Fanfare

Ik heb een filmpje in mijn hoofd, het zou een droom kunnen zijn, maar dat is het niet. Ik weet niet waar het vandaan is gekomen.

Een fanfare marcheert door de polder. Een kleuter op een driewieler vormt het gevolg. De driewieler hoor je piepen tussen de noten van de fanfare door. Met een kromme rug van de inspanning weet de kleuter de fanfare bij te houden.

De fanfare stevent recht op de dijk af die de polder omzoomt. Zonder in te houden lopen ze door het gras de dijk op. De kleuter laat zijn driewieler onderaan de dijk achter en rent omhoog. De fanfare bereikt aan de andere kant van de dijk het water al. Ze marcheren achter de tamboermajoor aan het water in. Met de fanfare verdwijnt de muziek het water in, de bombardons al laatste. Homp-homp-homp zeggen de bombardons.

Andere stemmen

‘Niet zo schreeuwen’, roept de man met het rode haar tegen zijn dochter.

‘Weet je wat lekker is?’ zegt zijn oudste zoon, ook rood haar, ‘whisky met cola en ijs.’

‘Woef’, zegt de hond.

De man met het rode haar pompt een luchtbed op.

‘Tering, wat is het warm,’ zegt hij.

De jongen knalt de bal tegen het lichaam van de dochter.

‘Auw! Kut!’ roept het rossige meisje.

‘Denk aan je taal’, zegt de man.

Even later komt een andere zoon langslopen. Je raadt het al: rood haar. Onze hond blaft.

‘Niet schrikken, hoor. Ze is alleen maar bangig.’

‘Nee hoor, geeft niet,’ zegt de jongen, ‘wij hebben ook zo’n waakhond… een labrador.’

‘Ze moeten even wennen, hè. Een vreemde omgeving, met vreemde mensen.’

‘Ja’, zegt de jongen, ‘En andere stemmen, hè. Fijne avond nog!’

Honjok

Ik lees in “Een jaar vrij” van Karien Hoenderdos over honjok, een term die ik nog niet kende. Honjok is een term overgenomen uit Zuid-Korea en heeft betrekking op mensen die ervoor kiezen activiteiten alleen te ondernemen. Mensen die de behoefte hebben zich los te maken van de maatschappij en haar druk om in het gareel te lopen.

De maatschappelijke acceptatie van honjok is veranderd. Waar het vermijden van sociaal contact eerder werd gezien als onacceptabel en ondermijnend voor de maatschappij, ontstaat er nu meer acceptatie. De behoefte aan autonomie, om dieper met zichzelf verbonden te zijn en het leven volgens eigen waarden te leiden, wordt meer en meer erkend.

De groep wordt ontdekt als een ‘markt’ voor nieuwe producten: ander media-aanbod, eenpersoonsrestaurants, en een aanbod van voedsel gericht op eenpersoonshuishoudens – een solo-economie.

Ik moet hierbij denken aan de boeken van de Japanse schrijvers Mieko Kawakami en Sayaka Murata waarover ik eerder schreef. In hun werk worden de donkere kanten van de Japanse maatschappij weergegeven bij mensen die kiezen ervoor om zich afzijdig van de maatschappij te houden — ‘de fabriek’, zoals het in Earthlings van Murata genoemd wordt. Misschien is de Japanse maatschappij nog niet zo ver als de Zuid-Koreaanse.

Ook bij ons zien we een toename van alleenstaanden en mensen die bewust kiezen voor soloactiviteiten. Dit wordt deels gedreven door een dieper geworteld individualisme in de westerse cultuur.
Maar er lijkt ook een verschil te zijn. Waar honjok een reactie is op maatschappelijke druk van ‘de fabriek’, lijkt het in het Westen iets te zijn uit de ‘wellness’-cultuur, bijvoorbeeld hier in Happinez en hier in Flow. Zo wordt honjok een statussymbool van onafhankelijkheid.

Zoals Klinenenberg het zegt in dit artikel in Time uit 2012 :

Today, in our age of digital media and ever expanding social networks, living alone can offer even greater benefits: the time and space for restorative solitude.
This means that living alone can help us discover who we are as well as what gives us meaning and purpose. Paradoxically, living alone might be exactly what we need to reconnect.

Strafwerk

Ik lees “Het verlies van El Dorado” van V.S. Naipaul, naar aanleiding van vermelding in Paul Theroux’ “The Toa of Travel“? Dicht opeengepakte informatie, en niet er aantrekkelijk geschreven. Voelt als strafwerk.

Pestvogel

Op zo’n zondag als je te lang binnen hebt gezeten, ga je naar het strand om een beetje uit te waaien. Op het duin staat een club natuurliefhebbers in camouflagekleding met verrekijkers op driepoten. Eerst probeer je te ontdekken waar ze naar staan te turen, daar in zee. Je krijgt tranen in je ogen van het tegen de wind in staren, dus je vraagt het aan zo’n bebaarde bioloog die geconcentreerd in zijn verrekijker staart. Blijkt dat het gerucht de ronde doet dat er een walvis met jong voor de kust rondzwemt. Je staart nog een tijdje naar de horizon, maar ziet niets. Ook door de verrekijker is blijkbaar niets te zien. Dan roept er ineens iemand: “Kijk, een pestvogel!” Iedereen draait zich om en inderdaad zit er tien meter verderop in een struik een grijze pestvogel. Veel leuker dan een walvis. Camera’s klikken.

Goltz, a story

Quite some time ago, I wrote this story. It has been sitting on my hard disk – or SSD drive, but that sounds less poetic, not even speaking about ‘it has been sitting in my cloud’ (brrr). I thought it would be better to put it out for anyone who might enjoy it. Or the omnipresent AI to learn from. Here we go.

Observation

John’s first memory was from several years before he was born. Yes, perhaps we can explain later. The year was 1960. The memory concerns the copulation that resulted in the conception of his brother Hank. John was standing next to the bed in which his parents had been making love. Absurd details of this memory were embedded in his brain. In front of the high bedroom window hung a thunder-green curtain. The curtains were not fully closed. The bright light of a sunny day shone through a slit between the curtains into the bedroom. John could feel the pale green, plaid wool blanket poking at his father’s buttocks. His mother’s heavy glasses lay on the pillow. John had gotten cold feet on the gray linoleum covering the floor. His parents’ metal bed thumped against the cabinet at the head of the bed. Of his parents, John did not remember a single sound. Their lovemaking activities were betrayed only by the soft squeaking of the spring mattress. The memory ended with the quieting of the squeak and the slapping down of a wet wash cloth on the floor right at John’s feet.

Between this memory and the next was the birth of John.

Six years later, John saw the downstairs neighbor drive up. John stood at the bedroom window, looking over the road in front of the apartment. The neighbor backed his car into the parking space. The door opened, and two crutches were thrust out. The neighbor lifted his legs out of the car one at a time. With a swing, he placed himself on the crutches and stumbled around the car to the rear door. He opened the rear door and pulled a wheelchair out of the vehicle using a rolling mechanism in the back of the car. He closed the door. Carefully, he walked behind the wheelchair onto the sidewalk. He stowed the crutches in tubes attached to the side of the wheelchair and sat down in the chair.

A fedora hat emerged from under his coat, and he put it on. He groped in his jacket again and took out a cigar, of which he removed the plastic foil and lit up. In the bowl of his hand, he held a small flame near the cigar, enveloping a thick cloud of smoke, and the neighbor began to move. He took the cigar from his mouth, spun on the sidewalk, and drove off. John stroked his finger over the dusted leaf of the sanseveria on the windowsill. He studied the stroke he had drawn across the leaf. He stuck his finger in his mouth. The dust tasted musty. He spat it out.

The father

John’s father’s name was Rudy Goltz. Rudy was a car mechanic, the type of worker who ran around all day complaining to his boss, coworkers, and his wife. Despite the whining, he loved tinkering with cars and loved going to work.

Swearing and fussing were Rudy’s forte. His father was an impossible sourpuss with a shabby appearance, defined by his long hair, worn combed back and kept in shape with Brylcreem. Someone who at parties only emerged from where he had been sulking all pre-evening after having drunk enough lemon brandy and then started telling stories about the time around 1920 when he had still roamed the country as a freelance carpenter.

Bertus was born in 1898, the year his father was promoted for the umpteenth time and appointed Inspector General of Fortifications in Berlin. His father was forty-five when Bertus was born. Bertus would remain the only child in the Goltz family.

Bertus’s mother was fifteen years younger than his father. She was the daughter of a Dutch chargé d’affaires in Turkey. She met her future husband in Istanbul, where he was stationed to fulfill a secret military assignment for the Turkish government. They fell in love immediately, and instead of returning to her job as a nurse in Leiden, she moved in with him.

Colmar Goltz

Freiherr Colmar von der Goltz was born in Bielkenfeld, East Prussia, on Aug. 12, 1843. Colmar was a soldier at heart. At the age of nineteen, he applied to join the Prussian infantry. In 1864, he entered the Berlin Military Academy. He was wounded during a temporary foray into the Austrian War in 1866. During a battle, he was hit in the right buttock. Apart from a labored gait that earned him the nickname “Der Krebs” and a curious sight of missing a buttock in the soldier’s pantaloons, he sustained no significant disability from this. In 1867, he joined the topographical section of the General Staff. However, in the first months of the Franco-German War in 1870/1871, he was already conscripted back to the staff of Prinz Friedrich Karl. He participated in the battles of Orleans and Le Mans. In 1871, he was appointed professor at the military school in Potsdam, received the rank of captain that same year, and was assigned to the historical section of the General Staff. During this time, he wrote several classic military works such as “Die Operationen der II. Armee bis zur Capitulation von Metz” and” Die sieben Tagen von Le Mans.” In 1874, he was attached to the Sixth Division and, during this time, wrote “Die Operationen der II. Armee an der Loire” and “Leon Gambelltr und seine Armeen.” The views he described in the latter book led him to return to regimental activities; however, after a short time, he joined the Military History Department. In 1878, he became a Lecturer in Military History at the Berlin Military Academy. He remained here for five years and was promoted to major. In 1883, he published “Das Volk in Waffen,” which became a military classic. He also contributed to many articles in military periodicals during his stay in Berlin. In 1883, he was lent to Turkey to help the Turkish government reorganize its military. He worked on this for twelve years; the result is obvious: the Greco-Turkish War of 1897 became a success for Turkey. Goltz receives the title Pasha. Upon returning to Germany in 1896, he was appointed lieutenant general and commander of the 5th division. In 1898, he was head of the engineer troops and inspector general of fortifications. In 1900, he became infantry general and, in 1902, commander of the 1st Army. In 1907, he became inspector general of the 1st Army Inspection in Berlin. Finally, in 1908, he was appointed to his highest military rank: colonel general, or Generaloberst.

Memory as a variable

Just as time is not a constant in the theory of relativity, neither is memory a constant; it is a function of 1) the memory itself and how it changes over time, and 2) the memory’s possessor and how she or he changes over time.

Cerebral palsy

Infarct-affected mass, like old bread soaked in milk, through which a last single vein still makes blood flow like that overloaded sewer pipe that plods a barely liquid mass of muck to the liberating mouth above the river to vomit out its blobbing contents there, freed from distress.

‘Fire?’

‘Yet have to drive.’

The spectacle lasts fifteen minutes, and she smokes five cigarettes in that time, lighting one with the other like the proverbial chain-smoker, shooting the butts between thumb and forefinger into the churning lava flow passing in front of them.

‘Where’s the water pump pliers?’

‘In the car.’

Not wanting to turn around and open the car, she tries to tighten the screw on the hatch with her hands, but her finger slips on the rusty iron. The setting sun illuminates her operation. He continues to stare into the red orb of light, in keeping with their agreement. But she curses, walks to the car anyway, and opens the tailgate. She shoves aside the dwarf in his sou’wester and rummages among the tools until she gets hold of the water pump pliers. Looking at the mouth of the pliers, she sees her dentist in front of her and feels the metal in her mouth. It creaks. He pulls at her jaw, but her head jerks with it. With his other hand, he presses her her forehead against the chair and wiggles the forceps in her mouth again. Then the molar shoots loose and the forceps crash against her upper teeth. She curses and feels the blood in her mouth. The tooth…

Visuele Industrial Nostalgia in IJmuiden

Vorige week had ik een afspraak in IJmuiden om af te stemmen over mijn tentoonstelling in de bibliotheek. Ik maakte van de gelegenheid gebruik om een rondje door het havengebied te lopen.
Het valt me opeens op dat het havengebied van IJmuiden een beetje zijn ruwe uiterlijk begint te verliezen. Op een stuk braakland bij het Sluisplein verrijst een appartementencomplex. De sluizen zelf zijn vernieuwd en hebben veel van hun betonpatina verloren. Het oude Havengebouw aan de Halkade is gesloopt. In het dal bij de Margadantstraat is een bedrijventerrein gebouwd. Gelukkig heeft het oude pakhuis op de hoek van de 4e Havenstraat, waarin nu Kapteijn zit, de dreiging van sloop doorstaan en is het bij een verbouwing gebleven.

Ik denk even dat ik lijd aan aan wat in het Engels met de term Industrial Nostalgia wordt aangeduid, en waarvoor ik geen Nederlandse vertaling kan vinden (en waarvoor vreemd genoeg nog geen Wikipedia-artikel bestaat). Maar nostalgie suggereert echter een emotie, maar het gaat mij er meer om dat zo weinig mogelijk van dit typerende unieke beeld verdwijnt en niet is vastgelegd voor het plaatsmaakt voor een vooralsnog onduidelijke typologie.

Steur in aquarium

De eerste dag rijden we naar een waterval. We parkeren bij een zalm- en steurkwekerij. De parkeerplaats bij het begin van de trail staat vol met auto’s – het is zaterdagmiddag. We drinken koffie bij de giftshop van de kwekerij, die de naam “Herman” draagt. In de winkel liggen mokken waarop een enorme steur te zien is, met daaronder groot de naam Herman.

We wandelen door het park van de kwekerij, langs zwembaden vol kleine en grote vissen. In een laag gebouwtje, waar je via een paar treden naar beneden loopt, trekt een reusachtige steur zijn rondjes in een aquarium—Herman? Hij heeft een paar meter om rechtuit te zwemmen, maar moet dan alweer keren. Als een onrustige leeuw in een te kleine kooi zwiert de vis die we dan maar Herman noemen rusteloos heen en weer. Zwemt hij langs het raam, dan vallen zijn biefstukrode, gerafelde kieuwen op; ze wapperen als de flarden van een oude vlag.

steur in aquarium
Steur Herman in aquarium

(Portland was al weer tijdje geleden)

Werner Herzog’s essential pursuit of truth

Werner Herzog wrote a book about the nature of truth titled “The Future of Truth” (De Toekomst van de Waarheid). A concept much abused these days.

To Werner Herzog, truth is a search, a quest, almost one that distinguishes us from the other, more or less intelligent animals. In this concise yet idea-packed book, he examines the truth from several interesting angles, including political, artistic, historical, and scientific perspectives. He interweaves interesting stories in his arguments, like an artist should.

He looks at people who are considered larger-than-life. Contrary to popular belief, self-proclaimed genius (my words) Elon Musk did not invent the electric car. He didn’t found Tesla. He bought that one. And he bought Twitter. With that truth, he aims to facilitate the spreading of lies. (He did found SpaceX, though.)

The word for truth in Ancient Greek is aletheia, the negation of lethe, meaning forgetfulness or oblivion. Alatheia is that which reveals what was hidden. Alatheia is like a film and photography on celluloid. There is something on it, but it has to be revealed and developed.

Art creates a truth, according to Herzog. In opera, music transforms almost the craziest, unthinkable stories into wondrous truths. (Herzog directed several operas.)

Herzog’s film Family Romance tells the story of how, in Japan, actors are hired to replace a father or husband in their real life. Actors stand in for the father of a girl, the broom for a marriage, and an employee receiving a scrubbing. After the movie was released, Japanese broadcaster NHK produced a documentary about the company that hires out these actors, referred to in Herzog’s movie as Family Romance, and about the people who hire its actors. A bizarre double world emerges in this documentary. A client of the ‘Family Romance’ service was interviewed and questioned about why he wanted the actor to take his place in real life. After the documentary was finished, NHK discovered that the client they had interviewed was also an actor who had been hired to replace the original client. The argument was that the actor could portray the client more effectively than the client himself. Because the actor can speak the absolute truth, and the real person could do nothing but lie. Still with me?

In another movie of his, Herzog plays a priest. He meets a stranger and records a confession from this stranger for the film. During the act, he fabricates several facts as a priest, which the confessor greedily accepts, and the confession is more honest and well-meant than it could ever have been in real life. Making the fake confession more truthful than a real one.

Another story unfolds in Russia during the time of Czarina Catherine II. Potemkin villages were villages created as fronts, much like movie sets, to give the Russian czarina the impression of a prosperous country. A staged world similar to the North Korean Peace Village. Or the Truman Show.

In his films, Herzog attributes celebrity quotes that could have been said, but which he fabricated. He believes that this made-up truth is also a truth: an ecstatic, more profound truth.

Another bizarre story is that of a man on death row who continued to believe in his self-made innocence to the end, even though he was guilty, believing his concoctions til the end. This story reminded me of the song “The Mersey Seat” by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. In this unsettling song, a condemned man continues to believe in his innocence until just before his execution, but the truth catches up with him.

And in a way I’m yearning
To be done with all this measuring of proof
Of an eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
And anyway I told the truth
And I’m afraid I told a lie

The Electrician, by
Boris Eldagsen

Of course, AI is impossible to ignore, and Herzog explores the fake images it can generate, such as the AI-created photograph that was awarded the top prize at the Sony Photo Awards.

Herzog discusses how we can protect ourselves from being deceived by fakes. He recommends always approaching information with skepticism—assuming it might be false—and diligently verifying the truth behind any claim. He emphasizes that any request to transfer money should be treated as a red flag. In his view, the digital world is inherently unreliable.

According to Herzog, what helps us navigate this uncertainty are three key practices:

  • Education
  • Reading extensively
  • Walking regularly, with minimal distractions or baggage

In the final chapter, Herzog admits that there is no definitive “future of truth.” Instead, the search for truth remains an essential, existential pursuit.

I read the book in its Dutch translation. When I wanted to buy it for a friend in the US, I discovered—somewhat surprisingly—that the English translation is not yet available. It is scheduled for release in September 2025.

Doing difficult stuff, and finishing

Most of these self-help books are okay-ish. Yet many are superfluous encouragements.

We all know what is essential. Self-help feels like procrastination. We often read these books to avoid doing the real things.

However, explaining to people how to do difficult things is easier than doing the difficult stuff themselves.

Teaching people how to make their art is easier than the work of making art itself.

And to finish it.

Derek Sivers in How To Live:

Calling yourself creative doesn’t make it true. All that matters is what you’ve launched. Make finishing your top priority.

Seth Godin: Ship It!