Travelogue 1240 – 24 February
The Birds

The birds have started singing in the mornings. This is a sacred time of year for me. Before the sun has risen, there is a songbird settled outside my window. She is not there every day. But the mornings she is there are made special by her voice. The timing feels perfect because winter’s mood has begun to pall.

Then I’m hearing birds as I travel around town. They seem to have nested among the branches everywhere. Or were they always there, and my ears have been opened by the first visitor to my window? I’m riding along the bike paths in a dream, as though I have headphones on. I’m listening to music, or listening for it.

And something magical did happen yesterday, among the birds. Among the green parrots that have become familiar in South Holland in recent years. We were returning on our bikes from Little Ren’s gymnastics in the evening. Ren sat behind me in the kid’s seat, so I don’t think she could see what I saw. Baby Jos was on her bike, riding behind us. We were coasting down the hill on the bike path next to Horvathweg. It’s a busy road, and there is a lot of traffic at this hour.

Suddenly a flock of parrots glided by, and they were calling as they went. They swooped by, just over the roofs of the cars on the road. Their flight was not smooth and light, but erratic. They dropped, and they rose; they veered left and right, though all the while speeding recklessly together. They skimmed over the cars in a way that seemed both graceful and clumsy, and was also alarming, as though they could have been hit at any moment. I was mesmerised by the sight. And it seemed like I was the only one who saw it. I didn’t see any response from the cars. I saw no one pointing. The girls said nothing. It was happening so quickly, I wouldn’t capture the girls’ attention fast enough. Then the parrots were gone.

Not totally gone. They had swept off the road and into the park ahead. That was our direction. I heard the daredevils. I spotted them. They had found perches at the top of one of the slender trees along the canal, among bare branches. They were happy to chatter there. And again, we were past before I could point or explain. They remained my little secret.

The birds have returned. Above, in the gloaming hour of evening, the Canada geese call.

Travelogue 1239 – 20 February
The Animal Arena

Baby Jos took a friend to the movies yesterday. Which means she also brought her sister and me. The outing was very exciting for them, riding their bikes downtown, buying treats, navigating the theatre complex. That something so easy can still be exciting for them makes me happy. Who knows how many years I still have for these simple pleasures, creating joy with an afternoon outing into town, enjoying their guileless smiles, being their ally in life, sharing in their laughs?

The film was an optimistic one. I can recommend it. “Goat” has a simple plot, the triumph of an unlikely hero. The animated cast are animals, and the field of triumph is a jungle version of basketball. His triumph is a fun story, and the animation is beautiful, looking more like paint on canvas than digital.

Because the heroes and villains are animals, they are easily typed. The goat is a “small”, playing against typically powerful animals. It isn’t that the animals have to act their types – e.g., the giraffe is a rapper and the rhino is sensitive, - but the separation between them is clear and visual. The result is a parable about diversity and acceptance. We know this – animals in fables have been put to this purpose for decades now. 

It's what I don't see that is more interesting to me. Because the characters are visually distinct, and their roles in the plot are established early, there should plenty of film time for character development, for exploration of personality and crisis. The plot’s crisis is also simple, easily resolved. There should be room for surprises, for revealing the kinds of foibles and contradictions that can make even children’s characters interesting.

But we don’t live in a time that values character, do we? In times when personal roles and goals are rigid and clear, foibles and contradictions can enliven art and lead to complex thought. But this just isn’t an age for great character development. We love plot and action. We love political and moral messaging. It may appear that we’re seeing character development because we identify with and we love our movie and series characters so much. Ironically, the instant love we experience may be more a sign that we are being expertly manipulated than that we are being offered challenging characters. The truth is, we need these friends; in a time of moral desolation, we need our fictional friends more than we need intellectual challenge.

Ultimately, the conclusion I’m led to is that the (unconscious?) function of movies like yesterday’s is instruction. It reminds me of lessons I am familiar with as a language teacher: what do I say in a situation like … (example)? Everyone feels lost in new territory. Our society (and I mean Western societies in general) is so fluid, and so lacking in boundaries, restrictions, guidelines, and instruction, that many of us are lost; we have little real security in our identity. This goes some distance in explaining the forcefulness with which some people identify themselves. Being a nationalist is not enough, for example, but one must shout it, wear red hats, assert egregious positions, make sure someone is prone on the ground so they know who they are confronted with. But it’s not only the bad guys; everyone is desperate for identity.

Teens and pre-teens are hungry for behavioural guidance. The characters in this film never miss a beat. They always say the right things for their type. The newcomer is humble and salty in just the right proportions. The supporting characters have wit and wisdom. The awkward character never crosses the line into being unbearable. The foil is present in just the right measure. And the dialogue is perfectly pitched between cool and sincere. I can feel the kids soaking all this up. This is gold for them.

Here is where we are with character. Because of my forever book project, I’ve spent a good deal of time skimming through what is popular among new books in my genre. And I’ve sampled lots of agent and publisher advice. Characters are meant to be formulaic. Certain combinations of types are a must, and each main character should have one complication to make them human. More complication is only distracting. Do not slow the reader down! The character’s job is to propel you through the pages. You can deliver a small arc to the character flaw, offer minor reader satisfaction there, but don’t resolve it completely, especially if you plan a series with this character. Do not lose focus on the movement.

Travelogue 1238 – 16 February
Snow Again

This morning, the snow is all gone. None of it is left on the ground. That was a strange episode, yesterday, dream-like and sudden. I couldn’t even make it home on my bike in the afternoon, the snow was blowing so strongly into my face. The cars were slowly trudging along next to me on the Nieuwe Binnenweg, inches from my shoulder, and I could barely see. I decided to stop.

There was a table available at the Pelgrim beer pub, a table by the window. I slowly warmed my hands, slowly shrugged off the jacket. The snow was thick and wet on my back and my arms. My backpack was wet. The morning had been sunny and moderate, so I hadn’t brought any gear for rain or snow. It had come as a shock to emerge from the Wijkpaleis and encounter the snow swirling the air, the wind sharp in my face, the street covered in snow, the cars slowly crunching their way through it. My bicycle looked shrunken and abandoned, standing locked in the accumulation of new snow.

I had been at the Wijkpaleis reading through a new play with a group of actors. It had been a fun event, and even successful, if success is measured by the amount of constructive criticism. If measured by praise, the play was as successful as I my weather prediction. As often happens in my early drafts, a fine cast of characters find themselves lost in a poorly managed plot. There is a logic underneath the surface, but they stumble over the awkward arrangement of elements and lost themselves in the lacunae, the things unexplained.

I thought it was a sad play, written in a sad season. The actors did not see what I saw, and it made me question myself. Mood is a tricky tool in writing. Mood is a tricky thing in life. It comes and it goes. You cannot really make someone sad with writing. You can remind them they are sad, at the most.

Mood is not a story. Plotlines are not sad or happy; they are tragic or comedic. Characters may be sad. Like most people, our characters will be sad alone. Tragic events are more likely to trigger other things than sadness, such as indignation, curiosity, a thrill of recognition, or contemplation.

Perhaps my characters are victims of a sad season, brought to life against their will, as we all are, by a sad pater. I feel some responsibility. As I rewrite, the same characters will remain trapped in their tragic plot, like a Nietzschean loop, hashing out their sad fates over and over. One ought to have compassion for their characters.

The snow didn’t let up. I had been watching it fall over the canal outside the pub, while cyclists passed unsteadily, covered in layers that are dark against the snow, that made them bigger and clumsier, that made them seem faceless. People on foot were laughing, gathering snowballs. When my triple was finished, I left. I was done with the bike; I would pick it up tomorrow. I bowed my head, and I headed for the Metro station.

Travelogue 1237 – 8 February
The Beautiful Things

The weekend was a pleasant distraction from computer problems. My girls had their moments to shine. Little Ren competed in a gymnastics tournament. This only happens once or twice a year. During the tournament, girls compete in four events over the course of a couple hours, while parents resent each other in the uncomfortable bleachers. It was Ren’s first time trying a floor routine with music, and she was very nervous. I gave her hugs on the way there, telling her everyone gets nervous. She didn’t answer, and upon arrival at the sporthal, she ditched me as soon as she saw her teammates. But she was smiling, and she was fidgeting with anticipation.

All in all, it went well, in that halting, swaying way of young girls. To me, it was a gold-medal performance. She had a few signature moves in her routine, things she had been proud of for years, including the “bridge”, in which she manages to arch backward until her palms lie flat on the mat, and then push with her feet and roll through a handstand until her feet touch the floor on the other side. It’s quite a feat of flexibility, at least for a proud father.

On Sunday, both girls had ballet class, and the lessons were open for parents. I was impressed by how hard they work for an hour each week. Baby Jos is at an age in which the teacher can teach, rather than just show and drill. She pays attention to detail; she corrects; she explains why each move should be executed the way it is, the visual effect and how it flows into the next move. Such a simple thing was moving to me, the passing on of a tradition centuries old, and in such a matter-of-fact way that it was the very expression of hope for me. Of course what we are doing here today is important. Every beautiful movement counts. Every calibration makes the art form work, justifies it, illuminates it, and illuminates our lives. This is important.

They have started working on the bar, too, which warms my heart for some reason. The rows of girls stretch one arm toward the bar, hold the other delicately in position, and they are run through various positions and moves, rising and dipping, and it’s all so lovely. When Baby Jos, the oldest, started ballet, I learned the names for the positions, but I have forgotten. I will have to review them.

Travelogue 1236 – 7 February
Machine RIP

February had a rough start. My trusty old computer died. Picture a cartoon jalopy and the sound it makes as it collapses, like the sigh of an abandoned squeezebox. The poor machine had been pushed pretty far. So far that I had already begun to worry. I had begun with some expediencies in the fall, opening the laptop up, replacing the battery, adding RAM. I was just figuring out how I would replace the hard drive when the thing seized up.

It was a February when I bought the little monster, back in 2019! Suddenly I had to buy a new one. There was no other way. Now an alien machine sits in its place on my desk. We are getting to know each other, the new one and I. She is thinner than the old one, but longer. Her dimensions throw me off. The keyboard doesn’t match the one I’m used to, so I make mistakes. She makes more noise when I touch her, and that is exciting, as though we might go farther.

Years of notes are gone. The desktop is blank. Even my photo of old Rotterdam has vanished, to be replaced by a generic AI image of sand dunes. Apps need to be reloaded. Old files need to be reloaded. Some are just lost. It’s uncertain territory, something like the AI wasteland in the picture, lacking real features. One finds he hasn’t been aware of all the character that was accumulating inside the flat little box on the desk, the box that has a lid that lights up when you open it.

Travelogue 1235 – 31 January
Focus On Them

For better or worse, I’ve been scrolling through social media a lot since Minneapolis was invaded. I have a few tips for content creators.

1: Measure the Outrage
Expressions of outrage and woundedness are not unimportant. They form a genre that should be carefully cultivated and protected.

 

But

 

You risk burnout. Allies are just as wounded; finding sympathetic hearts is rewarding, but acknowledge that there is a next step. The middle-to-right consumer is not interested. If anything, that reader might consider it a good thing that libs are feeling wounded. An unvarying chorus of outrage and woundedness risks consumer burnout and loss of credibility.

 

2: Be concrete

When Katie Phang mentions Trump, she mentions him as a felon, a 34-time felon to be exact. It’s good to be reminded, but it is not so effective as it seems. If the rule of law is in doubt, or in flux, convictions lose meaning. J6 criminals were pardoned; many – even those who despise the J6 insurrectionists – don’t remember what the exact charges were. Don Lemon was recently arrested for charges related to his coverage of the church protest in Minneapolis. The right-wingers who cheered the arrest would not be able to name the charges. He’s just a bad guy who was somewhere he shouldn’t have been, so of course he should have been arrested. My point: we don’t understand our own legal system anymore. That leads to loss of faith. And calling someone a felon means very little to most people.

 

3: Don’t Separate Yourself

“If this doesn’t make you scared, I don’t know what will.” How many times have I heard this line in videos? It’s patronizing. Sure, we are all frustrated by the passivity of Congress and the American people in the face of this crisis. But when you express your frustration in this way, it motivates no one. Allow people to come to their own conclusions when well-informed.

 

4: Morality is Human

Blunt cries that something is immoral achieves very little. The human mind challenges imperatives. Unless you are parroting someone’s previous conclusion, your imperative only arouses resistance in that person. Humans are stubborn and rebellious, and that can be irritating when you are trying to persuade. But if you have faith in humanity, their independence can be rewarding. Place the facts before people and see whether their moral conclusions are the same as yours. Morality is as fundamental to our mental apparatus as breathing is to our physical apparatus; your moral conclusions are not privileged, any more than your breathing is. And, by the way, when someone denies your facts, they are tacitly acknowledging your morality. Declaring that he didn’t do what you say is immoral is an admission that the act is immoral. All that is left is the proof of the fact, not the moral persuasion.

 

5: Focus on Them

All this to say, take yourself out of the message for the most impact. Talk about the wrong-doers. Bring it to them, and speak concretely. Put them on the spot. Let people judge their actions. Maybe I have become partial to Euro-snark, but I found this video to be refreshing.

Travelogue 1234 – 25 January
Keeping Up

The streets are cold. Ice has formed on the canals again, a delicate layer that only the seagulls can step on. A light blanket of frost has descended upon us during the night, and the morning is quiet. Little Ren and I are travelling to her hockey games. We walk slowly through the housing development between our building and the Metro, and up the final stairs to the transport hub at the top of the hill. Beside the stairs the grassy incline is powdered white with frost. The fenced-in, asphalt football pitch is still. The tram tracks shine a dull silver amid their shallow tracks of mud and ice. No one is stirring.

It's never been the most attractive plein in town. While many transport hubs and stations in town are pleasant, thoughtfully designed and clean in their realisation, this one has a feeling of haste; it is function first, and it has the atmosphere of the postwar boom, the thirty or forty years when much of the city we see was actually built. It is a forlorn sight this morning, abandoned and grey, lacking grace.

Little Ren is scheduled to play as keeper, so I have the big keeperstas on my back, the bag with all her equipment. The game is out of town, so we will meet a teammate’s father two Metro stops away, and he will drive us. Little Ren is cheerfully marching forward, plunging into her day. She is happy to be keeper; she likes being useful to the team. She is buzzing with the energy of a new day, chatting busily about cheese crackers and the latest toys her friend Issa has acquired. I struggle to keep up; I don’t want to miss a word. Her voice rises in the cold air, unanswered even by an echo in the empty square, dissipating quickly into the rare Jan sky, no one else but me nearby, listening. Then we are swept into the dank hall of the Metro.