It’s my day off. I got woken up by the drilling noises coming from my upstairs neighbour and made my way into the kitchen which reeked of old lilies and bin juice. I catch myself thinking that I haven’t been this angry in some weeks. I put on the Breakfast Show with Flo on NTS, which has become a solid part of my routine over the last year. She just returned to doing the show from a few weeks off touring in Australia and New Zealand, and hearing her voice calmed me down a little. But the day is off to a bumpy start.
Outside is sunny. It hasn’t rained in over two weeks which is so preposterous that I have to question my memory but there are plenty other witnesses to back me up on this. A friend told me that there are some forest fires in the country because of this drought but at least the terraces are popping up around the city like mushrooms after rain. I’ve been going a bit mad trying to catch as much sun as possible, fearful of its momentary nature, which resulted in a lot of procrastination and the first sunburn of the season. As the days get longer they also seem to go by a lot faster; everybody seems to be running after themselves, desperately trying to catch up with their own business.
Yesterday night, frustrated after a failed attempt at something at my studio, I spontaneously went to Kriterion to see whatever is on. Hard Truths was playing in half an hour when I’d arrived there, and after nervously paying off the nineteen euros I owed to Cineville for this month’s subscription, I booked a seat. Mike Leigh, the film’s director, is quite unanimously loved by people whose tastes and opinions I tend to share and trust, so I was shuffling in my front row seat with quite some expectations. It’s a portrait of Pansy (Marianne Jean-Baptiste). Pansy is depressed, OCD-driven, neurotic, mean and eloquent in her acrimonies. Like a kettle that’s consistently about to reach boiling point, she bubbles with irritation and resentment, picking at her husband and son, as well as unsuspecting strangers. The film itself, in turn, barely simmers, bluntly putting the audience face to face with Pansy’s hefty attitude. I want to say she unravels, but she doesn’t really. She rather just keeps spinning in place, while everybody around her puts up with it in silence and fear, apart from her sister, Chantelle, who patiently and methodically reaches through Pansy’s acidic shell. Chantelle is the only one who seems to reach her sister’s soft centre, which we are shown the briefest glimpse of, able to somewhat understand and strangely empathise with her, without being told much about the sources of her troubled state. It’s a tough watch, but it got under my skin in a surprisingly light way. I can feel notes of Pansy in my thoughts towards my fellow pedestrians today, but I try to mute them and get on with it.
It’s the least broke but the most mentally unstable I’ve been in a long time, which seems to be a leitmotif for quite a few this April. Lots of wisdom teeth removed, relationships ended and bad decisions made — all in a cloud of pollen. It is the first spring in my life when I check the UV index and use SPF daily. Almost. As another routine remedy for my mental unrest I started going for a cycle around Oud Zuid on Monday nights. It’s the bulky waste day in the area and I try to never come home empty handed. Been finding some serious gems. Last week, almost giving up after digging through another pile of garbage, lifting up another Rimowa shopping bag, I found a roll of beautiful hand drawn architectural blueprints, which I keep by my desk for reasons yet to be determined.
Been spending time at the canal in front of the building I live in. A man approaches asking to grab one of the garden chairs and after choosing a spot a few meters away from me, lines it’s dirty surface with today’s edition of De Volkskrant, cracks open a Coke and lays back in total stillness. I ask him for a light and we chat a little which reveals that we share a hangover. Yesterday I went over to Neeltje’s house to listen to Black Country New Road’s new album, Forever, Howlong. It’s their first studio record since the departure of Isaac Wood, their hitherto lead vocalist. Hence the singing went over to the female half of the band — Tyler Hyde, May Kershaw and Georgia Ellery, who are taking turns in writing and singing on the new album. The lyrical themes range from descriptions of a dinner being prepared from seemingly animate ingredients to a story of a knight taking off his armour and becoming one with a tree while flying a kite, to a western girl-meets-cowboy story, to making eye contact with a dog while its owner is picking up its shit. This lyrical eclecticism is accompanied with lush instrumentation that sounds bigger than ever. Tornadoes of violins and cheeky sax solos transition into wild piano passages and explosive drums. They masterfully play around with tempo changes, volume and contrasting sonic textures. Some tracks almost mess with you the same way classical music does; how you never know when a crescendo is going to break into an orgasm, or a major melody will suddenly flow into a somber minor.
Every time I leave my house, I have to pass through Rietweijkerstraat to get anywhere. It’s the second spring I spend in this area but only this year I realised that the only trees on this street are white magnolias. I hardly remember last year’s spring. They are now at the peak of their fornication, meaning they will soon shed the white and cherry trees will take over the blooming duty for another two weeks. I suggest going for a game of table tennis or pétanque at the square in front of Lab111. The cherry trees might have swapped their pink for baby green by the time this is out, but it is a lovely spot nevertheless. And you might want to check if anything is on at Punt WG.
In desperate attempts to get the last hour of sun after work, upon friend’s directions, I had rediscovered ’t Blauwehooft — a brown cafe with a really lovely and spacious terrace facing West, where you can soak up some rays while waving at an occasional Eurostar or a Night Jet slowly making its way on the tracks beneath the setting sun. I’m eavesdropping on two conversations around me. One is about Katy Perry having safely landed back on Earth, bless her, another about the new local laws around freelance workers. I’ve been consuming more news than ever, as my very manual job leaves me with a racing mind, which I’ve been occupying with podcasts for 3-5 hours a day. My most recent endeavour is Fashion Neurosis with Bella Freud, which offsets my state-of-the-world anxiety a little. She is simultaneously very calming in her cadence and a tad detached from reality topics which mainly lay in the realm of fashion and arts, and somewhat irritating as she seems to have befriended and partied with every English icon in existence. Wouldn’t expect any less from Zigmund’s granddaughter, sitting in her living room smoking rollies with minty filters and liquorice papers with a Bacon painting in the background. The Kate Moss and Nick Cave episodes would make great introductions to the podcast’s range of personalities.
I’m unpacking my Apollolaan market catches from King’s Day, which are rather good for my track record. Two pairs of shoes, two CD’s and a player, a brown long sleeve with a nice collar, and four clip frames — all for under twenty euros. I thought the market was more stressful than usual this year and consisted of a lot more random dead stock and Zara crap than anything else. A successful run nevertheless. I’m having a pit stop at home before heading back into the orange bacchanalia of it all — a fittingly restless end to a restless month. My bag’s got orange lining and that’s just as far as I’m willing to go.
Talk soon.
