Growing pains of a spoiled little twat.

This year has been fantastic. And it has been horrible. It has been fantastic largely because of how horrible it has been. This year I have found out in a million different ways that it is only in hardship and adverse circumstances one can find opportunities to grow.

This year I have encountered rejection, bankrupcy, family feuds, death, you name it. This year I have survived all that. And I have come out stronger. I believe that this year I have finally started growing up, for lack of a better term.

I have started writing again. It had been more than ten years since I wrote anything worth mentioning. These last few months I have written almost an hour's worth of stage material that I have tried out at open mics. (Of which about 10 minutes survived.) And then there's this blog. It may not be much, but it has been very helpful to me.

This year, after losing out on a part in a tv show that I had put all my hopes on, and after watching my bar go bankrupt, I swallowed my pride, dusted myself off, wrote a few bits and climbed on stage. That is the toughest thing I have ever had to do. (I have had a very smooth ride of a life so far. I know that. I know I am a spoiled brat. That makes this kind of challenge the kind I have to surmount.) It has taken me 12 years from graduating theatre school to climbing back on stage on my own. That's a lot of wasted time. On the other hand, that's how long it took me. No one ever taught me how to gather up courage for something. No one ever taught me how to stop letting fantasies of success get in the way of achieving small victories. No one ever taught me how to swallow my pride. No one ever taught me how to get over myself, and my fucking sense of fucking entitlement.

So here I am, spoiled little forty year old brat, complaining about how hard life is for a little prince like me.

It's hard for anyone to turn their life around. In a few ways, this year, I have. That makes me feel proud. And I never realised how different pride in an accomplishment feels from the kind of pride that comes from a sense of entitlement and being a spoiled little shit.

Here's to next year. Here's to growing the fuck up.

"I'm the one who's winning this thing on the next edition. Or some other thing. Just give me a couple of years."

This last month has been a rollercoaster ride. For lack of a better metaphor. For lack of the energy of looking for a better one, to be honest. I am exhausted. I have played about 2 or three open mics per week this last month, with a stretch of four in a row last week. One of which was in Amsterdam. It took me four hours to get to Amsterdam on various trains, and four hours to get back. I’d already been to Amsterdam with my girlfriend the week-end before that to visit and watch my friend Bram perform comedy.

I have learned a lot, I am a different person on stage than I was before this month, but it has been BRUTAL.

Especially the drinking. And the hangovers. I need to get that in check. Well soon.

I have run into a few alcoholics this last month, and the difference between them and me is rapidly disappearing. I’m saying stuff I regret when I’m drunk, and I feel like I’m going to die when I’m sober. (Like right now.)

I have hardly seen my girlfriend this last month. Except for on our little trip to Amsterdam. But that was just an evening and a day.

I was feeling very much empowered when I first started doing open mics. It felt like I had transformed from an angry, frustrated complaining bitch on the sidelines to a young, promising comic. I have learned during this month that you can be anything from an onlooker to a successful participant of a discipline (like stand-up), and still be a frustrated bitch. I have seen it re-appearing in myself. And I have seen it blatantly in a very successful Dutch stand-up comedian that I had the ‘pleasure’ to meet in Amsterdam. His advice to me was to give up stand-up comedy, if that was the best I had been able to come up with after six months of doing it. Although I understand his point –my material needs work- telling me to quit helps no one.

I’m just rambling, I realise. I don’t have the energy to focus and structure my thoughts. I could have tried to tell the story of this last month in a nice story shape, but I’m too exhausted to concentrate, and frankly I’m just glad I’m writing. It’s been way too long. And the progress I have made as a performer this last month has made it clear that writing is what I need to focus on. Better soon than late.

And look. I’m writing. So that’s something, right?

Yesterday I went to watch the finals of Humo’s Comedy Cup. The drinking and the exhaustion made me say some stupid things to rather important people in the Flemish comedy world. I think I’m going to have to be a slight bit better than I was going to have to be if I hadn’t told these people these things.

Fuck it. I need the challenge.

Doing the right thing

It seems we spend almost our entire lives running around in circles, shooting ourselves in the foot every other step of the way. Why can't we just do what we know is best for us? Why can't we just always do the right thing. I don't even mean morally speaking. Just do the best thing. For ourselves. For the people around us that we love. Why do we postpone things even though we know we would be better off doing them right away. Why do we forget to be patient with people. With ourselves. 

I have no idea. But I know that sitting down helps. And just paying attention to my breathing for five fucking minutes. But even that sometimes takes me two weeks to get round to. I don't even know what's left for me to do while I'm postponing that. I've actually managed to get to a level of procrastination where I'm postponing doing nothing.

Today I met up with a friend to talk about a play that she is writing. I will be acting in it, and make music for it, and I would love to be the best person I can for the play to be awesome. This is obviously the best possible thing for me to do. She asked me to be in the play with her. I felt very happy when she asked me. I'm a fan of her singing and acting, and she's a friend. So why should it take me any effort at all to concentrate when she's explaining the plot of what she's writing. Why do some days pass without me even thinking about the play once. 

Why has it taken me so long to write a blog post again? I know I need to write. I know it makes me happier. I know it helps me get better at writing. I know some people (at least a couple) get joy from reading what I write here.

This is all starting to resemble a big wallowing self-pity fest. Why why why why why. Why me. Poor me. But that's not what I meant (although I am not above feeling sorry for myself). I just mean that so many aspects of my behaviour (and presumably of yours too), just don't make any sense at all. We make obviously sub-optimal choices on a daily basis. We do things that make our lives more complicated, less interesting and move us away from our goals. And writing that down here might help me wrap my head around it. And having a better understanding, might make it easier to take the other, more practical route next time I have the choice.

Anyway. So that was another blog post. Long time coming. Hope you enjoyed it.

Here's a song with a video. It has Kate Moss in it. And it was directed by Sofia Coppola.

http://youtu.be/1_RZAGnFcI4

A little update

I'm writing a rather personal piece about a couple of things that happened about a year ago: the passing of my mother's second husband and its aftermath, and me being kicked out of a television project that was unrealistically dear to me. But it's taking me a while, and I'm not entirely sure if I should be talking about those things on here, because other people were also very deeply affected by these events.

So I decided to re-read what I've written so far. It made me realise that actually quite a bit has happened to my life, and the way I look at it, since I started writing these blurbs about five weeks ago. All that positivity seems to have produced results, somehow.

That test at the interim office turned out to be a bit of a moot exercise in itself, but talking frankly  to the people there (they actually took the time to do that) left me with a more realistic view of how my resume might be viewed by a potential employer. It was very plain for the lady at the office that anyone looking for an employee would clearly see that they wouldn't be able to hold on to me the minute I got an offer as an actor. And this prospect might seem more realistic to them, than it did to me. This helped me enormously towards viewing myself as an actor again.

And then "Familie" called. A Flemish soap opera. And I was happy they called me. And I was happy to take the job of a soap actor. Playing a junkie. For five shooting days. In a soap opera I haven't managed to sit through as a viewer once.

This would have seemed cynical and sell-out and horrendous to me only a few months ago. But I'm done fighting that fight. I'm going to play to best I possibly can under the circumstances. And I'm going to use the money (it's not a lot but it's a start) to get my life in order.

Some friends of mine have a small theatre company, and they asked my to help out with mixing some of the music tracks they had made, and do the live sound and lights on the two performance nights they held. That was a blast.

Another friend of mine is out of the country for a couple of days and asked me to replace him as a deejay and a sound guy on a couple of nights.

I'm also deejaying two sets on two different locations in Antwerp this saturday.

Another friend is writing a play for kids, to play in June of next year. She asked me to act in it with her, and to make music for it with her.

Starting this sunday I'm taking part in a stand-up comedy workshop. That'll be four afternoons, and should -in combination with having heard myself make a bunch of mistakes that I think I can avoid- bump up my comedy to the next level. One can hope.

Another friend wants me to make music with him.

And I'm still making music with the eternally starting band I wrote about before. Last rehearsal I kind of messed up. I had forgotten about it to be honest, and had only about an hour and a half to spare for the rehearsal. So I was mad at myself and not in the right frame of mind to be creative. But my friend had written a beautiful song, lyrics and all. My diving stories had inspired him to write about a guy that falls in love with a mermaid. It was a great rehearsal, in spite of my mood.

And while all this is going on, my girlfriend and I are preparing, slowly, to leave on a round the world trip. We're leaving less than a year from now. And we'll be gone for a year.

So there. Now you're updated. I have some things to look forward to. And although I'm still afraid I might not find enough work to make a decent living this year, I'm a lot more hopeful now than when I started writing this blog.

And that's a good thing.

Wait what two blogs?

So I started blogging in Dutch. Over here.

Just thought I'd let you know.

Yeah you. My reader.

You know who you are.

And so do I.

So there.

TTYS

(that's "talk to you soon")

(at least it used to be, when I was young)

(those were the early days of the interwebs)

(before hashtags)

#irememberwhenthiswasallfields

Indian Summer

I hope I didn't bore you with that last post. It was a tad bit long. Kudos if you made it to the end. I've decided to add a link to the song I ramble on about anyway, in the comments section, for those of you who don't know what I'm on about.

Today I enjoyed a fantastically sunny day with friends, sitting outside on a terrace on a nice square in my hometown. I spent most of the afternoon talking to a good friend of mine who had just broken up with her boyfriend. I tried to be the best friend I could, and came up with a theory about how I would deal with the situation if I were she. It seemed like the appropriate thing to do. Knowing very well that we each have to walk our own path, and my advice will offer little more than a bit of comfort. It can hardly be taken at face value.

I mentioned to her that I was writing this blog. In English. And for the second time it felt weird to tell a friend I was writing in a language other than our own. I'm pretty sure that part of the reason I'm writing this in English is that writing in my own language is a less technical, and therefore an even more personal endeavour. Another part is that I've been in love with the English language since forever. I clearly remember being six years old, on a climber on the playground, blabbing away to my dumbfounded little friends in what I was convinced was English.

Sort of like what I'm doing here, only even less comprehensible.

In any case, here’s another resolution, as that seems to be the thread that links all these little ramblings of mine; I’m going to start blogging in Dutch too. And I’m not going to keep blogging daily on here. I’ll think of a feasible rhythm, but I’m thinking maybe three English posts and two Dutch ones each week.

We’ll see.

Oh, tomorrow (Wednesday) I’m going to an Interim office to be tested, to see what kind of job would be fitting for me. So fingers crossed. Light a candle. Wish me luck. See you tomorrow.

Here's a picture of me, diving through a crevice.

Little old me, under the sea.

Matrimony, napkins, principles and letting go.

One of the things that has kept me from writing these last couple of days was a wedding. My cousin, my mother's goddaughter, has tied the knot.

Marriage has always seemed to me like one of those useless side-effects of organised religion. Why bother going to a temple of a god you don't believe in to stand in front of family you're not particularly close to and tell them that yes, you're really serious about your relationship. Shouldn't this be a matter between you and your significant other? And how ridiculous to claim that you will be in love with that person for the rest of your life. Who's to say what will happen, or who you will meet.

Lately, as with many things that I used to be adamant about, I'm not so sure.

Quite a few of my friends are married. Many others are not. Neither am I, although I am in a loving relationship, and have been for more than four years now. Those friends who did get married all had their reasons, all slightly different for each of them. Some blatantly got married for practical reasons: it's still the most convenient way to take care of your affairs as a couple. For some it seemed like a very intimate thing, between the two of them. They only hesitantly invited other people to attend the ceremony, if at all. For others still it was a social happening. A reason to amass all of their friends and relatives around them and celebrate life together.

I have never felt that any of their weddings was a "mistake". So my theoretical objections to marriage never held up when confronted with the reality of a happy couple taking the vow.

I live in Flanders, the northern, dutch-speaking part of Belgium. I was brought up in a suburban, middle class environment and have always felt alienated by the hypocrisy and frigid atmosphere of that environment. From a very early age I decided to try and discard as much as I could of this culture that I hated, because the last thing I wanted to become was as lifeless en emotionally awkward as my parents and their friends.

Here's where the napkins from the title of this post come in. For decades now it's been considered appropriate to put on a certain horrendous French song at Flemish weddings, usually at the end of dinner. I'm not even going to link to the song, or mention the title. Trust me, it's horrible. And if you have ever had to endure that part of a Flemish wedding party, I'm sorry for even mentioning it, and possibly causing you to have the damn thing stuck in your head for the rest of the day.

Anyway.

Napkins.

When the pseudo-epic intro to this song comes on, the wedding guests all grab their napkins and stick them in the air, waving them slowly from the left to the right. The tempo of the song at this point is painfully slow, so the whole bunch of grinning aunts and uncles has to wait for seconds with their napkins to one side before they can move it over to the other. At this point in time, the air is filled with anticipation. While the singer sings about black clouds coming from the North to cover the scorched earth after a war somewhere in Ireland (hardly anyone speaks French well enough to understand, and those that do aren't paying attention), the whole family, and their embarrassed friends, are sitting there slowly waving their stupid napkin to and fro. 

A cymbal splashes, and the song switches to a horrid symphonic polka-beat. This -of course- is the cue for the wedding guests to start swinging around their napkins in circles, like shipwrecked idiots that think they saw an aeroplane fly over. At this point we are a minute and twenty five seconds into a six minute song. The singer butchers every rule of where the emphasis of a French word should be as he tries to keep up with the supposedly Celtic rhythm of the orchestra. Lyrically, he switches to pictures of springtime and naked women jumping into the Irish lakes. 

By the time the wedding guests have managed to synchronise their helicoptering, and found ways to wave their napkins around without hitting their neighbours in the face repeatedly, the song switches to a kind of operatic middle part. Cue the renewed awkwardness of a tempo too slow to do anything interesting with a napkin. The singer shows off his tenor voice with a Pavarotti-like loud note. The lyrics as he hits the high note translate as "over there". Why on earth one would choose to belt out these words at ear-shattering volumes remains a mystery to me. Meanwhile the wedding guests try to translate the passionate wail of the singer into kinetic energy. They're not hitting their neighbours as frequently as they do during the up-tempo part, but when they do, it hurts.

After this, the song switches back to the intro, only this time even slower. And it starts speeding up. Slowly. The anticipation is murderous. Some grandfather's grin has reached scary widths and with his face all red and swollen you're afraid he's going to kick the bucket. But he still has his napkin forcefully up in the air, so you guess he'll be alright. The singer growls. Again with the black clouds, only this time they're even more ominous. The string section of the orchestra delivers screeching stabs against the beat. The threatening atmosphere seems rather inappropriate for a wedding ceremony. Or is it? Like I said, I'm not married, nor have I ever been.

Then, rather unceremoniously, the song switches back to the up-tempo bit. And off they all go, swinging their napkins like there was no tomorrow. For about another minute and a half. By this time -I am certain of it- there isn't a single soul in that wedding party that doesn't realise they look like an absolute idiot. Even the bride is looking around helplessly, with a confused expression on her face that seems to say "Should we be doing this"? All the while relentlessly swinging around her napkin, narrowly missing her recently acquired better half on every beat of that French song about lakes in Ireland. At least if we knew the lyrics, we could sing along. Or maybe just listen to them, if it was a language we actually spoke.

Straight to the operatic bit now. Back to wailing "over there" loudly. This is the only part of the lyrics that most wedding guests can grab on to, and some sing along, or pretend to. Back to the forceful to and fro of napkins clenched tightly in sweaty fists. Only by this time the movement lacks conviction. By this time we're past the amount of time a song should last. And nothing manages to keep their attention from their painful shoulder muscles. Try holding up a napkin for five minutes. Let alone waving it around like a madman. 

The operatic bit dwindles into a suspended note that slowly fades out. Giving you hope. (One of the crucial ingredients of proper torture.)

But then synthetic bagpipes appear in the distance. A ghastly nasal squealing. Playing the up-tempo theme. Slowly. The only thing worse than a polka beat is a slowed down polka beat. That starts speeding up.

Back to the helicoptering.

Again.

Cramped up shoulder and all.

Back to full blast.

Whenever I have looked around at a wedding party this deep into this preposterous charade, I have seen nothing but dead looks in people's eyes. The singer has given up on making up idyllic scenes to sing about (he's been repeating stuff for the second half of the song anyway) and lets the orchestra and the synthetic bagpipes fiddle on while the choir lazily makes do with a "lai-la lai-la" that the wedding guests pretend to merrily sing along. Well the singing is mostly real. The merriment isn't.

And then, the music slowly fades out and the crowd applauds the newlyweds, presumably for surviving the first real ordeal of their budding marriage.

I never, ever used to take part in this nonsense. I think I have made abundantly clear why.

This week-end, however, I realised that just sitting there doing nothing while your entire family indulges in this ritual is about as horrid as taking part.

I realised that I might make my cousin and her fresh hubby, my mother, my aunts and uncles, and everyone there happier by swinging my napkin around.

So I swung that thing over my head like my life depended on it.

 I didn't particularly enjoy it.

But it somehow feels like a victory.

Here's a picture of the moon that I took just now.

The moon over Antwerp on the night of september 15th 2014.