In his violin case he carried a cow foot, a breaking stick made of iron. He grew up in Australia with foster parents. He and his sister were not so lucky. His foster father was a professional violin player and abusive. We are sitting in front of the house, there are hundreds of wasps in the ivy. They are on holiday.
I don’t know anything and I don’t know what to write. I keep thinking, what’s upcoming and maybe nice but it should be now instead. I do not mean this in a sense of mindfulness or zen something something, although it would come in handy sometimes very often. To be mindful I mean. I can’t think of anything nice anyway, better stop trying and take a long good look at the landscape.
I am reading Gerbrand Bakker as you might have guessed,’Knecht, alleen’. He is very depressed, I like how he writes about this. It helps me try to do nothing.
Today we are going to visit a source where women came together, a very very very long time ago, far before there were christians. It might be a nice place for Kevin, since he had an alter ego, Tante Gerritje, with lots of bloody red lipstick. I wonder if all the people who knew him will know by now that he passed away, last Februari.
I am sitting here in a garden, lovely biting one nail. When I was little all my nails were bitten. All the photographs with me on them had a ‘me’ biting my nails. My parents didn’t like it, but at least I wasn't drinking sangria at the age of eleven.
Kevin was suffering from KAD, according to his own words, the K standing for Korsakoff. The violin from the case had been flung to an Australian wall. A very very long time ago.
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