en zegt dat ik door ’t raam moet kruipen. ’t Is donker buiten en de speelplaats lijkt vol kleren te liggen. Ik kruip door het raam en als ik mijn voet op de grond zit, trap ik op iets zacht, ik tast met mijn voet naar de grond, maar ik vind niks vast, dus ik laat mij toch zakken. Ik moet ’t plein over steken en naar de schoolpoort stappen, want daar is nog een plek vrij, zegt de man. Overal waar ik stap, is de ondergrond week. Mijn ogen raken gewend aan ’t donker en ik besef dat ik op lijken stap, overal lijken van leerlingen. Ik ben zo de kluts kwijt dat ik uitglijd over de brei op de grond en ik wil niet denken wat er precies aan mijn handen kleeft en aan mijn gezicht als ik terug recht krabbel. Bij de schoolpoort is inderdaad nog een piepklein eilandje van betonnen vloer zichtbaar tussen de uitgespreide lichamen in. Hier moet ik op mijn knieën zitten en weer voel ik de koude loop van het pistool in mijn nek. ‘Deze is de laatste’, hoor ik de man zeggen. En dan schiet ik wakker.

Dat schema, dat stuk krijt en die klas, zelfs de kleren die ik aan heb, doen mij denken aan het begin van die droom en ik krijg het nu zo benauwd dat ik alleen nog maar kan kijken naar de deur. Hoe ben ik nog door die deur kunnen stappen, na zo’n droom vannacht? Juist als ik denk, als ze nu kloppen, krijg ik al een hartstilstand, kloppen ze echt. De vent met het heksenmasker. Het enige verschil is dat hij een machete heeft, in plaats van een pistool. Hij blijft staan in het deurgat, dus ik draai mij om, om door het raam te vluchten, maar dan zie ik dat er bij elk raam net zo een vent staat. Gewoon te kijken, te wachten. Van op de gang hoor ik roepen: ‘Is dat de laatste?’ en de man knikt en zegt: ‘met deze gaan we ons nog even amuseren, hoe ver zou hij nog kunnen kruipen zonder handen en voeten?’ Van op de gang zegt iemand lachend: ‘Dat vraagt om een experiment’

Ik geraak nog tot op ’t einde van de gang en dan hakken ze mijn schedel open.

03-11-2009 om 08:50 geschreven door Tederdraads  

Cybil en ik hebben onze vleselijke kunsten tot een hoger niveau getild. Op haar kot hebben we metalen ringen aan het plafond bevestigd om haar aan vast te binden, zodat ze geheel uitgerekt overgeleverd is aan mij.

Daar hangt ze nu, met haar rug naar mij toe, haar tenen vinden net steun op de grond. Mijn bewegingen zijn gemaskerd voor haar gespannen pupillen. Ik neem de zweep en stap op haar toe. Er is geen haast bij. Eerst laat ik het koude leer langzaam over haar uitgeleverde vlees strelen, om de zenuwen een idee te geven van wat komen gaat. Tot ze rilt van onzekere afwachting. Dan laat ik het leer naar voren schieten, onvoorzien hard. Ik wacht en geniet van het ineenkrimpende lichaam dat nu wellustig glanst. Ik laat er een regen van slagen op neerkomen, rug, flanken, dijen, en heel gemeen: knieholtes. Voor ze kan herstellen mep ik harder dan tevoren. Vervolgens verplaats ik de werkzaamheden naar de volgende zijde: haar nu van verlangen opzwellende borsten met samengetrokken spitse tepels.

Ik zuig er aan alsof ik dit nog duizend jaar zal volhouden, wetende dat ze ondertussen zo hard naar de verlossende zucht van een climax verlangt dat het geil uit haar vochtige plekje langs haar om aandacht schreeuwende dijen druppelt. Geen haar op mijn hoofd dat er aan denkt haar nu reeds de frisse wateren van een orgasme te vergunnen.

We zijn pas aan het opwarmen. Ik leg mijn hand kalm op de achterkant van haar hals en sabbel beurtelings op haar oorlellen. Daarna draai ik ruw haar gezicht naar dat van mij en besprenkel ik haar onderlip met plagerige likjes waar ze geen verweer tegen heeft. Ik laat me meeslepen in het moment en bijt in haar lip tot ik bloed proef en zij het écht uitschreeuwt van pijn.

Die lelijke knauw is ze vlug vergeten als ze smeekt: “lik mij, lik mij”. “Lik mij alsjeblieft”! In de plaats laat ik de zweep langzaam afglijden, langs haar mooie platte buik, tot haar venusheuvel met de aandoenlijk wuivende blonde haartjes en laat de zweep zacht langs haar vagina glijden, die nu verkrampt van begeerte. Ritmische tikken met de zweep op haar magische driehoek maken het alleen erger. Ik weet dat ze louter van die ritmische slagen op het gebied rond haar clitoris kan klaarkomen, maar dat heb ik deze keer niet in gedachten.

Met mijn vrije hand ontklem ik haar nek en knijpt bijna volledig haar keel dicht. Sinds ze terug is van Egypte, durf ik steeds verder gaan. Ze kan nergens heen, niemand hoort haar gesmoorde schreeuwen, ik heb de macht om als een speelse kat haar pijnlijk naar ontlading snakkende lijf tot de uiterste hunkering te voeren. Ik sla scherp op haar billen, met de vlakke hand, het geluid van de slagen weergalmt door de kamer.

 Ik leg mijn vingers op de verleidelijk natte poel van haar vertederend mooie poes, maar verder doe ik niets. Ze kan zich niet bedwingen en rijdt met gretige bewegingen op mijn hand. Ik neem mijn hand weg, kus haar vol op de lippen waar nog een fijn streepje bloed op zit en daal eindelijk af naar het magnetische plekje dat haar vrouw maakt, traag lik ik het warme zachte vlees en proef de smaak van haar benevelende sappen op mijn tong. Gek hoe iemand die zo op mijn zenuwen werkt, iemand die ik nauwelijks kan uitstaan, mij seksueel toch zo kan opwinden.

 Zonder haast breng ik haar met smachtende likken tot een hoogtepunt, ik smul van haar, ik fijnproef haar. Haar buikspieren beginnen te golven, binnenin balt de baarmoeder zich, voor haar ogen wordt het zwart, ze hoort niets meer, het genot ontploft in haar onderbuik en deint uit over haar hele, wild schokkende lichaam, puzzelt haar ziel terug stevig in mekaar en toont haar essentie. De essentie van een neukteef.

  Ik omhels haar stevig en overdek haar gezicht, onweerstaanbaar betoverend in volle bevrediging, met een beschermende mantel aan kussen en kijk diep in haar ogen. Beiden, op dit moment, volledig ontvankelijk voor elkaar en bereid tot offer van alles aan het hogere wij, ondanks de haat die woekert tussen ons, als een tumor die ons beide wil verstikken. Hier en nu zijn we nog eventjes intens verbonden en lijkt er tussen ons nog iets gaande te zijn dat je al te makkelijk zou kunnen verwarren met liefde.

02-11-2009 om 18:47 geschreven door Tederdraads  

Deze middag ben ik vastbesloten om een berg schoolwerk te verzetten. Dat is echter buiten mijn pc gerekend, zo merk ik al snel als ik plaats neem voor dat beduimelde, bekwakte schermpje. Voor die ene, uitzonderlijke keer dat ik mijn pc wil gebruiken voor iets nuttiger dan het downloaden van porno –ik heb een voorkeur voor ruwe anale scènes -, crasht dat rotding. Gedaan met typen, weg taak. Ja, ik ben geen informaticus. Ik ken maar één methode om een defect toestel te repareren: er een flinke mep op geven. Werkt verbazend vaak, maar niet deze namiddag.

Ik moet die taak netjes uitgetypt indienen tegen volgende week maandag, van een krappe deadline gesproken, dus ik moet een pc hebben. Ik haast mij dan maar naar de stadsbibliotheek. Een internetcafé zit er niet in, het is het einde van de maand, ik ben compleet platzak. Ik kom aan in de bibliotheek op het drukste moment van de dag. In het pc-lokaal is elke computer bezet. Nu ik eindelijk besloten heb om mijn leven terug de baas te worden, laat ik mij door zoiets niet van mijn stuk brengen. Ik wip dan maar achter het bureautje van de infobalie. De bibliothecaresse is nergens te bespeuren. Die is vast een potje gaan neuken met de baas. Ergens in de sectie ‘metafysische poëzie.’ Ik begin vol ijver aan mijn taak, maar ik zit er verdomme tien minuten en ik moet al vijf kloefkappers afwimpelen. Mijn respect voor bibliothecaressen groeit hier spontaan drie kwart van een millimeter. Eentje is verdraaid hardnekkig.

Hij: “Excuseer, ik zoek het boek ‘Mieke Maaike’s obscene jeugd’ van Louis Paul Boon.”

 Ik: “Vanaf volgende week hebben we weer pruimengelei.”

“Wat moet ik daar mee?”, antwoord de lastpost niet-begrijpend.

“Vanaf volgende week hebben we weer pruimengelei.”

“Ik heb toch helemaal geen pruimengelei nodig. Ik zoek enkel dat boek van Boon.”

“Vanaf volgende week hebben we weer pruimengelei.”

“Luister, ik zoek ‘Mieke Maaike’s obscene jeugd.’ Het is altijd uitgeleend. Ik zou het graag reserveren.”

“Vanaf volgende week hebben we weer pruimengelei.”, zeg ik met een diepe zucht.

Pas dan laat hij mij eindelijk met rust. De viespeuk. Dat waant zich een intellectueel, omdat het de volledige naam van Boon kan produceren. Boon drinkt zich een stuk in zijn voeten, als hij weet wat voor lezers hij tegenwoordig heeft. In de hemel dan. Of ja, misschien in de hel. Hangt er van of God wel eens een boek leest of niet.

 Een andere zagenvent wil een boek uit het magazijn. Ik zeg hem dat het magazijn tijdelijk te kampen heeft met een schietpartij tussen twee tot drie rivaliserende bendes. Hij wil graag weten welke bendes. Ik zeg:

‘The writing slit-throats van Kouter Zuid’ nemen represailles tegen de ‘Methaphoric upstarts van Kouter Noord’. Als de ‘Dadaist sadists van Sint-Zevenbergs’ er mee gemoeid zijn, wordt het helemaal een bloedbad.”

 Hij kijkt mij vreemd aan en gaat heen. Ik werp de andere bezoekers een boze blik toe en ze druipen af. Ik kan verder met mijn opzoekwerk. Een tiental minuten heb ik rust. Dan staat er een interventieteam van de politie voor mijn neus. Ze vragen waar het magazijn is. Ik zeg: “Kelderverdieping, tweede gang op uw rechterkant. U kunt ook afgaan op de schoten.” Ze danken mij en rennen naar de lift. Altijd weer gek hoe snel een gerucht zich verspreidt, denk ik bij mezelf.

 Ondertussen maak ik wat voort. Nog één keer onderbroken door een eerstejaars met een boekenlijst. Het is een UFO. An Unidentified Fuckable Object. Ik toon mij van mijn meest behulpzame kant. Ik leg haar uit welke boeken verfilmd zijn en in welke videotheken ze deze kan vinden. Ze bedankt mij uiterst hartelijk. Ik vraag haar gsm-nummer. We maken een afspraak om binnenkort samen ‘Lolita’ te bekijken. Mijn computer mag nog crashen, concludeer ik. En het is niet omdat ik het nu serieus meen met Cybil dat ik er geen gewone vriendinnen meer mag op nahouden, toch? 

Daarna moet ik ophouden. Er staat een erg boze bibliothecaresse afwisselend op mijn schouder te tikken en haar bloesje dicht te knopen. Ik zeg: “Dat was zeker maar een vluggertje? Dat heb je met die diensthoofden. Ze moeten er op een dag veel te veel afwerken.” Ik neem de lift naar beneden. In de inkomhal ligt iedereen op de vloer met de handen over het hoofd gevouwen. Ik zigzag tussen hen door en keer huiswaarts. Aan de uitgang duwt een journaliste een microfoon onder mijn neus. “Hoe is de situatie op het terrein?” Ik zeg: “Jaz ne razumem. Jaz sem turist.” Daarna laat ze mij met rust. Waarvoor talenkennis al niet goed is.

 Ik hou trouwens niet van journalisten. Generaal Sherman –uitvinder van de moderne oorlogsvoering volgens sommigen – had gelijk: vermoord ‘s avonds alle journalisten en nog voor het ontbijt heb je nieuws uit de hel.

02-11-2009 om 15:47 geschreven door Tederdraads  

William: If I sell my soul to you, will it make me famous?

Satan: Yes.

William: Will I write great literary works?

Satan: Yes, you will.

William: Will my books capture the spirit of the age?

Satan: Without a shadow of a doubt.

William: Will I like what I write?

Satan: Shed me your soul and you shall.

William: Exactly how succesful will I be?

Satan: What you write shall be like a land of milk and honey to a roving hord. Wretched and starving they will devour it.

William: What will it be like without my soul?

Satan: You will feel numbed. You won’t be able to enjoy the everyday pleasures of life. You will not enjoy beauty, sex, food, music, all that will be a nuisance to you. You will make jokes and you’ll be the only one not laughing.

William: What will I enjoy?

Satan: The applause. You will enjoy that, like a thousandfold orgasm. But the applause never lasts long and you’ll be a slave to your talent. You’ll be in constant need of a bigger audience. In the end you will only write and not live. After you sell me your soul, there will be no way back.

William: How do we do this?

Satan: Think of your most beautiful memory and I’ll reach in your chest and take what’s mine for ever more.

William: Can I listen to ‘no way back’ by the foo fighters during the transaction?

Satan: As you wish. Now think of the happiness you experienced, but never fully appreciated.

William: Wait, one more question. Will my father know about my success? Will it make him proud?

Satan: Yes, he will, it’ll make him so proud, he’ll have the energy to be the most magnetizing stand-up comedian heaven has ever seen. You like that, don’t you?

William: Yes, I do. Will it hurt?

Satan: You have no idea.

William: Ok, take it.

Satan: No wonder writers are my favourite. You make my job seem too easy.

02-11-2009 om 13:59 geschreven door Tederdraads  

Four days passed and Dieter and Martin found themselves in an outskirt of Slovenia, high up in the mountains. They had walked most of the way, kindly turning down offers of Slovenians volunteering to give them a ride. When the food supply ran out, Dieter refused to buy more, though there was no lack of shops in the villeages they trudged through. ‘There’s no need for food where we are going’ Martin had simply shrugged, the secretive ways of his taciturn father had finally aroused his curiosity and he did have to admit that Slovenia was a majestically beautiful country, that the fresh air was doing him good and that he didn’t even miss television, his computer nor his friends.

That night they ate the last of the foodstuffs, a rather Spartan meal, comprised of canned beans in tomato sauce, some crackers and two apples for dessert. Martin threw away his Apple core and quipped: ‘So starting tomorrow we hunt deer to keep us on our feet?’

His father reacted in uncharacteristically serious and determined tone: ‘Starting tomorrow we fast. You’ll stay here and I’ll move up a fewer hundred yards more.’

‘And then what?’

‘We wait and we fast.’

‘Wait for what?’, asked his son with big questioning eyes.

‘For the vision to come. If we wait long enough and concentrate on who we truly are a vision will come depicting are totem animal. That will be a symbol of our purest, inner strength, it will guide us on our path to our own, specific destinity. Finding it will prevent us from spending too much time in fruitless soul-searching and/or spending thousands of euros on therapists, shrinks and other quacks.’

Martin looked at his father in disbelief, he was ready to dash off an sms along the lines of ‘dad’s gone completely crazy this time, for sure’, if only his father hadn’t expressly forbidden to Carry his mobile phone in his bags with him.

‘So how will we be fasting?’

‘For as long as it takes.’

‘And what if the vision doesn’t come.’

‘Don’t you worry, it will.’

‘Are those totem animals or whatever aware that we have a plane to catch in three days?’

Dieter showed a half smile and then said reasuringly:

‘Look, I never told you this, but I’ve never had the feeling that I was being all that good a parent. Of course, it’s all monkey see monkey do, I mean, my dad did his best, but I think if he’d pushed me harder or something I might have seen more opportunities in my young life. So, for once, just trust me on this, I have a very good feeling on this and I just want you to time that I’m going to be a father to you, from now on.’

That were more words than Martin had received from his father than the sum total of an entire year, so he simply didn’t know how to react and just resigned himself to the idea of fasting for a couple of days. He’d never felt more important in his life than right this minute and, though the whole plan didn’t make any sense to him at all, he did appreciate the attention.

So in the morning, Dieter woke up early, broke up his pop tent and took off, handing a large bowie knife to his son, telling him to stay put and to only yell out if there was any real danger.

(to be continued)

18-10-2009 om 11:53 geschreven door Tederdraads  

“A wise man ought to follow the paths beaten by great men, and to imitate those who have been supreme”, Nicolo Machiavelli

Dieter’s son had no idea what his father was up to this time, he told his best friend, Eric, the night before Martin and his dad were to leave for their trip to Slovenia. 18-year old Martin wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, he had mixed feelings about it at best. His mother Elke, wasn’t all that happy with her husband’s travelling plans either. Though she had gotten used to it that Dieter liked taking off on his own for about a week a year on average, this time she felt particulary left out.

But she did as she always did, she shrugged and laughed it off, consoling herself with the thought that it was a small price to pay in exchange for a year-long equipoise in her husbands feelings. She knew all to well how he experienced society and his –in his eyes- petty role in it, as a noose that stuck ever more tighter around his neck. The trip would release some tension. She felt guilty anyway about being the all too conventional partner, who had little or no artistic aspirations and could only encourage or discourage, depending on her mood and the degree of wildness in her husband’s plans.

Elke was, as usual, packing her husband’s bags and tending to a thousand little details that her confused partner overlooked and was always ready to dismiss as unimportant triffles. Dieter had a late-night meeting with his long-time partner-in-crime, shortened to PIC, William. The two of them always had the strangest notions of how to deal with modern-day-life and both were not getting enough satifsfaction out of their all too ordinary jobs. This time William had talked his friend into setting the stage for a ritual aimed at opening up more paths in life for his son. The idea originated in ancient Indian practices and Dieter was thrilled.

Dreamer and chronic enthusiast William, had convinced him that present day manhood was in the most dire straits, that most Young men didn’t have a clue what to begin with their lives and that father’s simply passed meekness, unoriginality on to their sons, their example of dull office clerks being the perfect recipe for a life or unsatisfactory boredom. How different it all could be, if a father were to pick up his ancient role of opening the eyes of his son to life, to his inner self, to how powerful man can be if he only believes in himself and throws off society’s yoke. If only a father became both a pillar and a light-house in his son’s life, instead of a mere provider of material well-being, all that luxury that was sure to do more harm than good. No, William and Dieter were going to do it differently. They would be fathers, not mere dads.

(to be continued)

17-10-2009 om 21:56 geschreven door Tederdraads  

The other side of the wall: Alternative tourist tour 
 

Health Work Committees, the organization that's guiding us here in Palestine (a more detailed article about this organization will follow) supplies us with all kinds of useful addresses and telephone numbers amongst others, they gave us the number of Ajman. He runs an agency that focuses on alternative tourism here. Everything we do around here is called alternative, and so far our stay here has indeed been anything but ordinary. Our organization painstakingly wants to assure we get the closest possible look at the true state of affairs in the Palestinian territories.

It's noon and we've just returned from the Mehwar centre for abused women. Everything seems to be closed, a pause dictated by the sultry heat. As there is also a lull in our program for the first time since our arrival in Bethlehem, we decide to call Ajman.

He asks us which time would be suitable for us to have a tour and somewhat hesitantly we ask if it would be convenient for him to do it now.

Not more than three minutes later we're in a mini-bus driving through the Shepherds' Fields. The place that allegedly constituted the scene on which the angle came to announce the good news –the birth of Jesus- to the shepherds.

Ajman probes us to find out what we've seen so far. He'd like to guide us in French, but we opt for English, as Maryam isn't as proficient in French as she is in English. Every now and then a French expression does slip into his explanation. We will find out later why he's so fond of the tongue of Molliere, Rimbaud, Camus, Sartre and so many other literary giants.

We drive towards the Jewish settlements and pass from a Zone A to a Zone C. In the A zone the Palestinian authorities are in full control. A zone C means that the Palestinians own the land (for the time being we should add, unfortunately), but that administration and police our in the hands of the Israeli authority. In fact they are under military law.

Ajman, who, with his long curls, sunglasses, cigarettes and relaxed laissez faire, laissez passer behavior reminds one of a philosophically minded student striding the narrow streets of the Quartier Latin in Paris. Someone's who's ready any time of the day to leave his seat in a cozy, liberal bar to go out on the street and preach 'love, peace and empathy or slogans like: underneath the asphalt there's a beach' to anyone willing to listen.

We stop at Herod's mountain, where they have uncovered only recently the tomb of this almost legendary king. We also get to stare at his ancient pool, now more than 2,000 years old. It looks a bit dilapidated now of course, but one can still imagine the vast and regal man-made oasis it once must have been.

Ajman shows us some Jewish settlements and explains us how it's impossible for him to ever enter them. We ask if we, armed with European passports may enter. The answer is yes, but only from the other side.

We see how the Israelis are constructing an intricate two-way system, with roads exclusively for Israelis and roads exclusively reserved for Palestinian traffic. It's easy to notice that the Israeli roads are better and located higher than their Palestinian counter-parts. The latter need tunnels to get passed the former.

For the time being we can still drive on this Israeli road, conveniently marked with yellow lines, so Israelis can always know they're on a 'safe' road. Mighty watch-towers arise on the side of these roads, every 100 meters or so. We ask if they're always manned and in this part they are indeed.

Ajman drives us to a particularly interesting –read: depressing or enraging- spot. It's an olive grove closed in by barbed wire. On a hill-top we see a few houses next to a Jewish settlement. The handful of isolated houses belong to Palestinians. They are completely closed of, literally trapped in a sort of no man's land. But in fact, there are people still living there, surrounded by the callous contours of an alien wall.

Ajman tells us the people over there may leave there houses, but they're not allowed to have visitors. They don't have the Jerusalem passport and their status is acutely precarious. To go to school the children have to cross over to the nearest village, but to do that they have to pass a check-point. A daily process that involves a scrutinizing search of their schoolbags. 'What do they expect to find in children's bags?', we ask.

'Nothing, of course, they only want to make life hard on them, to make them leave.'

Ajman points to the olive trees. Do you know how old these are? Some are thousands of years old. The Israelis uprooted hundreds of them to build their wall. And you know what they did with them? They buried them to cover their crime.'

Ajman tells us the story we already saw unfolding on a large map the Health Work Committees presented us with. The Israelis are surrounding the whole area of Bethlehem with settlements, they appear on hilltops all around the area and little by little they are being connected, like an ever tightening noose. They want the Palestinians to feel imprisoned, they'd like to see them turn desperate.

The settlements start out from scratch, at first they are called outposts, but soon enough they look like the most modern kind of huge holiday resorts, completely sealed off to any unwanted company. It makes you feel that the Israelis are there, omnipresent and always on the look out to grab more land, but at the same it's almost as if they are not really there and only exist in fairy-tales.

But make no mistake about it, they are certainly there. And as Ajman tells us, every day something new appears in the landscape, they're constantly expanding and perfecting their trap.

Again we ask how he deals with all this.

'Ow Palestinians have lots of ways to ease their troubles.'

He points to his house. A majestic building, a real dream house, as if it were made by Mattel for Ken and Barbie to live in it, but constructed with more taste.

'That's how we fight them, by making our houses as pretty as can be. To say, hey, this is our land. You know, we live better than them.'

It's true, the houses we see here are often amazing, big, and beautifully designed.

Just before Ajman drops us off at a local, non-tourist restaurant, he gives us some more information that makes some of the most impressive and expensive looking houses a very fragile quality that makes you ache deep down in your heart.

All of the houses standing too close to the wall have received warrants stating that their owners have to break them down. If not the Israeli army will do it for them. All expenses paid by the owner.

We sit down for lunch in an enchanting open air restaurant overlooking these fertile hills and cannot help but wondering why one people can go to such strenuous length to drive off other human beings.

16-06-2009 om 14:39 geschreven door Tederdraads  

During our interview with the writer Nassar Ibrahim we find out that he's married to an Iranian woman. He describes her with a lot of affection in the same adjectives I have come to associate with Iranian women: fiery, energetic with an indomitable spirit. He tells us she is running the ONLY refugee centre for abused women in the entire middle east. Immediately we make an appointment to meet her in the Mehwar centre.

This unique centre was founded with the help of the Italian government. There used to be no such institution in the whole of Palestine. Abused women had to be contented with shelter in a clinic or even a prison.

Now all that has changed, these unfortunate women have a safe haven to turn to. And safe it is. During a short tour we get to see all the safety precautions that the staff takes to ensure the well-being of the women. Nobody gets in without a proper appointment or an official document stating that his presence there is allowed.

The Persian director is a bit reluctant to have her picture and her name accompanying our interview or any article resulting from our meeting. We'll call her Malika for practical purposes. She insists we drink coffee, as all people we meet here tend to do.

She explains us how her centre is not only unique in Palestine, but in the entire world. The centre is not only a shelter, it's much more than that. Everything is done for these women, everything from A to Z. In the morning cars come to take them to work or to school. They have gym classes twice a week and everyday they attend all kinds of sessions to help them find their place in society.

This is not an easy task and Malika carries a heavy burden. Only the worst cases come here. These women have been sexually abused since their early childhood. Their entire development has suffered in so many ways. The centre offers a wide spectrum of aid, both psychological and legal.

We get a tour by the fitness instructor, a very enthusiastic, bantam sized woman who seems to love all shades of pink. She leads us through the halls of the centre, the walls are adorned with pictures depicting violence against women. Atrocious images of Afghan women being stoned to death accompany pictures of an Italian woman who is clearly a victim of some brutal domestic violence.

An other wall boasts explanatory drawings in a vivid, almost comical style. 'Who made these?', we ask.

'Ow, I did', she smiles.

She even insisted on painted her gym all by herself.

In pink, almost as a rule.

We don't get to see any of the women, nobody is allowed to see them. The tour ends> She points to an outer wall and says: 'You know, we chose this kind of stone, because no bullet can get through it.'

We ask her if someone ever took a shot at it.

'O no, no, as soon as we see or hear anything suspect we call the bullies'

The what?

It turns out she means the police, but she keeps calling them the bullies, charmingly unaware of what the word bully means.

Our guide sighs happily. 'There is so much work to do around here. Sometimes me and my colleagues just stay here and our husbands come and visit us here, so we can continue our work.'

We are amazed to see so much good will. In the days to follow we will notice the same kind of warm, constructive attitude not just towards abused women, but also towards little children, the elderly and, most difficult of all, the mentally disabled, as we tour one social centre after the other.

16-06-2009 om 13:10 geschreven door Tederdraads  

Shaub means hot in Arabic and that describes the feeling you get when you walk a street around here. It's hot, burning hot. Already in the morning it's over 30 degrees around here. If you stay in it's cool. The houses are mainly built out of a sandy colored stone and inside it's never very warm. People try their best to keep the mosquitoes out, but that doesn't always work. So Maryam and I are more or less covered by mosquito bites.

Before we arrived in Palestine, we read a lot about the conditions here. Particularly striking was an account by a Belgian woman living in the Westbank with her Palestinian husband. Every day she had to pass checkpoints to get to her work in Israel. Each time she had to lift her blouse up to her neck, to prove she wasn't carrying any explosives. You can imagine some of the humiliation she must have felt. One time an Israeli soldier punished her because she showed her passport a little bit too close to his face. Apparently he thought the passport was going to explode in his face.

The soldier forced her to stand in the broiling sun for half an hour. When you read it, you think: hmm, that must be uncomfortable and boring as well. But over here, you only have to be exposed to this unforgiving heat for one minute to realize what kind of cruel torture this is. It's pure harassment of the vilest sort. After two minutes already every cell in your body is looking for shade, for a place to hide from these attacking rays of sun.

The woman said that after half an hour she was completely scourged. Walking these streets around noon and seeing how the shopkeepers close their shops between one and four, seeing people rush inside when the sun reaches its highest point is enough to convince me that she wasn't exaggerating.

So that's where these Israeli soldiers, nervously shouting kids in uniform in fact, look for allies. They force the sun to perpetrate their crimes for them. After only a couple days here I'm confronted with a lot more of the ingenuity of the Israeli people to bring their psychological genocide against the Palestinian people into effect.  

Luckily the Palestinians are equally ingenious at finding ways to cope with the oppressing and adamant behavior of their neighbors.

16-06-2009 om 12:28 geschreven door Tederdraads  

Op dit moment logeren we bij een familie in Bethlehem. Tot onze lichte verbazing zijn de meeste mensen die we tot nu toe ontmoet hebben katholiek. Ook onze gastfamilie. Vandaag is het zondag en vanochtend zijn ze naar de mis geweest. Dat doen ze zelfs elke zondag.

Mama Shomali is leerkracht, papa Shomali is ingenieur in Ramallah. Ze hebben drie kinderen. Luma, een allervriendelijkst meisje van 14, een jongen, Zaid die 11 jaar is en nog 1 zoon die 17 is en zich als een soort prefab tiener gedraagt.

90 procent van de tijd (en dat is een behoorlijk exacte schatting) zit hij aan deze pc en chat hij via msn met zijn vriendinnetje. Haar foto prijkt dan ook op het bureaublad. Daar hij toch altijd gekluisterd zit aan het pc-scherm, kennen we nog niet eens zijn naam.

Op dit moment heb ik dus eindelijk de pc eens kunnen inpalmen voor Intaltijd.

Mama Shomali is wat we terecht de vriendelijkheid zelve mogen noemen. Drie minuten geleden bracht ze mij nog een bord gesneden fruit en op dit moment is ze voor ons het avondeten aan het klaarmaken. Ze vraagt ongeveer elk half uur of we iets nodig hebben en probeert te vermijden dat we taxi's nemen door ons zelf overal heen te voeren. Wij van onze kant doen er dan weer alles aan om zo onzichtbaar mogelijk te maken, want we willen absoluut geen misbruik maken van zoveel bereidwilligheid. Als de mama even niet kijkt, schieten we er vandoor in een taxi. Ook al hebben we de grootste moeite om aan de chauffeurs uit te leggen waar we willen zijn, want huisnummers noch straatnamen zijn hier ingeburgerd.

Dochter Luma is een vroom meisje dat het kruisje dat om haar hals hangt, kust als we voorbij een kerk wandelen. Tijdens onze kennismaking vroeg ik haar of ze gewoon christelijk was in naam, of echt geloofde in God. Het antwoord liet geen seconde op zich wachten: 'Of course we believe in God!'

Zij is het die mij mijn eerste Arabische woorden leert, samen met haar broer Zaid. Als een echte gids neemt ze ons mee door Bethlehem en helpt ze ons bij aankopen. Bepaald een luxe, want een en ander verschilt hier nogal van wat we gewend zijn.

Zaid, haar broertje, is een schattig baasje dat door zo wat al het vrouwvolk tussen 7 en 97 jaar in de harten wordt gesloten. (en terwijl ik dit schrijf voel ik mij licht ongemakkelijk terwijl de mama mij een bord pas gebakken Palestijnse lekkernij voorschotelt) Zijn grote droom is voetballer worden. We slapen in zijn kamer en die is beplakt met tientallen foto's van de Portugese speler Ronaldo. Hij is erg verlegen, zeker tegenover Maryam, maar telkens hij ons ziet, schudt hij ons vriendelijk de hand.

Papa Shomali hebben we pas gisterenavond leren kennen. En toen was hij in een melancholische bui. 'We are a people without hope' Hij vertelde ons over het dagelijkse leven tijdens de tweede Intifadah en over de problemen die hij heeft om van thuis naar zijn werk te komen en de hinder die hij ondervindt van de vele checkpoints. Vanmorgen was hij stukken vrolijker en rolde zijn aanstekelijke glimlach door de kamers van hun overigens prachtige huis. Palestijnen zijn grapjassen, zo blijkt, als je ze beter leert kennen.

In de namiddag hebben we een gids gehad die we in een volgende blog 'Sir smile a lot' zullen noemen.

Nu is het al weer tijd voor het avondeten en dat wordt zoeken naar ruimte na de vele tussendoortjes.

Na het eten gaan we verder op verkenning in Bethlehem.

Blogmateriaal genoeg overigens, want gisteren hebben we de Palestijnse schrijver en politicoloog Nassar Ibrahim kunnen interviewen.

Er wacht echter een Palestijns meisje op nieuws van haar lover, dus we zullen de naamloze 17-jarige jongeman hier niet langer beroven van zijn chatmogelijkheden.

Hoog tijd ook dat ik alle bordjes met voedsel die hier accumuleren op de pc-tafel eens naar het aanrecht breng.

Een welgemeende Sukran (dank u) voor ons bijna te lieve gastgezin.

14-06-2009 om 16:26 geschreven door Tederdraads  

Op een dag hadden de reiskribbels van globbetrotter Anne haar in Laos gevoerd. Ze kan niet zo goed tegen de warmte en wordt dan makkelijk ziek. Deze aanvallen geven haar maagpijn, die altijd vanzelf overgaan, naar just in cae blijft ze liever in het zicht van medemensen. Als het echt erg zou worden, kan iemand altijd hulp bieden.

Ze was op de trap gaan zitten van haar hostel. Heel wat mensen liepen haar voorbij, maar 1 jongeman vroeg haar wat er scheelde. Ze antwoordde dat haar maag pijn deed en was een beetje gepikeerde toen de jongeman gewoon weer verder ging.

Twee minuten later was hij daar echter al terug met zijn handen vol medicijnen. Anne wist dat geen enkele ervan werkte, maar ze was zo gecharmeerd dat ze toch maar enkele pilletjes innam. En zo maakte het meisje uit Ierland voor het eerst kennis met een jongen uit Israel.

Ze raakte in gesprek met de Israelier, die zich ondanks zijn tussenkomst als barmhartige Samaritaan, heel vreemd gedroeg. De rest van haar groep negeerde hem. Anne is echter iemand die naar eigen zeggen aangetrokken wordt door mensen die ze niet begrijpt en dus praatte ze uitvoerig met hem, dagen aan een stuk. Na een tijdje negeerde de groep niet alleen hem meer, maar ook haar.

De jongen had overduidelijk niet alleen erge dingen gezien, maar heel waarschijnlijk ook erge dingen gedaan. Anne vermoedt dat hij een kind had gedood en als resultaat daarvan heel wat innerlijke demonen te temmen had.

Na de dagenlange gespreksmarathon ging ze boeken lezen. Eerst over legers en over hoe je een team geest, meer specifiek een leger geest, opbouwt en in stand houdt. Pas daarna begon ze verwoed te lezen over het conflict in Palestina. Tot het onderwerp nog het enige was waar ze kon over spreken. Ze kreeg er zo de mond van vol dat haar familie en vrienden zeiden: hey, leave me alone and say these things to people who give a shit.

Ze maakte voor zichzelf de rekening: ik kan er blijven over zeuren of ik kan er daadwerkelijk iets proberen aan doen. Lukt het me niet, ok, dan heb ik het toch geprobeerd. Then I can put it in a little box and move on to something else.

But hey, roept ze enthousiast uit, guess what, my project works!

14-06-2009 om 16:25 geschreven door Tederdraads  

In een bar in Ramallah ontmoeten we Anne. Haar rode haren en sappige tongval verraden haar Ierse komaf. Van het internationale gezelschap rond de tafel krijgen we niets dan lof te horen. Anne is niet op haar modje gevallen, blijkt een wandelende encyclopedie te zijn over alles wat de Palestijnse zaak betreft en ze is een erg moedig meisje.

13-06-2009 om 20:26 geschreven door Tederdraads  

We're staying in Rocky Hotel at the moment, still busy shaking off all our prejudices and all too predictable Western expectations about the living conditions around here. The hotel looks almost like an ancient Arabian palace, all modern comfort can be readily obtained. This is not the impoverished society we've been preparing ourselves for.

13-06-2009 om 19:57 geschreven door Tederdraads