Jan Lauwereyns, Reinout Verbeke, Bruce Chatwin, Daphne du Maurier, Kathleen Jamie, Armistead Maupin
Het lange spoor 4
Onderaards krioelen, gericht op sjouwen
van immense korrels zand, rotsblokken,
mieren, bladluizen, honderdpoten.
Dit is de tweeledigheid der schepping,
op en om, vervolgens op en nogmaals om.
Zandberg, zanddal, stoffelijkkheid migreert.
Onder en boven lopen, woeker, woeker,
op het karkas van arme geelkuifkaketoe.
Weg met pixels, projectietoestellen!
Was ik maar aan de andere kant van de evenaar.
Zou mijn kompas zich vanzelf naar de zuidpool richten.
Zuidpool: die van de pinguïn, vogel in duikerpak
die het eigen lichaam als slee gebruikt om over de hard
geworden winter te glijden.
Vogel die liever zal zwemmen in het donker onderwater
dan vliegen in het licht der eeuwigheid.
Ik kan de pinguïn wel begrijpen.
Slapend zien we meer dan met de ogen open.
Vooral slapend met de snelle oogbewegingen.
Gauw zal het geheel overstromen
met meer dan je gewone dosis
televisietoestellen en broodroosters
het hopeloze lot
van wie op het dak
van een taxi
klaar om uit te blazen
maar niet vooraleer in de gezonken stad
de blauwe gitaar opklinkt
nog een (weggesneden) keer
van (weggesneden) dingen zoals ze zijn
leg dat wapen neer
Jan Lauwereyns (Antwerpen, 13 mei 1969)
Ruil je naam voor een handvol blanco letters
Snoer de vierkante taal waaruit je ontstond
dicht en zoek je nooit voltooide vorm
Verzet je tegen de letter. Wantrouw woordwaarde
Schaaf je aan de wereld. Hou van het dier, van het ding
Hou van mij. Negeer imperatieven
De hemel ligt als een poncho over de aarde
We schroeien onze ogen door om het langst
in dat heldere gat te kijken. We zien vlekken
die als één mond spreken
Het gat verdwijnt als een kei over water
wel-niet-wel-niet-wel-niet-niet. We steken de armen uit
naar zoiets groots, zingen als bezeten, bieden op in gebeden
Nooit meer laten we het toeval aan het toeval over
De oudsten schatten de afstand tot het gat, stapelen
kadavers en botten tot een trap. Bijna boven raakten ze
in paniek als een kind dat het gat voor z’n hoofd niet vindt
Reinout Verbeke (Roeselare, 13 mei 1981)
Uit:What Am I Doing Here?
“We shall not lie on our backs at the Red Castle and watch the vultures wheeling over the valley where they killed the grandson of Genghiz. We will not read Babur's memoirs in his garden at Istalif and see the blind man smelling his way around the rose bushes. Or sit in the Peace of Islam with the beggars of Gazar Gagh. We will not stand on the Buddha's head at Bamiyan, upright in his niche like a whale in a dry-dock. We will not sleep in the nomad tent, or scale the Minaret of Jam. And we shall lose the tastes - the hot, coarse, bitter bread; the green tea flavoured with cardamoms; the grapes we cooled in the snow-melt; and the nuts and dried mulberries we munched for altitude sickness. Nor shall we get back the smell of the beanfields, the sweet, resinous smell of deodar wood burning, or the whiff of a snow leopard at 14,000 feet.”
Her glass of neat vodka sat on the white damask tablecloth. Beyond the smear of lipstick, a twist of lemon floated among the ice-cubes.
We were sitting side by side, on a banquette. 'What are you writing about, Bruce?' 'Wales, Diana.' The lower lip shot forward. Her painted cheeks swivelled through an angle of ninety degrees. 'Whales!' she said. 'Blue whales!...Sperrrm whales!...THE WHITE WHALE! 'No... no, Diana! Wales! Welsh Wales! The country to the west of England.'
'Oh! Wales. I do know Wales. Little grey houses...covered in roses.. ...in the rain...'
Bruce Chatwin (13 mei 1940 – 18 januari 1989)
Uit: Jamaica Inn
“His nearest neighbour, a jovial red-faced woman in a blue cloak, sighed heavily in sympathy, and, with a wink to anyone who might be looking and a jerk of her head towards the old man, she remarked for at least the twentieth time that it was the dirtiest night she ever remembered, and she had known some; that it was proper old weather and no mistaking it for summer this time; and, burrowing into the depths of a large basket, she brought out a great hunk of cake and plunged into it with strong white teeth.
Mary Yellan sat in the opposite corner, where the trickle of rain oozed through the crack in the roof. Sometimes a cold drip of moisture fell upon her shoulder, which she brushed away with impatient fingers.
She sat with her chin cupped in her hands, her eyes fixed on the window splashed with mud and rain, hoping with a sort of desperate interest that some ray of light would break the heavy blanket of sky, and but a momentary trace of that lost blue heaven that had mantled Helford yesterday shine for an instant as a forerunner of fortune.
Already, though barely forty miles by road from what had been her home for three-and-twenty years, the hope within her heart had tired, and that rather gallant courage which was so large a part of her, and had stood her in such stead during the long agony of her mother's illness and death, was now shaken by this first fall of rain and the nagging wind.
The country was alien to her, which was a defeat in itself. As she peered through the misty window of the coach she looked out upon a different world from the one she had known only a day's journey back. How remote now and hidden perhaps for ever were the shining waters of Helford, the green hills and the sloping valleys, the white cluster of cottages at the water's edge. It was a gentle rain that fell at Helford, a rain that pattered in the many trees and lost itself in the lush grass, formed into brooks and rivulets that emptied into the broad river, sank into the grateful soil which gave back flowers in payment.”
Daphne du Maurier (13 mei 1907 – 19 april 1989)
Full March moon and gale-force easters, the pair of them
sucking and shoving the river
back into its closet in the hills – or trying to. Naturally
the dykes failed, the town’s last fishing boat
raved at the pier-head, then went down; diesel-
corrupted water cascaded into front-yards, coal-holes, garages,
and there’s naethin ye can dae,
said the old boys, the sages, which may be true, but river –
what have you left us? Evidence of an inner life, secrets
of your estuarine soul hawked halfway
up Shore Street, up East and Mid Shore – and arrayed
in swags all through the swing-park: plastic trash and broken reeds,
driftwood, bust TVs . . .
and a salmon,
dead, flung beneath the see-saw, the crows are onto at once.
In which river did the fish swim
that mistook for a fly a hook on a line
so drew its last, that a silver blade
could pare from its flesh its still fresh
weed-green skin, to be cured
then eased around this little case,
which contains the doctor’s
shoal of fleams, and the keen one
he’s pressing now to your inner arm,
so a mere flick opens a vein
Kathleen Jamie (Currie, 13 mei 1962)
Uit: Michael Tolliver Lives
“On a recent visit I found my old friend hunched over his laptop with a crazed gleam in his eye, like a zealot planning a people's revolution. Brian Hawkins, hippie-turned-radical lawyer-turned-waiter-turned nurseryman, was poring over a Web site for motor homes. "What do you think of this one, Michael? It's still a Class C, but it's got most of the amenities of a Class A, without the bulk. It's a little more eco-friendly."
"I hate the name," I said.
"What's the name got to do with it?"
"You're not seriously gonna hit the road in something called a Minnie Winnie?"
"Hey," he said, "I'm secure in my wussyhood."
I laughed. "Have you thought about where you'll have to park the damn thing? Your neighbors will all have bumper stickers that say 'Baby Jesus On Board.' "
Brian spun around in his chair. "That's a gross generalization."
"Damn straight. All kinds of people have RVs."
"Well ... this sculptress I met at Burning Man, for one."
"Ah ... this sculptress."
Brian grinned. "Don't start with me, man -- "
"You got some New Age p -- in a Winnebago, and now it's the only way to travel."
"You missed something, that's all."
"What do you mean?"
"Burning Man, buttwipe! The desert! There were sandstorms whipping up all around us, and the stars were so bright you could see by them. The Winnebago made me feel ... I dunno ... so self-contained out there in the middle of nowhere. I haven't felt that way since ... Wounded Knee, maybe."
Armistead Maupin ( Washington, 13 mei 1944)
Hier met partner Christopher Turner