Goodbye sweet dad

My  sweet dad, you passed away 3 weeks ago. My heart is broken. I’m proud I was your daughter, you were my precious, fragile dad.

Two decades of Parkinson disease had made a strong dad a fragile man in the end.

As I held your hand one last time that night before you left us; as I caressed your face and your hair, I listened to you breathing while sleeping. You looked so serene.

You were my tutor in life. A man of flesh and blood, with your faults too. But with a good strong heart. As you loved that quote at the end of Some like it hot, “nobody’s perfect”.

Your love and passion for the 7th art has been your greatest teaching to me. You taught me who was Max Linder and Meliès: the early days of cinema.  We watched La Belle et la Bête with Jean Moreau as the Beast. We laughed at Louis de Funès, Bourvil and Fernandel. Admired Marlène Dietrich, Greta Garbo and Kathrine Hepburn. You explained La Nouvelle Vague to me. How you enjoyed The Party with Peter Sellers. How I dreaded all the Western movies, but adored Singing in the Rain with you over and over again (cause you taped it on video). How i thought Fred Astaire was way better than Gene Kelly, and you defended Kelly by focussing on his love for emotion through dance rather Astaire’s technical choreography. How you were outraged our current generation has no clue to who is Bob Hope, Errol Flynn, Humphrey Bogart or Bette Davies. You were a fan of Quintin Tarantino, even when others of your generation would be in horror of his work.

I loved how the Halliwell’s Who’s Who in Movies was the bible in our home. How you regretted not being able to go to the cinema anymore. The last movie you saw in a theatre was Amadeus when it came out. You eagerly asked “did you see any good films lately?” when i came over to visit. I think you liked how I regularly go to the cinemateque (the film museum) and rediscovered the golden age and also obscurities of cinema. Even those last days at hospital, with your confused mind, you still asked that question to my boyfriend. You were still in there. You still knew somehow who we were, through our shared passion.

How can I ever forget you now? Every film is a reminder to you. Every new discovery on screen, I cannot share with you no more.

My sweet dad. A lot of tears flow over you, and I bet you think this to be silly, but the tears will stop I know. But missing you won’t.

I’m glad to share a passion with you that keeps your spirit alive.

Be in peace. I love you, always.


Ode to Ostend

Best be warned, I’m going to rhyme again. I’m not that good at it, but I don’t care. One must amuse oneself with something, right?

I’ve visited Ostend only twice

and to me this city is so awfully nice

Where Marvin Gaye wrote Sexual Healing

this coastal city has a particular feeling

 for many it’s just a beach and a place for shoppin’

but  for Permeke and Ensor ‘t was their home to paint in

noteworthy museums, where you can explore

works by the COBRA movement, of Belgium post war

the Peperbusse is all that today can be found

of the church – now replaced –  that burned to the ground

museums, the pier promenade, casino and more

the Mercator marina, what can you wish more?

my weekend in Ostend was too short, that I’m sure

I’ll surely be back, for a day or even more

Frost bites

Thick mist in the street makes it difficult to see the right door.
Everything seems like the same grey doorstep.
The cold makes it difficult to focus
and the mind keeps wandering away.
The layers of clothes are unable
to stop it reaching the bones.
Every step crisps under foot.
Reminding that every step counts and is counted.
The veil of white,
transparant distorted filter on reality keeps me slow.
My eyes are deceived,
the road I know is slightly out of focus
by the distorted vision of grey.
The need to walk faster,
to get closer to warmth is the motivation.
But the cold sets me back.
If only it would melt the icey path
that is keeping me from getting to you.
Only if the mist clears, I’d be there sooner.
To be embraced by your warmth,
and frost is left outside.

Stone faced

Sitting in the same chair day after day
Static in space and time, porcelain face, smooth and stern
Arms and legs outstretched as if fallen from a building so high
Into this old-fashioned chair, with these old-fashioned clothes wrapped around the limbs
Not a crease, not a scratch on the china
Static in space and time, though porcelain face is yellowing
Eyes beneath the cold stone see
everything through its limited vision
from its fixed place, only moved slightly when dusting or not at all
Unnoticed, still, integrated fully in its scenery
Always static, always locked in space and time
Lifeless and yet being a representation of it
Posing as if being life, but never really grasping it, too artificial for that
Porcelain face, china doll, never been played with at all


gravel under foot
breathing regular
at the beat of the steady heart
the rhythm is set
path is fixed
road unknown
as long as legs carry the body
keep on going
lungs fully opened
head clear of thought
always focused on the next bend
the next climb
setting new targets
untill that tree
untill that bench
made it
still able to push on
always further
limits shifting
as long as legs keep going
keep breathing

burn red

burning red its colour is
as it’s cold to touch it burns with warmth
at simply the sight of it
it’s roundness can be held in hand
like a glass of wine
the smile only emphasizes the glow
and you cannot but smile
as unsuspected it has appeared
as durable and remaining it will stay

up and up

As it rises up it stifles the boy
He feels numb as he wades through the water
Coming up to his chin already
He is focussed on the liquid surrounding him
continuing forth as it goes up and up
Not seeing her and her reaching hand
his eyes do not meet hers
Though seemingly close by
It’s as if miles separate them
Yet the reverse is true
And words spoken are unheard
It is waiting now
Waiting for the water level to drop
To be touching the ground again with both feet
And the paralysing cold to leave
Waiting while trying to reach
Waiting to walk together in the same tread again

to and fro and to again

the tide comes in – everything has been covered with water
you can see the tiny gentle wrinkles on the water
everything covered, revealed as the water retreats
everything layed bare -hidden things now seen
but never for too long cause the water always returns
systematically, you can count on it to come
to veil again all things seen before – keeping you guessing
do you really recall what’s on the bottom?
or does the mind deceive and plays tricks?
one can only ride it out till the next tide retreats…


Eyes searching through the room
No thought passes the mind
Observing, watching, noticing
No word is formed of any kind
Taking in the room so peculiar
Watching the strangeness becoming familiar
Turning round to the face beside
In the room, not alone, watching by my side
Saying nothing, but really there
Searching eyes locking through air
Blue in blue in gaze they met
Thoughts pass mind but words unsaid


like little strands of tiny beads that tumble on the floor beneath
they all were severely pushed together
now dispersing on the tiles and free
rolling by, in all directions to places out of sight
the girl just watches, not able to follow the sudden broken flow
like little seeds they feed on doubt
of where they’d go and if they’ll be found
are they all there, are any missing?
in the end you just remain guessing
on knees it looks like another world
with tiny beads looking strange and absurd
the cord lies bare
invitingly so
for the new strand to be
accordingly, no
for the beads to have broken, the girl must have tucked
at the cord, breaking flesh, where the strands must have cut


it is like water rushing towards a steady dam
the unsuspected, sudden power paralyses every inch there is
the passion with which its force is blown is received with utter shock
and as the water retreats itself, the dam still remains
only slightly the result of the bang is observed
but as unstoppable nature is, the water is bound to come
and the dam can either stay there, closed and take it
or open it’s gates and reveal the water to what it has kept it from:
it’s inner land, waiting to receive the water
with anticipation and hope for fruitfullness
so it can blossom
but carefull that the force will not drown what is already there

Perpetuum mobile

She buttons her cardigan, her back against the wind which makes it hard to button. She can hear the tram coming near even before she sees it. The rails make that familiar noise. As she turns to face the tram, while removing a strayed lock of hair that the wind blew in her eyes, she sees the people around her push forth to be the first to get on board. The vehical hasn’t even stopped yet, and already the rush has begun.

Looking out the window, she hears some elderly women talking right behind her seat in rapid conversation. Spanish. I didn’t knew there lived Spanish people here, she thought. On her right some high school students rehearse they chemistry notes together. Probably exams… In the back a small child is crying for its dropped toy; the father annoyed on his cell phone while shooshing the child.

She puts her left arm to rest on the window’s border, so she can rest her head on her hand. The tram goes on his usual trod between the trees. Sun pushing through the leaves, flickering in her eyes every moment or so. Almost a repetitious rhythm of shadow and light. As she nears her destination, she almost regrets that the flickering rhythm will end. She’d rather spend the day outside than all day stuck at her desk.

As she looks around the tram, she sees familiar people. She doesn’t know them, but shares this morning’s ride with them every day, to different destinations but together none the less. There’s the slender, always dressed in grey’s, 40 or what lady. In her typical stiletto’s; she can barely hold her balance. And the 30 something man in his yuppie suit, with his German paper folded to the sport’s section. Each day, the gypsy-type woman steps up on the stop right before the turn, usually dressed in one colour from the clips in her hair to the 60’s shoes on her feet. Today: lime green. Bold choice… yet it suits her darker skin colour. I could never get away with that. I wonder what she does… She looks artistic, with her vintage bag and drawing folder. That’s a clue.

In the past couple of months, the girl has seen seasons change while sitting on the tram. Other colours but same route, same time, same commuters mostly, same destination. Yet a little different every time. Just slightly. Riding into the summer this time… the thought of changing route, no restricted time schedule, other travellers and a very foreign destination becomes more and more appealing.

Shaken out of her thoughts as a passing man accidentally stumbles against her as the tram hit its breaks, she is reminded she’d better get ready to step off. The ride has reached its end for her. On the street, now warmer then before the ride began, she walks on to the office. Keeping in mind that very soon, she’ll be on that different destination. 2 weeks of tramless bliss with my love. But till then, still morning trams…

Wednesday blues

she feels confused and not amused
highs and lows fill out her day

she wants to speak but words are lost
she can’t express, can’t say

amid the crowd, she’d love to shout
but nothing seems to come

she’s used to keep everything deep
not bother not disturb no problems

but that’s not healthy and that’s not good
the reason often not understood

there are those days when just one drop
will make the bucket tumble

and after the flood, she gets right back on top
clean slate and just going forward

some days are highs, some days are lows
sometimes it’s just how it flows


the warmth of the smiles could melt any snow
the faces inside are glazed with a glow
the light that shines through the glass is of you
who shakes the small globe, remembering, you do
the silvery snow descents from it’s chaos
revealing small pictures, so happy, of us
containing a history, built there by two
but the promise of more travels within it, that too
so when I’m not near, it sooths me you know,
that I’ll always be smiling at you through the snow
until the next time you’ll see me again
and all the love that I’ll give you then

by Fab for HD, just because –
I know I am not good with words, am no Coleridge or have the knack to write like beautiful lyric writers do, but I write with what I know, about what I know and with honesty

The wondering wanderer

I got the sudden urge to write. Not being a writer, it is a very strange sensation. That and maybe I shouldn’t have watched an entire DVD box with masterpieces from the director Wong Kar Wai. Don’t be alarmed, I did not rip off the DVD’s – it is my own little scribble of a text. I may regret putting it out there, but I feel words should not be deprived existance, how bad or silly they may seem together in the form of a text.

He is not from this city, yet he know it by heart. He knows every inch of it and morphs into it like a vital element of its being. How a boy can be so in tune with it’s surroundings is beyond her.

A place she’s known all her life seems suddenly fresh and new and exiting. All because he walks in it. And she walks though it with him. As if a veil had been lifted from the grim looking city and turned into a vivid and beautiful place in front of her.

They walk in silence, which she desperately tries to kill with babblings of sorts. She needn’t, cause their silences are ones with meaning and understanding. It is unique to find someone to just be silent with. Still the sudden and honest outbursts of laugher she can get out of him because of her babblings has become something she looks forward to every time they meet.

And when not together, she imagines… she figures he’d probably be out walking the streets; looking at people, watching their busy-ness, mingling in the crowd and being taken up by the city in its darkness, yet its evening lights as well. Thinking of her and how they could be walking together – sometimes in utter silence – sometimes in foolish conversation… and it does not bother her he wanders like that, because it is part of his charm, and who he is. A boy who wonders and needs to be roaming free.