My favorite writer of children and adult literature is coming! We will meet her at Central Station to discuss the exhibition we want to offer and help make this autumn. Today it’s Thursday and that’s four days from Monday. I need to read her last books. The first book I red for our son was Joke van Leeuwen’s ‘Ik ben ik’. Poetry.
Humans are too big for me.
Last Saturday we brought an old racing bike to my nephew’s work so he could easily transport himself from the treinstation to the giant thrift shop and back. Afterwards we visited his mother in my place of birth, Vlaardingen. It has been twenty years since I was there. It’s now with paid parking, luckily my sister has a visitors card. My niece came by as well, but didn’t greet me. So I greeted her. In order to feel less transparent. Yesterday I got a message from my nephew that the bike broke down but that he had two great trips with it. I promised to get him another one some day.
This morning, at a quarter before eight, The thought and feeling comes into mind that I need my work to be far more dirty and ugly. And not so terribly squared.
When you write something down it is definitely there. Even the things you cannot think of. Unless you delete it. Maybe poetry can save some parts. Write some. Write some thick layers and peel one off. Peel off another one. I just brought him a better bike, it was an hour by car. I think he appreciated the gesture. You never know what someone is really thinking. Thinking takes a lot of time anyway.
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