Strong Hold

This blog is not about SPD?  Oh ye of little perception.

Why did I decline an audition? Because of tactile sensitivity.

Why do I prefer to shorten my stirrups? Because bending your legs gives stronger proprioceptive input.

Why do I like to work with clay? Because it gives strong proprioceptive input. Besides, sometimes my fingers replace my eyes.

Why do I like voices and just as soon listen to a film instead of watching it? Because I like to rely on auditive cues over visual cues. 
If I have to use visual cues, I like strong contrasts. No dusk for me. I prefer 100 watt lightbulbs. A nightlight? I rather have my room pitch dark.

                                                                               

 

    With permission by Scott James himself

Relying on auditive cues only almost cost me my life, I must admit. I was standing at a traffic light, looking down at my shoes, waiting to hear the sound of the ticker. When I heard it ringing clearly, I stepped forward and nearly got killed by the car that was pulling up. What I heard was the sound of the traffic light at the other pedestrian crossing, around the bend. But it sounded so close to me!

The thing with SPD is that it seeps into more cracks and cravices of your life than you can imagine.  Firmness and contrasts are my trademark. In how I do things as well as in my character.

I've noticed of late that I hold on far too tight to things. I don't break things, I know the characteristics of the materials I touch. I don't have dyspraxia. It's just that I like to feel pressure on my joints. That's why I also like moving furniture and pulling rope. This clenching takes a lot of energy. I feel better, fitter and lighter, when I remind myself to pick things up with a minimal effort.

I also like people with a strong personality. I definitely don't mind if someone gets angry at times. What I really admire is when someone can get angry without losing control of himself.  uses his full power to stand up for himself without getting angry.  I always let frustrations pile up until I explode. Not very ladylike, I'm afraid.
 

What about 'contrasts'? It's just another word for 'strong differences'  That brings me to two photo's that I wish I had taken...

The first time I was at a zoo, standing a bit back from the giraffes' enclosure. There were many people crowding round their gate, grown ups and children on their father's back, or standing on a ridge in front of their mom. But one tiny girl, a 3 year old,  stood alone, in a gap left open by two adults.

She was holding up a branch. and one of the giraffes was bent over the fence eating it's leaves. The largest animal accepting the gift of the smallest human.

A few years later I was sitting in a train at a platform at Cologne's main station. On the platform I saw a little 'tableau'. From the right an old priest, balding and wrinkled, shuffled over the platform. He was all dressed in black, except for a bit of white, his collar. He was looking rather pressed, may be he was afraid of missing his train (or should I write connection?). Suddenly from the left a teenager came up. She was also dressed fully in black, her hair in thick black strands. She carried a sullen look that accentuated her gothic attire. Her line crossed with that of the priest. And when they passed one another... they exchanged quick smiles. Private smiles of recognition, that they intended only for each other.
   Meetings of two opposing worlds, with mutual interest and respect. Wow!

Here's another picture with contrast(s). do you see it? I took this picture myself, during a holiday in Cambridge.

A boy at the University Museum of Zoology in Cambridge [UK]

Four days ago I stumbled upon another picture. Again I had no camera, but I didn't miss it this time. I would have felt stupid if I had taken that shot. Normally I ask the person in question if she or he would like a copy, but should I ask this person? He was a blind father, walking through the station corridor with a cane in his left hand and in the other he held his daughter's hand. She was a toddler, wearing a toddler leash, that the father was holding as well. It was Saturday, twelve o'clock, so the corridor was humming with people. But the child seemed unaffected by the crowd, simply walked along with her dad.

I made a mental picture of the two. Today. after dinner, I will start to reproduce it in clay. Maybe I run into them one day...   A picture in clay is something the father can 'see'.

   Where's the contrast in this last 'tableau' ? I guess in the prejudiced idea of the 'general public' that someone with a handicap, a blind person, is vulnerable. While this little girl was so full of faith in her father's capability to guide her. Being his child, I think she's the one who knows best.

Haesito in Medio [1 of 5]

Stuck in the Middle
Stories can be like medicine. Writing this one helped me cure some very old sores. Maybe by posting it, someone else can use it to heal him- or herself.
The introduction has actually happened to me, 15 years ago. I always kept it in mind, like the photos I never took¹, wanting to use it in a story exactly like this. I guess I wasn't ready for it until now. I was 'stuck in the middle'.

part 2 -->    

1 The Call of Caffeine

Inti Raymi, summer solstice, is celebrated in my country by specific ethnic groups and cotton shoed tree huggers only.

Last year I was a spectator at such a festival. This year I was to help out, for my child's great uncle organized the festival in the area of our capital. Like every year. He could use all the hands he could get. I would come to serve drinks and sell food on the second day of the celebration. I'd go there alone, my child was staying over at a friend's house.

However, I declined the invitation to come on Saturday and sleep over at the site The Observatory. Even though public transportation on Sundays would be a quest in itself. Because I knew at night drugs and alcohol would be passed around like a peace pipe. And I'm not keen on either of them. And because I could not leave my mother alone in the house for such a long time, due to her condition.

It would take at least three buses, I had figured out, so I set off early that Sunday morning, armed with books, walkman and water to brighten up my journey. I added sandwiches for lunch, because I wasn't sure the festival food would be to my taste.

It didn't just promise to become a hot day, at dawn it was already turning into it. As I was waiting at a remote bus stop for my second transfer. I leaned against the glass window of the bus shelter. Wow, what a scorcher. I drank a bit and then shifted my attention to my backpack. I had some lovely sandwiches in there. And who knew how long I would have to do without food, once I arrived at the festival. Better start lunch while I still can, I decided and picked out the best sandwich.

Just as I was munching away my first bite, a young jackdaw landed on the sidewalk and came over to me. Oh no, not just any jackdaw. All jackdaws have blue eyes, but this one... his were superb-ly blue and so big they seemed on the brink of popping out. -They reminded me of… well never mind whom -. He tilted his head at a smart, endearing, angle and studied me and my sandwich intensely. Half and half I expected him to start talking... Nope, he kept on begging in silence.

I threw him a few bits of bread. He looked at them, as if he wanted them dearly... and wandered off. Behind the bus stop was a large field of grass. He took position there and continued his begging. Demurely I picked up the pieces and brought them to him. That was a good guess, Jack Daw started eating. Just didn't want to eat on the sidewalk. Probably too close to the -now quiet- road. I walked back to the bus stop, looking back just once. The bird was coming after me! When I stopped and turned he slowly moved back to his meal, eying me constantly. I stayed with him for a few seconds, then turned away again. Once more he came after me. He obviously wanted me to stay with him, while he was eating his -or more precisely: my- food. So I stayed during the entire ritual. Picking up a piece, looking at me, swallowing. He was almost done when I heard a familiar sound behind me. A bus passing by at full speed. Not stopping at the apparently deserted stop. The route number on the rear of the bus just told it all: I would have to wait an hour for the next one. I looked at Jack D. despairingly. “This is all your doing, you and your blue eyes.” He picked up one last crumb and flew off. Bye bus, bye bird, bye festival.

Before leaving home I had studied the map. If I remembered well, the walk would last less than one and a half hour. So I would arrive at approximately the same time as I would if I took the next bus. Because even traveling by bus, I'd have to walk, say, fifteen minutes. I did not know the exact route, but I knew in what direction to go. Summer solstice? I would use the sun to guide me. Who needs a compass or map, right?

I soon left the outskirts of the city behind me and entered a large recreational area. It was deserted. On Sunday morning even the avid nature lovers (I didn't know how avid, at that time) prefer their bed over the outdoors . As I followed a narrow path leading me to a lake, fringed by trees, bushes and small patches of grass, I thanked Jack Daw for making me miss the bus. This walk I would never forget. There were but a few cabins with no one stirring about. Just over the surface of the lake hung soft hazy clouds performing a ballet, subtly shifting shapes. In the stillness I could hear the water lapping gently over the pebbles around my feet. This was a zillion times better than the festival I was going to.

But a promise is a promise. I tore myself away from the performance and continued my journey. As slowly as possible.

If I kept on following the lake, I would have ended up traveling in a circle. So after a while I left the

bank and mingled with the trees, hoping to find a new path I could follow. Eventually I reached it, right were it made a curve. Like I was standing at a fork in the road. Now this was a problem. Judging by the sun, neither branch of the road ran in exactly the right direction. What to do?

Another jackdaw, an adult, perched in a tree, just in the middle of the curve, cawing busily.

“Well, your younger brother brought me here and now I'm lost. Where do I go now?” I transferred to him, by telepathy. He cawed again and turned his head. His beak pointing to the left. Well, why not? I took the left arm of the road.

Looking up through the trees. I had to acknowledge the forest was no less beautiful than the lake. The leaves filtered the sunlight, turning it into a kaleidoscopic game of light and shadow, darting over and past one another. And further along the road, there still was a lacy curtain of mist between the trees. I always like to play with that: as I come closer, it gradually thins out, like tab curtains, opening up deeper and deeper into the stage. Being raised for a magical play...

***** Here the story turns into fiction

The sun gained strength suddenly, probably reappearing from behind a cloud. Golden light flooded the bushes and grassy patches that still interlaced the trees. A log cabin, several yards from the road, became gilded, bathing in the rays. I had passed by all the other cabins with a quickening of my steps, but now I stood still. The golden light gave the cabin a special air. Friendly, beckoning. With a hint of magic.

This lot was not as neat and tidy as the others. There was all kinds of stuff strewn about the porch and yard. Probably a busy owner. Too busy to be bothered with housekeeping. Actually, the person in question must already be awake, since the door and windows were open.

“Inti Raymi” sounded somewhere in my conscience. Yeah right, somewhere people were waiting for me. A faint smell of coffee came from the cabin. Coffee always seduces me and makes me a most unfaithful friend and relative (and lover?). And all this awe and reverence had made me thirsty. I had been walking for almost an hour.

I'm the kind of person who never asks a taller person to get me something from the upper shelf in the supermarket. I rather spend hours wandering about than asking which way to go. And I would never enter someone's house uninvited. But I was caught and drawn to this cabin.

“Maybe,” I told myself, “I can act as if I'm only coming up to ask for a refill of my water bottle.” The porch was unoccupied, inside the house no one was to be seen. The owner might be somewhere at the back of the house. I circled around it, even calling out a couple of times. 'Though I hated to break the silence. Nobody. I stepped onto the porch. Should I go in or not? Just walk over to the tap for some water? Another whiff of coffee came my way. This was not just any coffee, it was my favorite. Almost as strong as espresso. Now who would leave his house and waste good coffee? Maybe the owner was inside, dozing over his or her breakfast? I set one foot inside the cabin. And then another. On the kitchentable stood a large thermos with 'coffee' written on it. Beside it was a large mug.

Someone had stuck a folded sheet of paper between those two, with writing so large I could not escape reading it . It stunned me. “Hi visitor. I know you love coffee. Help yourself.”

1See my blog post “Strong Hold”

Crowns and Fingerprints

   This happened 40 years ago ... while I was in kindergarten. Boy, did I hate kindergarten. It was in the early seventies, and at this school I had my first run in with gender roles. The teachers being less fanatic at it than the children!
   Before I went to kindergarten I had always played with my brother and my back door neighbours: three brothers. Even the girl next door had a brother and they played with my brother and me, the four of us. So I was used to playing with boys and doing boys games. Watch me play soccer!

   At kindergarten I joined the boys to play with the cars. Guess what? These urchins scolded me and sent me away to the "dolls corner" . That was the area for girls. Girls were not supposed to play with boys, nor with cars.
   Lucky for me there was a dirty old bear in the dolls corner that the other girls didn't want to play with, because I did not want to play with the dolls.  I hated those all-too-sweet faces with the unnaturally pursed lips (was I being sharp on mouths at that time already?) And now that I had started to go to kindergarten,  I hated those faces even more. Because I noticed when the blond girls in my class, the ones with the angelic faces, ratted on me, I was convicted! No defence. The blondie was always telling the truth, and I was never believed**.


   One day 'Dolf' and his friends decided to make paper crowns and sashes. -I don't really remember if the boy's name was Dolf or if I called him that, because he had a T-shirt with a dolphin on it.-  Anyway, the boys asked the the teacher to give them paper (cut to size) and I asked for it too. They quickly drew into a tight circle around a table shutting me out. I heard Dolf whisper he was going to make the best one ever, because he was going to decorate his crown and sash with animals. And I noticed he had taken some of the animal shapes, precut templates, from the cabinet. -Apparently we used to decorate them with geometrical figures, probably precut circles, stars and squares?-

    I decided to outperform little Dolfie. Took some of the animal patterns and instead of going for the colouring pencils, I took scissors, glue and transparent paper.  I remember red and dark blue. Not being able to close up ranks on my own, I squeezed myself in between two cabinets,  my back to the classroom.
   Normally, I was pretty slow (still am), but I worked hard to get my crown and sash finished at the same time as those boys did.  Just as I was glueing the two ends of my sash together, the teacher asked the attention of the class. She pointed at the crowns and sashes of the boys, while they were wearing them. Dolf's was the last one shown. He was even allowed to stand on a chair, because his was soooo beautiful: he had drawn animals on it and coloured them. He  was gloating!
  And then, tadaa! Like a devil out of a box, I  jumped from my hidy hole and showed a crown and sash with translucent animals (I was smart enough to glue the coloured paper on the backsides to let the shape come out better).  The teacher held them close to the lamp to show it and declared my creation the best one. I don't know if I gloated, I must have.  I only recall enjoying Dolfie's p.... off face. Hah, girls could be better than boys!
(Me, vindictive?)

   Why did I think of that ancient victory?  Well, maybe it wasn't even the victory that came up, more the hard work, solo, squeezed in between those cabinets. Working on a self-proclaimed challenge.  I obviously haven't changed much.
   I'm currently spending A LOT of time squeezed in, in my attic (which serves as my living room, kitchen, bedroom and studio) and cut scenes from my favourite films and TV series. I have set up a quite movie database for this and  I plan to put these clips together from a viewpoint I expressed in my blogs Winks,  Twitches and Spoken Words and What's in the name?  I call my project 'Actor's Fingerprints' and I have absolutely no idea how it will turn out. Will I press the delete button in the end or do I jump out of my attic (not through the window of course) shouting 'Tadaa!' ?
   Only time will tell. I have 190 cuts already and over 40 'titles' left to plough through.



** Yes, you suppose right, I am not blond, my hair is what the dutch would call  'the milkman's dog's hair'.

... there are no small lives? - pt 2-

jump to part 1

So actors with supporting roles and extra's can help build up the team, towing the entire play to a higher level. Is that what is meant with 'no small actors' ?

   What about this boy, who desperately wanted to be Joseph in the school's nativity play?  Alas one of his classmates got the much desired role. All there was left was the role of an innkeeper. Or he could say no to the entire play. There's always a choice, you know.
    His teacher gave him some time to make up his mind, the part of the innkeeper did not need much rehearsing anyway. After a few days the boy announced he'd take the role and he appeared faithfully at every practise.
At first there was little enthousiasm, but he suddenly changed a few days before the 'grand performance' . The teacher complimented herself on being able to help this boy accept his humble fate so well.
    And now it was the evening of the school's Christmas celebration. The hall was filled with parents, brothers, sisters and grandparents. Watching Joseph and Mary struggling on, desperately knocking at the last door of all the taverns of Bethlehem. Our boy openend the door of this inn and Joseph stammered  "Dear sir, do you have a room, for my wife is pregnant and ..."  "Of course my dear Joseph," the innkeeper beamed, "I have saved my best room for you!"   An ominous silene fell over Bethlehem and the school hall. Mary hid her face in her robe, Joseph grew pale around the nose, and swallowed hard. Then Joseph straightened himself and turned to his wife. "Wait here darling."   He went inside, returning only a moment later.  "These rooms are no good Mary. Let's go find ourselves a stable."



   How often do we feel cheated out of the role we dreamed up? Receiving a much smaller part in this play called "Life on Earth".  And how do you respond to that? What do you settle for?
    Do you participate in a team effort to put up a great show and support the main cast -whoever they may be- ?   Reward: without having planned it, the Review turns out to be positive about you.
    Or do you put all your energy in that short performance you are allowed, even if it were only to please yourself? Rewarded an upturned thumb of the Great Director, because you at least managed to shake the others out of their numbness? And you thoroughly enjoyed the moment you were on stage.
    Or do you behave like our little boy. Try to rewrite the play by yourself, knocking on opportunity's door instead of waiting for it. The boy did not receive a plume from his teacher, but his antic lives on as an anecdote that is absolutely worth telling.  He didn't ruin the play, it takes a lot more than one hairpin turn to ruin Life on Earth. Sometimes hairpin turns save us.

   Or do I look at life from a false perspective? Is there more than one play going on? A Broadway production that is being repeated a zillion times, with different people playing the main roles in different ways. And we are not just actors, we are directors, playwrights,  props managers and audience all in one life.

The cast extra's inServant of Two Master Yes I'm on it too.

   In my 'up days' I have the Zillion Performances Perspective and I am truly happy with all these different functions and my role(s).
   But on other days ... I feel horribly cheated. I feel like declining my role in that One Big Play. That one big Yoke, or should I say Joke? Why can't I find my spectacles on those days? Put them on to change to a happier perspective ?
   Don't think I never tried to work myself out of the shaft I fall into.
-  I've tried being like the innkeeper, but I ran into a smart Joseph. Dead end street.
-  I'd go for enthousiasm, but sometimes it is lacking and there's no supermarket that has it in stock on the shelves.
-  Going for the team effort is not always an option. In some groups I miss a sense of belonging. And faking it is a deadly choice: it means alienating you from yourself.

   When I get depressed, I am no better than a ball.  Once I'm going down, I'm not able to change direction. I just have to hit the bottom of the shaft, before I can bounce out of it.
  But then ... it is at the bottom of this horrid shaft where I've found the small scraps of diamond and gold that I carry with me.
 
  You know these tiny particles are good enough for me.  I'm using them in  my art, my humour, my habit to let cats loose among pigeons.
And I'm trying to share that with others -during my 'up days'-,  hoping to create up days for others as well.
  
   What do you do with your Part in Life ?