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That morning, I sat down at the table. It was always the same ritual: everyone had their own spot, and my little brother got the same size slices of bread, the same kind of chocolate spread, and the same songs that had to play. I’d heard “Camille” a hundred times by now. We started eating as soon as he took his first bite.

For several years now, we’d been living by strict rules, agreements, and schedules, so that things would be clear to him and we’d be spared any meltdowns as much as possible. He was allowed to have them, because he had a diagnosis: ASD.

After breakfast, we talked it out. I listened obediently and apologized for my inappropriate behavior as the oldest of the bunch. They would continue to support me financially for these last two years of college and pay for my room; I just had to graduate and keep my part-time job during the breaks. I was allowed to stay at home, and we would be a little more considerate of each other. Both they and I—and that felt good. For now, everything would stay the same, and we’d give each other a little more space, even though my little brother didn’t always understand what I actually did within the family or why my behaviour and my coming home were always so unpredictable—at least to him.

A few hours later, I arrived in Nieuwehaven; the sun had decided not to make an appearance, and the clouds were hanging low. The apartment blocks looked out over the sea like gravestones. It’s something I just can’t understand—yes, you have a view of the sea, but you’re ruining the surroundings for anyone who wants to take a quiet stroll along the shore. Now you have a row of concrete buildings plastered against an equally stony dike, with the sand and the sea right behind it. No dunes, no natural surroundings, no cozy little seafood restaurants along narrow streets. Just a few tourist traps with an expensive menu and equally expensive Belgian beer. That’s where she worked, too. I didn’t see her right away, so I gathered my courage and spoke to one of the waiters.

“Do you happen to know where Angelina is?”

“Blood poisoning,” I was told.

I was shocked, but didn’t want to let it show too much. I thanked her and ordered a Hoegaarden. Now that I was here anyway, I wanted to take the time to write a nice, old-fashioned letter—for her—which I would leave with her colleague. A surprise for when she returned, I hoped.

—

Nieuwehaven,
July 4

Hi Angelina,

Well, well, we meet again. And now in words.

As you probably know by now, I was in Nieuwehaven. And by the time you read this letter, you’ll likely be feeling better—though I hope you’ll feel even better after reading this note.

As for me, that day I was fleeing the stifling atmosphere at home and the noise of the local fair, and I had an incredible urge to travel. For me, every journey is a journey within myself, a chance to rediscover a little bit of who I am. Yes, I even discover practical things about myself—that day, for instance, I learned that my head must be quite narrow.

I’d long wanted a nice black hat, in the style of Al Capone—1930s—and it was in Nieuwehaven that I happened to spot the hat that was meant to be. I stepped inside cautiously, knowing that one of my boyhood dreams was about to come true. A face covered in powders and ointments sat behind a small table, and judging by the voice, it seemed to be a woman; she barely moved and looked right through me. Had I not known better, I would have thought I was talking to a doll, but no—it turned out she was actually breathing. I told her, in a soft, friendly tone—afraid that if I spoke too loudly, the mask would shatter and she’d storm out screaming wildly—and this was, after all, an important moment in my personal development. I told her which magnificent hat had lured me inside. A wisp of dust suddenly swirled up, and as if by magic, there lay a dozen of those delightful hats.

“What size do you wear?” the voice asked.
“Well, it’s my first time…” She picked up the top hat and placed it in front of me with words I would never forget.
“This is the smallest size.”

I gently picked it up by the brim with my fingertips, asked where the mirror was—only to discover it was right next to me—and put it on, beaming.However, the stupid thing fell down over my ears; I could barely see the rims of my glasses, and at that moment I felt utterly ridiculous—not at all what I’d hoped to be: a modern-day knight clad in a black suit,an impressive wordsmith like Lord Byron was in his day. Bravely, I tried a few other positions, but it still looked ridiculous.

“Um, don’t you have anything else that fits better?”
“This is the smallest size.”

Now, slightly irritated, I said to her in a somewhat firmer tone: “So my head is too small to wear hats?” A wicked smile broke through her mask. I mumbled a quick goodbye and left the hat shop. In front of the display window, I turned around for a moment, looking at that hat—no, I’m a different kind of poet, one without a hat.

I did catch a few words from an elderly couple next to me

“This really is a classy shop,”
“Oh, look at that one over there!” The woman pointed to the black hat.
“Yes, but I can’t buy them all,” said the man. And they left the hat behind, just as it had probably been lying there for decades and would likely remain.

After this disorienting physical experience, I decided to continue my journey, because fortunately this trip still had a purpose, which made the whole experience a lot more pleasant—though I knew that, in the worst-case scenario, I wouldn’t see you, but even that turned out not to be the worst thing I could have expected.

Upon arriving in Nieuwehaven, my ears were surprised by the fair.

“Oh, no, not here too!” my thoughts screamed aloud. How could I possibly reflect at my leisure, find peace, and simply listen to the gentle murmur of the sea—and of my own heart? Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but when I didn’t see you at home or at Het Kompas, I had to admit I was very disappointed. At first, I didn’t want to bother your friend on the terrace or embarrass you by asking about you, but, oh well, what harm could it do? Maybe you’d show up a little later or something.

“Blood poisoning”—that’s what I was told. I collapsed like a homemade cake; no, this was definitely the worst-case scenario I could imagine.

Here’s what came to mind at that moment, and I hope it might be some comfort, since I wrote this especially for you.

—

Antidote

if only I were there

to suck the poison from your blood
and keep your body in my room
soaked in the fluid from my veins
behind curtains of candle smoke

so that no traces would remain
of the toxin that managed to infect you
unless you found mine to be worse

yet nothing would stop me
from carrying you away from the vaults
of the living dead and urging you
to wander away into a new history

to harbours, fishing villages, or small town papers
to a place as it once was, to a place never lost,
if you stay for what I want to conquer, you and I

if only it were me

—

Well, I suppose this was the climax of my letter, after all. I don’t want to bother you any longer now. You shouldn’t be too alarmed by this, because when I write, I am free and cannot tame my heart or my desire, for writing is part of my destiny. See it as a stretched-out metaphor for who I am.

It’s rare, however, for someone to capture my interest, because that particular night—to put it in medical romance terms—I thought I’d met a truly fascinating person, someone who, while different in a positive way, experiences sensitivity in a similar manner and knows how to express it to you with style. That’s why I wanted to tell you too much all at once that evening, and could only juggle words in a very chaotic way, while behind every word lay an entire night.

Sorry, I’m rambling again; maybe you’ll think it’s all suck-up, and I should have just sent you a short “small talk” note, but I just can’t write about the weather without putting my feelings into it. Ultimately, I just wanted to write to let you know that I stopped by, to wish you a speedy recovery, and to say I’d like to talk to you again sometime—nothing too serious right away, just depending on the mood at the time.

P.S. You were curious about what I wrote that first evening, weren’t you? I wrote the following when the doughnuts and fries with mayonnaise were passed around, kids got their tongues tangled in cotton candy, and the rush sent them hurtling down the caterpillar ride. Don’t expect too much romance, though, because at first I was in an extremely gloomy mood. The world keeps turning, and has been for a very long time.

Ex-Land

welcome to the mass grave
with bodies clad in a red monstrosity  
the carousel of barren rituals
where drones fall from a falsely spiced ceiling

welcome to the world of sheep
where the nightmare stares at you in mirrors
and creeps through grasping delusions
to merge with hope

look there! I’ve got a catch!
again and again, again and again
the repetition of the past

until the bourgeois man discovers
that his much-touted viewing box is fake
that the bacchanalian feast is over
it turns out to be too late to turn the tide

the dancing of the fools
the paralysis of thought
over what could not be praised
during shootouts nearby

turn around! there it is!
again and again, again and again
the repetition of the past

x
PJ