Psychoanalysts are poets

Psychoanalysts are poets. They see the same symbols as I do in every move the world makes. They find metaphors in the rays of days and meaning in a meaningless slips of the tongue. I like the way they take their associations for serious science. Why not? They leave the possibility open. Who wouldn't it be easy? When I think of pigeons, I associate it with bread, when I hear bread my mind flashes to corn, corn makes me think of yellow, yellow reminds me of submarines, submarines make me think of whales (don't know why), whales is something from the tale of Pinokkio, and Pinokkio let me think of lying. So, maybe, when I dream of pigeons, It's just because I told a bad lie that day and I feel guilty about it :) That's what a psychoanalyst would say. To crazy for poetry, fits perfect for science.

Today, a sleepy wednesday which feels like a monday. Yesterday is still sunday in my mind. Maybe that's what life is like: daydreaming about intenschops somewhere abroad, getting to know myself and others by reading personality psychology reviews, try to drive a car for the first time in my life (even though I really don't like cars. I don't want to contribute to the destruction of the earth. Anyway, sometimes you just really need to know how to drive (at least just to put it on your cv.

Talking to grand mothers in service flats was not what I expected it to be. Being 90 doesn't mean being boring or moody. I liked the company at the birthday party of Mitta in the service flat of Joliens grand mother. Especially the conversation and the chocolates.

Time to go to my lecture, time to practice some English,

Take care

Cats and Spaces of Places

Pieter will give me a cat, when I'm 22. A cat... instead of a baby. It's better than nothing, but it will break the cycle. There it goes, the familytradition around the magical number eleven. Actually I don't need to worry. I can still have a child on my thirty third birthday, no problem. Than the cat will be eleven, the son of my cousin will be eleven years older than the cat, I will be eleven years older than the boy, my cousin will always be eleven years older than I, my mother is eleven years older than my cousin, will my aunt is exactly eleven years older than my mother. And than you have my grandmother, eleven years older than my aunt. Just give the cat a place in the family tree and my child will also have a nice story to tell at birthdayparties.

Today I found out that checking email on time, is something to plan in your agenda every two hours. If I had just watched my Inbox, I would have seen that the UNSA meeting was replaced from 18:30 to 18:15. I miss the rythm of the South, the watch is not watching you there, the switch is switched off, the days have more hours than minutes... I miss it to translate Spanish stories of Susana Alvarez to my mother, while we are sitting on a kitchentable in Quito, I miss be hypnotized by Anthea Amansure in Eerste Rivier (South Africa) and be overprotected by my best friends on a sick fevermorning in Port Elizabeth. I miss all the places where I will never return alone. Some places leave a picture in your mind. The picture of yourself and the people on your side. This picture includes all the special smiles and frustrations, all the emptiness and joy, all the tears of happiness and homesickness, and most of all... it's filled with love. I can never return to New York, without seeing my mother, armed with her touristic cityguide, walking down Fifth Avenue. I will certainly start crying secretly when I'm standing alone in the crowd of Times Square, without mama who's bad-tempered because I ask her to take dozens of pictures of me and my favorite travel pet (Bees). I will not enjoy the American pizza as much as I did when I shared it with her. I will never ride a ostrich without missing Anne-Sophie and Els. I will never say "Que bestia" without picturing the face of my Japanese friend Miwa. I will never try to wear a veil, without it reminds me of Yasmine. . I still feel her inspiring voice, even though it was two years ago that we said goodbye. She was 25 that day in august 2005. Now she married, moved from Cairo to the USA and is the proud mother of one of the most beautiful children of the world. Yahia is the pure cuteness in a nappy. Just like baby Daniel from South-Africa, who's sometimes "full of nonsens", but never failes to make you feel weak inside.

I didn't mean to write so much, I didn't want to make so much mistakes. Everyday I learn that time heals, but the memory suffers every day a little more. But I'm sure, you are the one I will never forget. When you read this, you know that I think of you. The places we shared, the words and the worlds we exchanged, I save them... forever and a little longer.

Soon back... back soon...

Veerle

Eerste keer

En daar sta je dan. De eerste keer. Het voelt zo definitief. Dit zal het bericht zijn waar iedereen op stoot als hij naar het begin scrolt, naar daar waar alles begon. Maar ach, laten we eerlijk zijn. Alles begon hier niet. Hiervoor was er een eeuwigheid. In mijn geval toch alvast twintig jaar, daarvoor was er een geschiedenisboek om alles wat voorbij is samen te vatten. Over een flits ben ik ook geschiedenis. Al weet ik natuurlijk niet of ik de boeken ook zal halen...

Tijd om me verder te buigen over Persoonlijkheidspsychologie en zijn onzekere interpretaties. Mijn missie is dus nog niet geslaagd. Zal ik op het einde van de cursus echt weten wie ik ben?
Wie weet...