Conscientious Objection

 Not even six weeks at my new job, and I ran into a subject that might cause me a problem.
I currently work as a programmer for a company that produces software for hospitals.
While working on a small enhancement I came across a list that is programmed to pop up when children are brought in, at an Emergency Room. The pop-up is a checklist to determine whether the child might have been mistreated.
This checklist is going to be enhanced soon. And if I get the assignment ... I will refuse it. I will not have anything to do with a link between emergency rooms and child protection campaigns of the government.

Time to cut the crap: I live in the Netherlands. And there is a wild fire burning, called the Savanna Effect ...
Savanna was a little girl of whom it was known that she was terribly mistreated. Because of a misfunctioning guardian, the toddler was killed by her mother, a psychiatric patient.
Did the government respond by making sure that our 'Child Protection Professionals' would be better educated, that cases would be supervised and tracked in greater detail ?
 No, the governement decided that not the failing Child Protection Organisation needed attention. but all parents from then on had to be treated as possible killers of their children.

Here's how Child Protection works nowadays:

• The smallest error can be called in as mistreatment, anonymously if you like. False notifications (sometimes intentional!) can be made without the reporter ever being held responsible.
• CP employees do not know (or care about) the difference between 'information' (which can be  erroneous or even plain gossip) and fact.
• CP does not indulge in fact checking and investigating.
• The burden of proof lies with the accused. Parents have to prove they are not mistreating their child.     Do you know how hard it is to falsify some of the fantastic stories of CP employees?
• (Family)Guardians are not knowledgable when it comes to the latest insights on diseases, syndroms, disorders etc.  Neither do they have up to date knowledge about alternative therapies. Not to mention cultural differences. They apply standard methods on every client, thereby too often violating article 26.3 of the human rights. (Parents have a prior right to choose the kind of education that shall be given to their children.)
• Family Guardians consciously misrepresent themselves as having full custody over children (in other words as Guardians) while in most cases the parents still have -restricted-  authority and the family guardian has none. [The FG can only warn parents and threaten with a law suit. This is the difference between a 'Family Guardian' and a Guradian. The latter has full custody.]
  
• Filing a complaint hardly has any effect**. Because of this, caretakers are so well protected that they can continue their malfunctioning. There's no negative feedback on them.

What does this mean inevery day life?
 

   The parent as potential killer is the viewpoint of CP. So in cases of doubt, parents are tracked and kept under pressure. Fear is purposely being used as a tool to control those parents. The stress that results from being dominated by such an unfair but enormous institution is traumatising. I personally call it "Caretaker Induced Trauma"

   If CP did keep track of science they would know the devastating effects of prolonged fear: the hormonal balance changes and bonding is reduced. Bonding between parent and child. Children need a loving, cheerful environment to flourish and develop into a healthy adult.  Not a fearful environment and stressed out parents.

    After Savanna the number of children placed in fosterhomes or institutions has risen with 30%. 
The number of parents with restricted authority has risen even more. A nice example from a typical city in the western part of the Netherlands: (no, not Amsterdam) :  It takes  7 months for a family guardian to become available^^. Until then the family is under supervision of a 'provisionary team'.
As a consequence the case load of (family) guardians has risen enormously too.They don't have time to deal with all their cases, let alone be educated. Good quality care is definitely not guaranteed under this system.
The Savanna Effect can be condensed as follows:

• The children that really need help, are still not getting it. They may receive even less care.
• Many families that don't need help, are stressed out and being made unhealthy.

 Back to the Emergency Room and the checklist that pops up.
Some believe that this is meant to trace obvious mistreatments. I don't think so. I know the government has started a new Savanna Strategy: every family that brings a child to Emergency is to be 'investigated'.

In my circle of friends it has already happened several times, to different families: Day 1: emergency room. Day 2: CP representatives are standing on your doorstep for an investigation.
The pop-up list fits this strategy perfectly.


This from ER-to-CP strategy increases the Savanna effect, since, even if it would not lead to more convictions, it does take up more time from CP.

• Even more children that really need help, are still not getting it. They may receive even less care.
• More families that don't need help, are stressed out and being made unhealthy.

 And now there's a third effect:

• some parents will now hesitate to bring their child to an Emergency Room. [I would] and they will postpone it as much as possible. So more children will not get the care they need.

When I say that I object to working on this checklist, it is because I DO CARE for mistreated children and I want them to get all the help they need. And a doctor in his right mind, does not need this checklist. I hope.

** = I have filed a complaint once, going through the entire mill of talking with the employee, talking with her supervisor, with the management and finally getting a formal hearing. The committee said I was right, yet CP wrote me in her concluding letter that they felt the committee had made a mistake and I was still wrong in their eyes. The committee begged me to file a new complaint about this response - of course I send them a copy- , because they felt insulted themselves! 

^^ = Since the FG cannot do her work in those remaining 5 months, a second year of restricted authority is required.

The Fountain of Youth

My mother just left in a taxi cab, waving and smiling.

She's going to stay  at a 'daycare center for people with memory problems'. She goes there four days a week.

My mother hated having to leave the house, tied down to someone else's schedule. She craved privacy. Mocking peolpe who tried to keep her entertained. Now she loves it and longs for it.

My mother has more and more trouble understanding what the world, our society, wants from her. When she's alone she's plagued by fearsome thoughts, false memories and  a sense of belonging to no one, nowhere.  Therefore she craves the company of uncomplicated people who just sit and drink coffee with her and make small talk. My mother has Alzheimer.

I've had a discussion, or rather a lecture, about the effect of Alzheimer on the patient's posture from my son's  manual therapist. He has seen many patients pass by.  What actually happens is that the postural reflexes that we acquire when developing from baby to toddler to child to adult are gradually lost. Like regressing to childhood.

I can see that in my mother: she's getting more stooped and getting thinner. Not that she is eating less. Her muscles mass is disappearing, because the postural muscles are less and less innervated.

Eventually an Alzheimer patient will not come out of his bed anymore and he or she will die in the fetal position. Often with a cuddly toy in hand. 

Something comparable happens to the thinking of the person with Alzheimer. I don't mean the fact that patients lose their most recent memories before they lose their childhood memories.   

No, the person with Alzheimer also loses sense for categorising. On one hand, detailed differences become invisible, on the other hand, categorising by function becomes difficult too. My mother is still fond of embroidering, but counting stitches is too hard. So now I buy her preprinted patterns. She can handle that 

if... she's kept the yarn with the rest of the embroidery set. When she is not actually embroidering, she doesn't understand that these things belong together. 

And it is hard to find back the yarn or whatever else she put away. Since she does not understand categories, she puts things together in a completely un-understandable fashion.  For me anyway, since I'm the one who's still hampered by logic.

There's good news: my mother has lost her fobia's. That too is learned behaviour, no matter how deep and 'unreasonable' that fear may be.  Not only has she lost her fear of darkness, she also has lost her fear of frogs. If she sees one now, she will walk up to it, to admire it.  I hope she won't put them in her pocket and bring them home... 

Some people complain that Alzheimer patients go through a change of character. But that's in the eye of the beholder. Of course there is a period of aggression. Someone with Alzheimer at first knows something is wrong. It is scary. And people around you loose patience with you, they start to criticise and correct you in an unfriendly way...  so naturally you beome defensive. 

After this ínitial' period, something else happens. I've heard it from people who took care of Alzheimer patients profesionally. Whether it was 25 years ago or recently, they all say the same thing:  the patient's natural disposition comes out. Of course it does: because all 'learned' behaviour is lost. The decorum that our parents and teachers taught us to hold up, is forgotten. The rules that our culture, our society, dictated are forgotten. So there is nothing, no rule book, that tells a patient how to behave. There is just one thing left: the inner impulse.

While the brain shrivels, the personality gets a better chance to exhibit itself ?

How different is that from the statement of prof. Dick Swaab, who concludes that "we are our brain".   Obviously there is a kernel that is not our brain. It's up to you if you call it your Soul, your Self, ...

Isn't our brain partially formed by those arround us? Or more precisely, by the friction between who we  are (our kernel) and what people around us expect from us. Be it family, close environment or ... our culture and society.
Look at people who have been mistreated or neglected in their childhood: the corpus callosum,  a very 'central' part of the brain, remains smaller than in people who have not been mistreated. 

I believe however that the mistreated brain is not the personality of that person. I believe that our true Self is still undamaged underneath the layers of experience and adaptations. And if he -or she-  digs hard enough, deep enough, he can find the remains of his personality and revive it. OK, it might take a lifetime, or it might be too much for the less gifted, but the Self is there and will be there when you die.  Or get Alzheimer.

Should we really beg for a cure for Alzheimer?

  -I'm playing the devil's advocate, just to set your mind at work-

Because all in all, when you have Alzheimer, you become like a child again. If we were taken care of by others, who guard over us like loving parents, would it be that bad? 

Except for the weird thoughts. Then again, children have weird thoughts too, don't they?  Like one might disappear through the drain of the bathroom?   

Don't we all wish at times that we were children again?

Maybe we should all beg for an Alzheimer Friendly Society? Where drinking from the Fountain of Youth is fun, or at least honorable?
Well, I guess a cure for Alzheimer is the most likely of the two to happen.

Alzheimer is definitely  a challenge for philosophers!

Look how well she dances

Here I am, working at the new company for a month now. I have arranged suitable care for my mother. My son is going to school regularly. And I am terribly creative in my spare time, just note the number of posts.

So “the world” will probably call me a good example and say I’m doing fine. “Look how well she dances.”

Yes, I am dancing.  It felt fine at first, but now I know I’m dancing too swift, too frenetic. I’m not dancing in a field of clover. I’m performing a macabre ritual on a narrow ledge. My steps are mocking the edge and loose rocks. How long until I misplace a foot and fall into the abyss?

The Wild Woman is warning me, I hear her call. But I cannot seem to get enough time to catch my Breath and regain my Self. And there’s no Wood Carver around to tell me to stop and show me what to cut out of my list of things to do.

I'm not writing this to beg for pity. I know that there are many persons in the same state. Or even worse. Because at least I am aware of what I'm doing and what can be the consequence. That will help me to slow down my dance.

But some of you are not aware of the madness of your 'great life'. It's for you that I wrote this tiny blogpost. So you may get out in time.

Haesito in Medio [3 of 5]

<-- part 2                                                                                      part 4 -->

3 The Invitation is Extended

The door swung open behind me and a very dark German shepherd slipped in. She bared her teeth and growled at Elmer viciously. Before he had mumbled his “holy shit” a new voice pieced the air “Loba! Sit.” The dog sat down, not taking her eyes off Elmer. Her owner exuded the same blackness as his dog, wearing a black blazer, dark sunglasses and a black flat cap over his dark hair. Even his stubbles were dark. Funny, Elmer had stubbles too, which added to his raw and uncivilized appearance. The newcomer had a certain air about him, a little bit of arrogance, - just enough for flavor, like a properly spiced meal - and his unshaven condition did not degrade any of it.

I finally managed to tear myself free from Elmer. The new man 'on stage' already stood beside me and helped me get back on my feet. I started to brush off the dust from my clothes, partly to get rid of the Elmer Experience, partly so I didn't have to face the newcomer. He did rescue me, but he also caught me in an awkward situation.

"Loba, it's OK," was the only hand out he gave the giant who obviously had a lot more trouble getting up. "Get up Randy." - Randy?- "Why are you in here anyway ?" He talked to Elmer, or rather Randy, as if reprimanding a child.

"Dropped off the the logs for ye sir, as ya ordered."

"I asked you to bring them Saturday."

"Yeah, so?" Randy defended himself.

"Today's Sunday."

Randy's eyes grew large. "Can't be. Yesterday I went to the Observatory, to help set up a camp for an overnight party. Some Indian stuff. These fellows sure know how to make a dull job interesting. Wow."

- The conversation between the two became more and more interesting -

"Randy, you went there two days ago. You must have spent two nights at the Observatory." -I would have run into Randy at the Observatory, if I hadn't missed my bus. His fate was definitely woven into mine.-

"I dunno's I have." Randy scratched his stubbles, looking forlorn. "Anyway, not much of a party going on now. Police broke things up at dawn. Said there had been a terrible row. Dunno. Slept through the whole thing, I guess." He shrugged.

"You'd better leave now," the woodcarver said curtly, "We'll talk about this some other time."

I almost felt sorry for Randy, he slunk out like a beaten dog. I wasn't even sure if I felt relieved at his departure. Now I was in a one on one situation again, no Randy to keep my new host busy.

"I'm going to make fresh coffee. Do you mind sharing a round with me?"

Coffee? Never will I touch that stuff again, I said to myself, while nodding in agreement.

"Then bring your mug here." The Unknown gestured to the workbench. At least these few steps helped me to shake off the nightmarish feeling that still clung to me. As I reached the kitchen counter, my host had already taken off his blazer and cap. I placed the mug on the counter. "Thank you for rescuing me," I managed to utter.

The dark haired man turned away from me, reaching up to a kitchen cabinet for a tin of coffee. He moved with grace and the agility of a cat. There were some gray streaks in his hair, so he was not as young as his physique suggested. Did he wear sunglasses and cap to hide his age? I could not imagine someone living in such an atmosphere - a cabin dedicated to art and creative work, in the middle of a forest, comfort without luxury and such hospitality - to be vain. But I had already proven to be a bad judge of character, today.

"Do you really have such bad instincts?" His back was still turned at me.

"What do you mean?" I said to avoid an answer. Had he been reading my mind?

"Why didn't you leave the moment Randy came in? You disliked him from the start."

How much had he seen? Had he been around all the time? 'Accidentally' popping in at the right moment?

"You are the most unspontaneous person I've ever met. You have a thousand questions, yet you're not saying a thing." He reached for a coffee spoon, out of a jar that was on the kitchen counter. He pulled too impatiently, another spoon came out, fell into the crate next to the counter. It disappeared between the logs Randy had dropped in there. My host bent down quicker then I did and reached for the spoon. As he pulled it up, he held back a swear word with difficulty. He had cut open the side of his hand. A nasty cut, it bled immediately. Loba winced, stood by her boss with a worried look in her soft brown eyes. The dog's pity pushed me over the threshold I often face when someones needs help. "Where do you have band aid or a first aid kit?"

"In the window sill, behind my workbench."

I would have opted for the bathroom, but a woodcarver probably prefers to have his first aid kit in closer reach. With less fumbling or dizziness then I expected, I managed to help wash out the wound and press it shut until the bleeding stopped.

"Now I have to thank you," the host said. I waved it away. "My plight was a lot worse than yours."

"So what. I hardly did a thing to help you. I just arrived in time. Loba did the work. And you, you helped me even though you can't stand the sight of blood."

This guy was beginning to get on my nerves. He had said only a few things, asked a few questions, but all his remarks pointed out that he saw right through me. What was he, a psychic? To change the subject I remarked that I'd pour in coffee. “But on one condition. That you take off your glasses.”

I expected a sharp remark, but no. He just placed his glasses on the table and looked straight at me. His eyes were bright blue and so big they seemed on the brink of popping out. I held my breath. "If he says his name is Jack, I'm going to scream," I thought.

"My name is Justus," the woodcarver introduced himself. After I had poured in our coffee he gestured at a chair at the kitchen table. “Please sit down, you are making me nervous. Only very few people make me nervous, but you manage to do so."

That imperfection of him, broke the ice for me. "I will take that as a compliment," I joked.

"Not intended." I froze again. "But let's dig into that. Why is it a compliment for you? "

I gazed into my coffee mug. Someone at my first apprenticeship, taught me to turn a coffee break into a ritual. A sure, fast way to say "stop pulling at me" to others, at least for the duration of the break. A moment to be honest to myself. And now I saw Justus was right. Why did I say that making him nervous was a compliment?

A range of things, stupid things. Mainly my low self esteem. I never expect to get someone's attention by being nice. Being nice meant disappearing into the shadows. Only by being the opposite, could I make myself visible. Negative attention had become a reward. That's what I answered while looking shyly at Justus. Sensing he had already read the answer from my mind. Or at least from my face.

Blood dropped from his wound onto the table. I took one of my always present paper tissues and spontaneously wiped it away. When I looked up, my eyes caught his. This time I could read his mind. "Well done" he thought. "A first step in the right direction." I fought against my tears. If it was well done, why did his respons hurt?

Loba laid her head on my knee. I stroked her. All my life, I could not walk past an animal without patting him. Or her.

Justus reopened the conversation again. "You weren't afraid of my dog, when she came in, growling and showing her teeth."

"She didn't snarl at me. And besides " I looked at the beautiful shepherd, "She reminded me of Hertha, a German shepherd that lived in my neighborhood,when I was about five years old." Justus leaned back, smiling, willing to listen to the story. But didn't he already know what I was going to say?

"Hertha always roamed around free during daytime. There was a story going that she had bitten a child and was dangerous. So the kids in my neighborhood were all afraid of her. But I knew she was a gentle dog. I petted her often and sometimes walked along with her and her owner. And she always came when I called her. From kindergarten, I always walked home alone. I had to cross just one street for it. The other kids often scolded me as I walked out of the school gate. Whenever Hertha was around I called her to me, before walking through the gate. The others were so afraid they'd back off, so I could go home without being bally-ragged." I looked into the dog's eyes again and contemplated my own story. Without knowing it, I had just come up with an example of when being not nice had been rewarded. My bragging of being the only one who was not afraid of 'danger dog', was paying off. Funny.

"Finish your coffee, woman, we've got work to do."

"Work?"

"Your party at the Observatory is over, so you might as well spend the rest of the day here."

A little voice told me that I should return home, to look after my mother. But I wanted to stay. This cabin and its owner were my gift, even though at times I felt cornered here. I wasn't going to let it slip. Not this time. "Alright, I'll stay. But call me Joanne. Justus."

Justus got up and walked to his workbench. Loba followed him. And so did I.

Getting Unstuck

This morning I sat in a hall of the train near the entrance, on my way to work. With Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ book on my lap, I was staring into space thinking about how to get ‘Haesito in Medio’ unstuck.

Just then the conductor went by and winked at me. I smiled back at him, letting the moment pass by as just a funny meeting. Suddenly I got hold of the moment's tail just in time. “No” I corrected myself, “I’m going to accept this wink as a gift, of a fellow human being who obviously likes me and wants me to know it. It’s a GREAT gift and I’m really happy with it.”

Such a simple decision, on such a small thing … a wink. It caused a burst of positive energy and it helped me look at my unfinished story from a different viewpoint. It means rewriting part 1 and 2 a bit, but it’ll be so much better afterwards!

As for part 3… be patient.  I'm putting on my sealskin for I have heard the call of the Old Seal from the sea. And only when I have refound my soul and replenished my heart again, will I be back.

Those who know the works of Clarissa P.E. will know what I'm talking about. And those who don't ... read the book. (Women Who Run With the Wolves).  I've read it from beginning to end twice. Wow! Now I pick the chapter I need, just like taking the right kind of medicine when being ill.

I know I've chosen the right chapter. It mentions "injured animal dreams". I've had one several days ago. One that still lingers on my retina. My pet wasn't hurt in the sense that he was bleeding or -almost- dying . But his chest was open and empty. He had no lungs and worse: no heart! Yet he looked lively and was jumping around my living room like lightning. He could only last for a short time, he badly needed treatment. The animal was too fast for me however and nobody wanted to help me catch the little 'bugger'. His speed made everyone think he was alright.

I know what it means, I didn't call myself the Queen of Unfinished Projects for nothing. After reading the Sealskin Soulskin chapter, I know I have to pay heed to these signals. So I am packing my virtual valise to spend some time in Solitude.

Here's a photo of some artwork I made, inspired by that very same book:

La Llorona

Be patient !

I'm currently reading Clarissa Pinkola Estés' "Women Who Run With the Wolves", the chapter about "Sealskin, Soulskin"   (Homing: Returning to OneSelf). Don't be surprised if it creeps into part 3  of Haesito in Medio.  Because: I really am stuck in the middle!

To keep you entertained, here's an add I wrote:

JALF is urgently looking for an

Animus

who will transform the wishes of the Soul into Reality

and build a bridge connecting the deep Self with the World

Experience is not required.

The candidate must have

• appreciation of Modesty

• aversion of anything related to Pomposity or Convenience
• inexhaustible Patience

• Rock-solid Conviction during Stormy Weather

• a Sharp Eye for the distinction between Acting out of Fear or out of Love

The Animus is not easily intimidated.

Required language skills:
• fluency in telling the Truth

• a good working knowledge of 

* Symbolical and

* Metaphorical speech

• or willingness to learn this

For more information please contact JoAnne Lakefield

 

[April 2012]   P.S.  The vacancy is filled

Haesito in Medio [2 of 5]

<-- part 1                                                                                                                                   part 3 -->

2 Enter the Giant

I froze for a moment. To be honest, I was suppressing the urge to run off. Now that I knew I was expected, literally invited to have a coffee, I didn't feel like taking it anymore!

“Come on, weirdo,” the coffee craver in me spoke up. “Pour yourself some and sit down. You've been on your feet for hours. Thanks to Mr. Jack Daw.” Well, alright. This was not a day to fight Fate.

As I sat down, caressing the warming mug in my hand, I took a better look at the place. The kitchen and living room formed a single open space. In the wall opposite the entrance there were three doors. One obviously led to the bathroom, the others to at least one bedroom and maybe a closet. The living room was not a common one. It was the studio of a woodcarver. Along the wall with the three doors mentioned, a workbench and shelves served as a showcase displaying an array of carved animals and abstract shapes. Spread across all four walls were masks. Some were animal too, but most of them were human faces, expressing strong emotions. They reminded me of the nightmares I used to have when I went to school. There were some paintings as well. They were cluttered around the fireplace, in front of which lay a thick grayish (once white) rug. There also stood the only armchair of this room.

Another workbench stood at a window, next to the entrance. This workbench was obviously still in use for it's proper function. On and around it lay wood carving tools and wood shavings. In the midst of it flaunted an unfinished mask. I stood up and walked over to the workbench, to see the mask in more detail. The outlines were still pretty rough, but from the shape I judged it was going to be a bird's head.

Actually, it reminded me of the young jackdaw that had made me miss my bus.

I took another sip of my coffee, From the mask's basic lines, my attention shifted to the air above it. In the sunlight gliding over it, tiny particles of dust were dancing. It looked as if the mask's breath had turned into vapor, just as our breath on a cold winter morning. I shivered. “What a creepy place I've gotten into,” I silently muttered to myself. Precisely at that moment a dark shape filled up the entrance. A large broad man, carrying a bulk of chopped wood in his arms. That must be the owner, I realized and stepped back from the workbench like a guilty child. It was more a reflex, than that I was really conscious of any committed 'crime'. Although … suppose the note was meant for a special guest, not just any passer-by. The man was of such formidable build, I didn't enjoy the idea of getting into a quarrel with him.

The 'giant' dropped his load into the crate that stood near the kitchen sink. He shrugged and winked at the half empty mug in my hand “Dunno how's you can drink that with this here temperature. Got something colder for ya right here.” He opened his voluminous hip-bag and produced a can of beer. I spotted a second one still in it. I stifled and shook my head, secretly vowing to finish this mug only to please my host and than I'd move on to the Inti Festival I was supposed to be at. And on no account would I accept a ride from this unshaven creat... person, with twigs and dirt in his uncombed curls.

Had he read my mind? While opening the can for himself, he walk back to the entrance and shut the door. He stayed in front of it, while taking several sips. Then he walked over to me, staying between me and the exit. Another gulp. Then he stared at me with a look that was supposed to be a 'dark melancholy look'. “Admirin' ma work, eh?”

Actually, I was disappointed that such fine things were made by someone so, so... OK, one shouldn't judge a person by his looks. But I could not deny that he was making me feel uncomfortable. I decided not to respond. My tongue often picks up a mind of it's own and manages to utter words causing deeper wounds than a sword ever could.

Instead I tried hard to come up with something positive about this burly bulk with his torn shirt and dirty trousers. Just t osteady my alarmed nerves, but it was a hard job. He smelled as if he had spend the night in a stable. This aroma was getting mixed up with beer as he swallowed more of it from the can. It should be empty by now. “Not used-ter alcohol, eh?”

He winked at me again. I certainly did not want to give him the idea that forcing me to drink some beer would loosen me up. So I remarked that I do consume alcohol, but never before lunch. There was nothing funny about it, but he roared with laughter. “You call me Elmer.” This non sequitur was uttered as soon as his 'fit' was over. Meanwhile he moved closer, trying to put his arm around me.

“Why are ya here, Missy? And how come yer drinkin' ma coffee without waitin' fer me?” My eyes swerved over to the note, under the thermos. Hadn't he written the note? Then who had? My uncertainty could evidently be read from my face. He bent over, his hazel eyes scrutinizing me. “Yer not afraid o' me, are ya?” Only now I saw how bloodshot his eyes were. This guy hadn't been sober from the start. My mental alarm rose in volume. “Get out of here! Now!” I put down my mug on the workbench, trying to slide past Elmer. But he got hold of my shirt. “You ain't leavin' me now. Let's have some fun first.” He dropped the can so he had his other hand free. Tried to stroke my face with it. My heart started to pounce hard, as if breaking open my chest. And not for joy. I felt like throwing up at the thought of his touch. With one hand I warded off his 'caressing' hand, with the other I tried to pull away his hand holding my shirt. Useless, his hands were like sledgehammers. My opponent giggled at my futile attempt. Why hadn't I ever taken better care of my physical condition?

As a kid I used to pick fights with boys¹ older than me (and I was small for my age). But I quit the habit at secondary school, when the boys became more muscular than the girls. “Come on,” the pugnacious child in me urged me on. “You're sober, he's not. Play with his center of gravity.”

I grabbed his upper arms as sudden as I could (I'm horribly phlegmatic) and placed my right leg after his legs, pushing him backwards. He crashed down, but as with most drunkards, his fall didn't hurt him. And he hadn't let go of me. I ended up lying on my right side, diagonally over his chest. His odor made my nose sting. Elmer got over his surprise, cursed and came up, trying to make us switch places: him on top of me. The one position I was trying to prevent. I tried to yank myself free from his iron grip around my arms, at the same time trying to suppress an attack of panic.

1 I'd never pick a fight with a girl. Because most of them fight mean, they scratch and bite. With only a brother around, I was used to stumping and wrestling.

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 ?

There are no small parts... - pt 1-

    Enjoying the luxury of not having to go to any job yet, I was sauntering down my favorite lane a few days ago. There I ran into Madame LeBoeuf. Madame LeBoeuf was my supporting role in Eugene Ionesco's 'Rhinoceros'.
I especially remembered a rehearsal when the other actors were all a bit down and out. They were summing up their lines without interest, almost dragging me along in their boredom. But Madame LeBoeuf was soon to run upstairs into the office of Berenger...
    With such a small part, you rarely get the chance to actually be playing and I didn't want my moment to be spoiled.  I decided not to wallow in the prevailing lack of lust, but to be the lump under the carpet: irritatingly energetic between the apathetic. I mimicked running upstairs like I'd never done before and panted as if I had been chased by hordes of rhinocerosses instead of one. 
    I ended my part with an enormous leap into the stairwell and and took to my seat, since I had no more lines left. Then I saw what I had done: my enthousiasm had been contageous, the others were acting again and the director put his thumb up at me. It was the first time I realised that  -even though my part was small- I could have an impact on the people around me.

    So when I heard, several years later, that an amateur theater group was looking for cast extra's I said 'Yes!'.  It was for Servant of Two Masters (Carlo Goldoni) and it was to be a staged as a costume drama. All the extra's got a rough sketch of their character and furthermore were free to improvise during the second act in which is a road scene. Our director turned it into a lively square, with his 12 extra's going impro.

The main cast of Servant of Two Masters

   Alas, there was only one performance and the atmosphere was really weird that night.  Actually: it all started in the afternoon, during the last rehearsal.
   During this dry run one of the actors fell into the orchestral pit. The fallen actor was the person who kept the whole group together as one, cast and extra's. The accident had shocked us all. What we feared was true: some ribs were broken. But the actress decided to perform in spite of it. As the painkillers began doing their work, the company started to feel relieved and concentrated again on their 'premiere'.  

   The audience was for a considerable part made up of members of competing theatre groups. One of them was going to stage 'Servant of Two Masters' a few months later. It was as if the audience had practised too. In not laughing.  During the first act, the extra's were waiting, all dressed up, in a room where we could listen to what was happening on stage. We heard the witty lines of Truffaldino, and each joke was followed by this ominous silence of the audience. Truffaldino's voice started to sound pretty insecure. We all placed our chairs in a circle and listened to the progression of the first act with sinking mood.
   Except for one: our guitar player  had no experience with being on stage in a play. He was nervous as hell and kept tottering through the room, tripping again and again over the ribbons tied to his instrument. He even left our backstage room. One of the actors, not on stage, begged us to please stay inside, when our guitarman tripped again, causing nervous laughter from some of the others.  The -supposed- widow in our group, in an imposing black dress, reprimanded our poor guitar player and pointed at the empty chair in the circle. The troubadour sat down so promptly and meakly  that the widow was stunned by her own boldness. But this interaction was a turning point: we all slipped into our roles and prepared ourselves for a literally 'supporting' act.

    One of the critics had his own interpretation of small parts and small actors. He wrote that the only acting he had seen, was done by the extra's. True, we made quite a scene, but I still resent that remark. The actors gave a good performance and deserved a lot better than that. Even without considering the circumstances.
Maybe the smallest actors were in the audience that night?

 To be continued ...

Announcement: There are no small parts ...

I like to announce my blog plans, just to keep myself going. Maybe it works as a cliffhanger for you?
Just be patient and check my blog in a few days!

Yes, this one will be about the famous quotation   "There are no small parts, only small actors"

Actually, it is written by a very small actress:

I was the smallest kid in my class, yet my teacher*  decided to put me in the back row. My friend Peter is just turning around to tell me he's got the jitters because his line is coming up. That should give you an idea of where I might stand.

(* = with whom I used to quarrel a lot, would that have been of any influence?)

Not really stirring things up

   When people ask me if I can ride horseback, I get uncontrollable cramps. In my cheeks. Somehow I just have to laugh about the recollection of that one horse riding trip I made. Not that anything special happened, I didn't even fall off. So, if you are looking for excitement, you'd better skip this blog.

   It was september 1997, in the region of Cuzco in Peru. My former partner  -a native Peruvian-  and I  were advised to check out some of the smaller archeological sites,  Sacsayhuaman, Qenko, Puca Pucara and Tambo Machay, by means of  an organised tour: on horse back, together with a few other tourists.  "This is a lovely ride through beautiful countryside, and generally takes around four hours with time at each site."  as the brochures tell you. Correct, no comment.

   The 'other tourists' turned out to be a group of 4 Japanese friends, in their late teens or early twenties? They couldn't speak english nor spanish.
  They were already mounting their appointed horses when my partner and I arrived.  For my partner, a large mare was being saddled, while my horse, a lighter riding horse, was ready and waiting.  It was a sorrel called "Fuego" (Fire).  I tried to make eye contact but the animal only glared at me, rather bored. Most likely because I was tourist number so and so and he knew he'd be gone from home for another four hours.
   I mounted it, or should I say him? I could reach the stirrups, but only with my legs almost stretched. Which is not for me!  When I sit, I want to have my feet at the same level as my  seat. Or as close to it as possible. So I dismounted and started to shorten the stirrups. I had just finished with the one on the right, when the guide came by and ordered me into the saddle (at that time I was pretty easy to order around, I guess). He was running late already, so no time for unimportant things like that.  Off we went. I felt rather lopsided, with one bent and one stretched leg. On a horse that at first didn't want to budge. It took a few slaps from the guide to make him move. Not the treatment I would have chosen, but who am I to change the rough andean culture single handed ? With my companions way ahead of me?

   Finally Fuego decided to follow his stablemates at a distance, trotting spiritlessly. I had a hard time urging him on. As I caught up with the others, I was wondering how this horse ever deserved the name Fuego. Just at that moment the sorrel, in an answer to my question?, started to fart... The Japanese guys turned on cue, looking bewildered at me. How do you say in japanese that it was the horse and not you? I still see them shaking with laughter. Now I laugh too, but I don't remember doing it so loud at the time.
   This situation -in it's entirety- kept repeating itself until the third site. There I decided to skip looking at the ruins and adjust the left stirrup instead.  Smart move, I got a better grasp on my smouldering friend and it was about time.  After remounting our horses at the next, final, site, Fuego decided it was time to lead the group at a happy gallop back home. Ignoring the gringa on his back, who was uttering directions in all kinds of tonalities, just as he had done from the start.
   Was it my imagination, or did it whisper "goodbye and good ridden" to me? Nah. Must have been "good riddance".

  Can I ride a horse? I don't know. But I know I can stay in the saddle.

Another acquaintance I made in the Andes [wood-burning]

Winks, Twitches and Spoken Words

    Some people go so far as to state that the eyes are the doors to the soul. If that's true, I'm glad that when God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.

   Should I get myself ready for an obligatory feeling of mortification, when I say that eyes aren't all that big to me? Of course I recognise a frown, a squint or the little wrinkles that appear when someone's teasing me. But in general I think eyes are just like marbles: little round things with a coloured layer. The main thing that I see mirrored in them is myself.

   After I've established the colour of the iris of the person I'm talking to, my attention always moves a few inches lower. And there it stays for a long time. A person's mouth fascinates me. Not just the shape, but also the articulation, the muscle tone in the lips, the assymetry in the movements. How does it show anger or a laugh? What about someone's lips curving upward, like angel wings, into a smile ?   Or what I like best: a subtle twitch at the corner of the mouth, preferably on one side only.  The dead give away that this person shares my sense of humour.

  If eyes are the doors to the soul, then the mouth is at least a french window.


   And what about a persons hands? I don't mean the shape, though palmistry is the -supposed-  science of telling one's character based on the shape of ones hand.   No, I mean, how well are they taken care of, how are they used?  Do they participate in the speakers debate or do they dance a little jig of their own?
Are the hands open and relaxed, or clenched? What do they touch, how do they do that? Or are they tucked so deeply into the pockets of a coat or jeans, that you may assume this person is ready to migrate?
 
    Who has time to look at eyes when one can study hands and mouths?

... during a work meeting

   Oh, and there's another window to the soul of your companion. One that doesn't need the eyes of the beholder.  To you it may seem a tiny window,  but I crawl through it very often.  It's the voice.
   I have a life long habit of not looking at a speaker, when I'm in a group. When I attended college, I used to write letters in the mean time. During meetings at work I made drawings. And during parents teacher meetings my eyes are magnetically drawn to my shoes.  I've been doing some experiments lately, forcing myself to look at the speaker or other group members instead of doing one of the above. I noticed a difference: when not looking at people, I can focus better on what I hear. Even while drawing or writing letters.
   And I don't just mean the words the speaker chooses. When focussing on paper or some other lifeless object, I can discern a myriad of subtle changes in intonation, timbre and volume of a voice. I can't do it half as well, while looking at people.

.  I guess that's where my weird habit comes from, I've got quite a collection of films and TV-series ...  as audio recordings. Jokingly I refer to it as my "video store for the blind".
   I usually watch TV in fragments. Hey, new voice! Let's see what this persons looks like. Than I tend to my knitting, ironing, sewing -whatever-  again  and just listen. In pre-video days I wanted to hold on to some of those programs and started to record them on audio tapes.
   Nowadays I'm into buying DVDs. It started because my son has trouble reading and I don't want him to miss out on the healing effects of well told stories. We've watched 'Horton the Elefant' and 'The Mighty' over and over during a certain hard time we went through.
   To me these DVDs serve a different  purpose. Since I know I have SPD I started to look differently at body language. I never liked the rather superficial works that focus on one person only . (To be honest, I think those writings are boring and a bit 'bogus')  Body language is a dialogue between two -or more-  persons. Action and reaction, synergy.   And that is what I look for now, when playing a DVD.
   However... occasionally I run into a film that actually makes good 'listening material'. I burn that one on CD, reviving my 'video store habit'.   A small homage to that tiny window to the soul, not through the eye.  


    Even if it would happen only once, I would love to join some casting directors at an audition. All I would do, is stare at my shoes.

Yes or No ?

   I like Improv, in the sense of Applied Imrovisation  for therapy, training, mediation, whatever. It all began when I first heard of an Improv player, who saw the similarities between Son-Rise and Improv. And he decided to use Improv for his son, a little boy with 'classic autism'. In need for moreplayers, he started to 'deploy' other Improv players and this is the root of a wonderful initiative. It started with Artists meet Autism and now Deniz and Christiane Dohler share their experience in dealing with autism through AuJa.  Here's a small tribute to the Dohler's work. That is.. as soon as people start reading this blog.

   Improv teaches you about the impact of saying 'Yes! And...' to things instead of  'No', 'Yes,but ...' or even just 'yes... [without any follow up]'.
   Saying Yes! sets things in motion. You may not end up where you thought you would, but at least you'll end up somewhere. Possibly even at a better spot than you imagined. And you have been experiencing life all that time.
   All the other responses block the flow of your creative river. It means you have to come up with something else, something better. And if you block plans frequently -habitually?-,  you might even stop making up new plans. Then you have 'desire without action', a great greenhouse to cultivate depressions!


   I have been thinking of the times I did not say Yes!  Crucial choices, I mean. I'not going to sum all of them up, only a few. Just to see if I can start you off, remembering some choices you've made.

   I've been asked to do my masters with Dr. Ubbels. A rocket launch from NASA Florida was going to be part of it. Wow!  everybody yelled. I was excited too. Played with the thought like rolling a pearl admiringly  in the palm of my hand, around and around.  But I said no. I stuck to the advise of one of my teachers: don't take it, if you don't want to be doing research on that subject for the rest of your career. That's a No I never regretted.   [Item: the launch was canceled later on]

   I've said  'yes but' a zillion times. There's one I'll always regret.  When I worked for my first official employer I met a colleague who traveled with the same bus as I did. He never spoke to me, but always greeted. I'm used to those types, my brother and son are the same.  Not talkative, but you know they're there for you when you need them. And I  was right. Once I had a problem with muscle cramps in my leg and no one noticed except for him. He offered to bring me home on his bike when we got out of the bus.  But I had already arranged for someone to pick me up, so I declined (cursed mobile phone).  After that  I asked myself if I wanted to get to know this colleague better. I answered myself:  "Yes, but let's do it after the summer holidays."  After those holidays, reading the staff magazine, I saw his photo .... among the obituaries. (he was only 47).  The obituary mentioned only his father and children, so he probably lived under circumstances that were comparable to mine.  Not having said Yes! on this occasion,  is what I still regret.

   There's a 'No' that I had forgotten about, until a little while ago. Looking back at it, I now blame my tactile defensiveness for it. I was asked  -yes I'm still painstakingly precise about being truthful-  by a professional cabaret artist, "H." to do audition for his company. H. even had his own theater.  I really loved the idea. I've been in amateur plays and had created "grandpa Craig"  for some 'non-public' evenings (for which H's  theater was hired). Because I was interested in auditioning, I was invited to watch a show. In which a young woman and H's partner  -a rather well developed person, shall I put it that way?-  did a song "Let's just cuddle" while lying in each others arms and petting each other profusely. The hairs in my neck stood up and all my nerves protested. Never, never, never! am I going to do a thing like that I thought and declined the invitation for the audition.  I did participate in some plays after that, but I always made sure the role didn't involve touching other people. 

  I wonder whether participating in H's company might have helped me become less defensive?
Hello JoAnne, you're still alive, you can still go out there and try to find out for yourself. Experiencing over thinking it out, right?  Well no yes, but you know I shouldn't or maybe some other time because I'm really busy with more important matters right now and who knows what else might come around got to be ready for that right I'll wait for another invitation and then I'll be all dressed up for opportunity knocking on my door never heard of knocking on opportunity's door...

   What are you going to say to your next opportunity ?