Say I'd wake up at four pm and stay up till six in the morning. Would it make a difference? Would I even miss the feeble daylight hours bestowed upon us in these midwinter times?
Say I'd behave like a drama queen, my quintessential self, and call a party the End of an Era? Would anyone bother to mind my drama? Would they secretly love dressing up as much as I do if I asked them?
Say we'd fill the space with candles, red candles at the chimney place, tea-warmers on the shelves lined along the two-story-tall walls, and purple candles on the four steps of stairs leading up to the podium that is the kitchen place? Say we'd spend endless hours sitting in front of the stove, laying down our tarot cards, analyzing our little situations and finally, after all said and done, reading some Marion Bradley; say we'd secretly enjoy despicable Endemol productions and watch old romantic movies; say we'd do all that and manage to cook actual vegetarian meals in between; say we'd have our few glasses of red wine a night, say I'd smoke with your boyfriend before falling asleep? Your boyfriend, who said count your fucking blessings, weet je?
Would it be such a crime to live that way, to allow for such enjoyment? Or could we just call it our wintersleep? Our overwinteren, our very own temporary life style? Could you imagine a better way to survive the dark, to prevent depression? Could it be what induced one of our guests to say the Amsterdam apartment had a 'bohémian feel' to it. Oh yay. Oh yippie hurrah.
How grand would it be, if I joined forces with your secret world, all over again? Hide away from current events; steal away time; nights strung together, in the still of winter.
Say I'd behave like a drama queen, my quintessential self, and call a party the End of an Era? Would anyone bother to mind my drama? Would they secretly love dressing up as much as I do if I asked them?
Say we'd fill the space with candles, red candles at the chimney place, tea-warmers on the shelves lined along the two-story-tall walls, and purple candles on the four steps of stairs leading up to the podium that is the kitchen place? Say we'd spend endless hours sitting in front of the stove, laying down our tarot cards, analyzing our little situations and finally, after all said and done, reading some Marion Bradley; say we'd secretly enjoy despicable Endemol productions and watch old romantic movies; say we'd do all that and manage to cook actual vegetarian meals in between; say we'd have our few glasses of red wine a night, say I'd smoke with your boyfriend before falling asleep? Your boyfriend, who said count your fucking blessings, weet je?
Would it be such a crime to live that way, to allow for such enjoyment? Or could we just call it our wintersleep? Our overwinteren, our very own temporary life style? Could you imagine a better way to survive the dark, to prevent depression? Could it be what induced one of our guests to say the Amsterdam apartment had a 'bohémian feel' to it. Oh yay. Oh yippie hurrah.
How grand would it be, if I joined forces with your secret world, all over again? Hide away from current events; steal away time; nights strung together, in the still of winter.
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1 comment:
You make it so acceptable, self-forgiving, to let it all be. Yes, ik weet we should count our blessings, the fucking ones even more so. I remember when we were studying in that other city, tucked away in the middle of this country, and we used to say "het komt goed", referring to our reality of exams and papers and other half-invented responsibilities. It will be alright. Say it'll be alright.
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