tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59272879673240468032024-03-13T00:40:58.533+01:00Blinde SchildpadBoeddhisme, Gedichten, Poëzie, Frank Sijbenga, Schrijven, Lojong, Mind Training, Geestestraining, Meditatie, Vreemd, Raar, Curieus.Blinde Schildpadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12089901404619251224noreply@blogger.comBlogger775125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927287967324046803.post-81661011447180410452017-06-07T15:50:00.000+02:002017-06-07T15:50:35.767+02:00Back in a Few DaysI thought it might as well have been <br />
god's shadow in the sunset <br />
coming down the basement stairs <br />
<br />
he brought us orange juice<br />
candy bars and cold cuts<br />
and clean T shirts in a shopping bag<br />
<br />
boys I had some fight left then<br />
these scars I got from throwing <br />
all my weight against the chains<br />
<br />
it was strange<br />
I thought he looked so proud of me <br />
as he smeared petroleum jelly on my cuts <br />
<br />
"next time <br />
maybe next time son"<br />
I still get these restless dreams <br />
<br />
but so yes boys yes I know you're angry <br />
I know that you don't understand <br />
but isn't this called love? <br />
<br />
so yes next time boys <br />
I should back in a few days <div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
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<br />
Het gesprek kwam op homo's (ik meen na algemene verbazing over dat een andere kantoorgenoot opeens een vriendin had, terwijl iedereen er voetsomstoots vanuit was gegaan dat ie gay was). Laat deze collega opeens vallen dat ie het raar zou vinden als bijvoorbeeld iemand in zijn voetbalclub uit de kast zou komen. En dat hij dan toch liever niet had dat die jongen dan in in zijn team zou blijven. Vies idee vond ie dat. Hij zelf kon ook niet helemaal duiden waarom hij dat dan vond, maar het was zeker ook niet iets om mee te zitten voor 'm.<br />
<br />
Homo's waren gewoon bah voor hem zoals een drol gewoon bah is. Het was misschien niet eens echt een mening, meer een van die terloopse dingen die je zijdelings meekrijgt van je omgeving als je klein bent. Een zo-hoort-dat.<br />
<br />
Ook jaren geleden fietsten er laat 's avonds nog twee jongetjes rondjes in mijn straat. Jaar of negen, tien misschien. En opeens hoor ik de ene aan de andere vragen <i>Hey Ibrahim! Wat ís een homo eigenlijk?</i> Ibrahim wist het ook niet.<br />
<br />
Het belangrijkste was ze echter wel duidelijk: ze waren blij dat zíj geen homo's waren. Helaas is het nog steeds zo dat je haast voor hen moet hopen dat dat ook echt waar zou gaan blijken.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
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she said.<br />
I did not reply but watched <br />
her cigarette smoke slowly rise<br />
into the lamp shade.<br />
A plate of bones and crinkled tin foil<br />
grew cold and sticky on the table,<br />
the windows black <br />
like blowholes in the frozen arctic.<br />
<br />
I thought of a painting I once saw,<br />
a sailing ship its rigging thick with rime<br />
propped up on white jagged shoals.<br />
Tiny men were dragging boxes <br />
of hardtack and brined meat <br />
out over the bulwark<br />
down onto the vast ice, <br />
strapping blankets round their pant legs <br />
with thick rope.<br />
<br />
<i>It might,</i> I said,<br />
<i>There's places </i><br />
<i>where the snow has never stopped.</i><br />
<br />
<i>It would be very silent.</i><br />
She crushed her cigarette. <br />
I listened and the windows whispered <br />
with the voices of the city. <br />
Cars<br />
and creaking bicycles, people<br />
singing, drunk already, music<br />
from a bar across the street.<br />
<br />
There had been snow in the forecast.<br />
We would have to see.<br />
<i>You ok?</i>, she asked.<br />
I wiped the sweat from my forehead.<br />
<br />
I had never been so scared.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
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<br />
There was a quiet approval in those words he had longed to hear again for weeks now, but he couldn't quite remember why or who the voice belonged to. He remembered the face he saw at his feet though. He remembered the blue dress and the soft breasts.<br />
<br />
As if a large hand was put on his shoulders, the hazy warmth of the drugs rolled over him again.<br />
<br />
<i>You did alright, son</i>, the voice said and then all other memories faded.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9BZ6CNG4H3gv0kzETPtWQvzdIu9BgoDXJEF6WZM9_XJAzulhkJLwNdFiB6o9nN1z9omfp3YvexAHf3uUUDPAG1e5YYoYe3l-KF9XRdehCHVWCzXbJa-BH6QazjOkwBBQEt3AB1ZiYSc/s1600/IMAG4274_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9BZ6CNG4H3gv0kzETPtWQvzdIu9BgoDXJEF6WZM9_XJAzulhkJLwNdFiB6o9nN1z9omfp3YvexAHf3uUUDPAG1e5YYoYe3l-KF9XRdehCHVWCzXbJa-BH6QazjOkwBBQEt3AB1ZiYSc/s400/IMAG4274_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote>
<i>but go out in the hasty silence<br />
of the town that rains<br />
<br />
for now<br />
to be a witness to the beat of time<br />
<br />
a child<br />
will answer echoes in the concrete underpass<br />
<br />
as her mother<br />
waits the rain out in the blue mist of her phone<br />
<br />
ride on<br />
past the cemetery and the soccer fields<br />
<br />
ride on<br />
when a roebuck leaps across the road<br />
<br />
bridging the canal<br />
out into the fields where distant sunlight<br />
<br />
lying<br />
like a pall over the far edge of the land<br />
<br />
is held<br />
by wind and water in a thousand hands<br />
<br />
it never stops<br />
this time but the rain does<br />
<br />
and there is nowhere<br />
to hide</i></blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
(edited 26052015)</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
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<a href="http://blindeschildpad.tumblr.com/post/94894844727/reflections-raindrops" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2sD4xRjrLhGOdtzy52Q7oKMoeMxAAzlw0orZWkJ6kgdEuMGx7IMPAdS8OIaeTO39nvCchbZNMqRL1C9-eHHc2C78LahKJ_VBnRGb83cNZBFkZaYVWgKlebIogTT86qZ1gvYvCtuy0y0/s1600/reflectie.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<blockquote>
a lady walks by<br />
at seven thirty<br />
every day<br />
<br />
she's dressed in shades of sun bleached lichen<br />
carrying a plastic shopping bag<br />
<br />
her styrofoam bright hairdo <br />
immovable <br />
despite the morning breeze<br />
<br />
everything so arbitrary<br />
but incredibly precise<br />
-in almost every way<br />
it's exactly unlike crystal<br />
<br />
life spills <br />
from the magpies’ chatter<br />
as the morning lady turns the corner<br />
into other streets<br />
<br />
it soaks the early autumn <br />
of my skin and bones <br />
watching from their concrete box<br />
stiff from slightly overthinking<br />
<br />
it all depends on everything<br />
and in the end?<br />
-but nothing ever ends<br />
<br />
man there ain’t even a beginning</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(<a href="http://blindeschildpad.tumblr.com/post/95550457037/exactly-unlike-crystal-a-lady-walks-by-at-seven" target="_blank">an earlier version</a>)</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
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the summer showers <br />
in the corner of the window<br />
<br />
though I have nothing to wait for today <br />
still -out of habit <br />
and a deference to nature-<br />
I too will watch the raindrops smash apart<br />
from behind my book and coffee<br />
<br />
it turns the street<br />
into an asphalt mirror <br />
reflecting the first blue bits of sky<br />
<br />
much later <br />
when I do not sleep<br />
<br />
the rolling thunder</blockquote><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEham_A9KKKyvBgeiDIggHLTz-4F1UbD0juz3p-UNYSOMzvsnItziueOn16Ye5w9XP6kEWPBIyBrJPPX-M9KQ2VBwqD87SjoVjXXIvM2TaJWLBf5Y4aOINtVmOSM4swDEwkNF5vTuVlZzH4/s1600/tumblr_n79csrbEok1qkxqvoo1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEham_A9KKKyvBgeiDIggHLTz-4F1UbD0juz3p-UNYSOMzvsnItziueOn16Ye5w9XP6kEWPBIyBrJPPX-M9KQ2VBwqD87SjoVjXXIvM2TaJWLBf5Y4aOINtVmOSM4swDEwkNF5vTuVlZzH4/s400/tumblr_n79csrbEok1qkxqvoo1_1280.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote>
Rinpoche, when I saw you, many years ago<br />
you said - expressing everything <br />
in three languages and four simple words- :<br />
“rangsem dharmakaya, one space.”<br />
<br />
Our own mind and the mind of Buddha,<br />
your mind, all-pervading, uncontrived,<br />
not bound in suffering or stuck in peace,<br />
are one space - from which everything arises.<br />
<br />
Our good fortune to be with you has ended,<br />
but - as if a giant bell was struck -<br />
your last teaching of impermanence <br />
rings deeply in our bones and hearts.<br />
<br />
May we defeat dull laziness, Rinpoche,<br />
and give rise to heart-felt bodhichitta,<br />
Rinpoche, please return to guide us!<br />
<i>Om Guru Dharmamati Hum!</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">FMKS</span></blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="http://shamarpa.org/" target="_blank">Shamar Rinpoche</a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="http://blindeschildpad.tumblr.com/post/88947923797/amithabha-shrine-for-hh-kunzig-shamar-rinpoche-in" target="_blank">picture</a></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
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the evening<br />
with its whispered secrets<br />
<br />
so returning<br />
life to roots<br />
that the clouds had borrowed<br />
<br />
leaves and grass<br />
stalks hurried<br />
cyclists bow and bow incessantly<br />
<br />
so courteous each<br />
on their heart-wide<br />
rainy corner of the night<br />
<br />
until they disappear<br />
from sight</blockquote><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Blinde-Schildpad/244573585584084"> LIKE!</a> © original content <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/">CC BY-NC-SA 3.0</a> by <a href="http://www.blindeschildpad.nl">Blinde Schildpad</a></b></p></div>Blinde Schildpadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12089901404619251224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927287967324046803.post-41297559234955144682014-05-13T07:43:00.000+02:002014-05-13T13:44:30.127+02:00Cuckoo {or 'Dordogne Tonglen Song'} <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://blindeschildpad.tumblr.com/post/85601207762/for-half-a-breath-the-whisper-thin-world-seemed" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv4xQ8Xs-H1XCRcPzSZTEymGORe71qYz80Dg73ARUV3yVxQ6tvDTAAlrSy2HA3JW8uz96F8UQmafNgSJUOtaf40QXe1mUT04DUAC8VWl_lrtWpDkZqPlrcxFat4Epgvdfir3xjAAP-ZnI/s1600/tumblr_n5hzpp5R731qkxqvoo1_1280.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote>for half a breath<br />
the whisper-thin world<br />
seemed real.<br />
<br />
a cuckoo called in the forest<br />
and the stars slowly set<br />
above the hill.<br />
<br />
but mist rose up<br />
between a thousand grasses<br />
and took it back again,<br />
<br />
dissolved it into prayer,<br />
the living heart <br />
that holds all momentary things inside.<br />
<br />
we’re all alone with everyone<br />
and every thing that digs<br />
and swims and flies.<br />
<br />
the breath turns endlessly.<br />
a thousand grasses hand it on<br />
to every mist soaked life.<br />
<br />
it’s calling out across the valley,<br />
across the slowly turning sky<br />
<br />
<i>______cuckoo<br />
______cuckoo<br />
</i><br />
</blockquote><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNH-8vT6nfhxVjWuBECNkPXjZOhfswOhGvC3lrIHBVcNIfufu1C62hQWcAAy-KDXUsl0mwQVr3KqD9FfvxRw8q-UIydAnwdzJcTpo4n7HkJbsVbZ5pexKZUX-iI8XlgY6TZXtgGz_XUS4/s1600/fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNH-8vT6nfhxVjWuBECNkPXjZOhfswOhGvC3lrIHBVcNIfufu1C62hQWcAAy-KDXUsl0mwQVr3KqD9FfvxRw8q-UIydAnwdzJcTpo4n7HkJbsVbZ5pexKZUX-iI8XlgY6TZXtgGz_XUS4/s1600/fish.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Dit is iets waar ik mezelf vaak aan moet herinneren.<br />
<br />
In het Boeddhisme hebben we het over ‘storende emoties’ of misschien eerlijker vertaald: geest-gif, <i>mind poisons</i>. Gehechtheid, woede, verwarring, trots, jaloezie en al hun synoniemen. De Boeddha heeft ons methoden geleerd om met emoties om te gaan. Je zou misschien zelfs kunnen zeggen dat alles wat Shakyamuni deed was laten zien wát mind poisons zijn en wát je d’r mee kunt doen.<br />
<br />
Maar: we zijn er niet aan gewend om te denken dat wat we voelen veranderlijk is. We denken <i>Dit is wat ik voel, en daarmee basta</i>. Als we Boeddha’s dharma met onze gewone, zelf-koesterende houding benaderen (en we kunnen natuurlijk niet anders, in eerste instantie), dan is de kans groot dat we dingen gaan <i>voelen over</i> wat we voelen in plaats van dat we dingen <i>doen met</i> wat we voelen.<br />
<br />
Ik ben boos, máár dat zou niet moeten, want alle wezens hebben boeddhanatuur. Ik ben gehecht, máár dat zou niet moeten, want alles is vergankelijk. Ik ben verdrietig, máár, máár, máár.<br />
<br />
Dit is niet wat de dharma beoogt. De Boeddha was geen handelsreiziger in nieuwe redenen.<br />
<br />
Als we met onze geest werken, beginnen we met accepteren dat ie is wat ie is. Ben je boos, dan ben je boos. Ben je verdrietig, dan ben je verdrietig. Je kan de dharma alleen beoefenen als je 100% accepteert wat je leven hier en nu is. Dat is waar je mee werkt, ongeacht met welke methoden je dat doet. Een dharma-beoefenaar hoeft zich nooit te schamen of verontschuldigen voor wat ze voelt.<br />
<br />
De dharma kan heel ontmoedigend klinken. De boodschap is vaak niet anders dat het enige wat tussen jou en je geluk in staat... <i>jij</i> bent. Maar, als je goed kijkt is dat wat dat zo grauw en grimmig laat klinken niet inherent aan Boeddha’s leer, maar mijn eigen, aangeboren neiging alles zo inflexibel mogelijk op mezelf te betrekken.<br />
<br />
Alles wat Boeddha doet -het enige wat Boeddha doet- is ons er keer op keer op wijzen dat dat niet hoeft.<br />
<br />
We denken <i>ik ben wat ik ben</i>, maar al in de eerste minuut dat we rustig, zonder heen-en-weer te rennen, rechtop zitten en adem halen blijkt dat alles voortdurend, onophoudelijk in beweging is. Al zou je het willen dan zou je nog niks kunnen vinden waar je grip op hebt. Ik hoeft me niet rot te voelen over dat ik verdrietig ben, vast te houden aan mijn gehechtheid, mijn boosheid van de hand te wijzen of piekeren over mijn verwarring.<br />
<br />
Ik voel wat ik voel en dan komt, helemaal vanzelf, het volgende moment.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Blinde-Schildpad/244573585584084"> LIKE!</a> © original content <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/">CC BY-NC-SA 3.0</a> by <a href="http://www.blindeschildpad.nl">Blinde Schildpad</a></b></p></div>Blinde Schildpadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12089901404619251224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927287967324046803.post-33114273958198388092014-04-14T14:54:00.001+02:002014-04-14T14:54:10.945+02:00Menashe Kadishman - Shalekhet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiborYblzedS98GdQJU2zwMzzjhI6kjPRXPTmOCb3pIK3Qljs5yGhELMB4j-PcEWGoaQPf-X-6y87Ez1wNCpQB6A1lSgKdyalWhPn5XEFg4bb_OexNiZP-DzeDTMy8s0633i9kaSfHC8c8/s1600/Shalekhet13042014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiborYblzedS98GdQJU2zwMzzjhI6kjPRXPTmOCb3pIK3Qljs5yGhELMB4j-PcEWGoaQPf-X-6y87Ez1wNCpQB6A1lSgKdyalWhPn5XEFg4bb_OexNiZP-DzeDTMy8s0633i9kaSfHC8c8/s1600/Shalekhet13042014.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Menashe_Kadishman" target="_blank">Menashe Kadishman</a> - "Fallen Leaves" at the <a href="http://www.jmberlin.de/" target="_blank">Jüdisches Museum Berlin</a>.</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Blinde-Schildpad/244573585584084"> LIKE!</a> © original content <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/">CC BY-NC-SA 3.0</a> by <a href="http://www.blindeschildpad.nl">Blinde Schildpad</a></b></p></div>Blinde Schildpadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12089901404619251224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927287967324046803.post-25299592333896954602014-04-02T15:58:00.003+02:002014-04-02T15:58:46.703+02:00Gifts<div class="separator tr_bq" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrmLRFKdEAK63bopViri8qmnhyphenhyphenIzA6OhTWWep_ukaZqqeF_Iu5KBxDMRy2rc4QeEK4HmCxWRt6M6_6ipie6uAZnXgOfWfDrPjfP0otFR97cjFZtK_D5uBKXW6QN1s6vEZiT91hy-of5M/s1600/tumblr_n3e4q0ebc51qkxqvoo1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrmLRFKdEAK63bopViri8qmnhyphenhyphenIzA6OhTWWep_ukaZqqeF_Iu5KBxDMRy2rc4QeEK4HmCxWRt6M6_6ipie6uAZnXgOfWfDrPjfP0otFR97cjFZtK_D5uBKXW6QN1s6vEZiT91hy-of5M/s320/tumblr_n3e4q0ebc51qkxqvoo1_1280.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote>
The evening gave<br />
a cormorant’s reflection in the reeds,<br />
flying past the world<br />
at sunset.<br />
<br />
The morning gives us fog.<br />
It closes off the brick ravines<br />
to everything except the chill,<br />
the sound of cars<br />
<br />
and the new leaves<br />
on the branches.</blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(<a href="http://blindeschildpad.tumblr.com/post/81468096013/the-evening-gave-a-cormorants-reflection-in-the" target="_blank">pic and earlier version from my tumblr</a>)</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Blinde-Schildpad/244573585584084"> LIKE!</a> © original content <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/">CC BY-NC-SA 3.0</a> by <a href="http://www.blindeschildpad.nl">Blinde Schildpad</a></b></p></div>Blinde Schildpadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12089901404619251224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927287967324046803.post-2884119746696480112014-02-17T21:17:00.001+01:002014-02-17T21:18:07.280+01:00's Lands wijs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMe3B2g_oYjtYGzjI-K-SYOWFUkKmubXoOFZ4idxbKqEWoOTSLGTbQQk23hX-xpMa9QqrxUEqPy1sOFxMwWwTmv184A5Gm_emZ5rvW71IQz1VnXr67Akb_4ufPI9uaqKS84ZpmYMrSdLc/s1600/gtin8718265161702_2d1+(200x200_JPG).jpg" /></div><i><br />
</i> <i>Zeg, waarom staat er een Griekse vlag op die yoghurt?</i> vroeg hij in Engels met een flink accent terwijl ik de ingrediënten van mijn ontbijt op de loopband laadde. <br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>Omdat wij dit Gríekse Yoghurt vinden</i>, zei ik tegen de Griekse student achter mij, wiens achteraf-gezien-net-die-ene-paprika-te-veel-om-geen-mandje-te-nemen ik net had opgeraapt. <i>Huh, </i>zei hij,<i> yoghurt is toch gewoon yoghurt? Is Nederlandse yoghurt anders dan? </i><br />
<br />
Ik gaf maar eerlijk toe dat ik het in ieder geval niet per se kon aanbevelen en herinnerde me een Duitser die ik ooit, tijdens zijn eerste bezoek aan Nederland, daadwerkelijk in de lach had zien schieten toen hij een halfje bruin in handen gedrukt kreeg.<br />
<br />
Nee, als deze hippe Griek eens een echt Nederlands zuiveltoetje wilde proeven moest ie maar eens vla proberen. <i>Ja hoor, </i>zei ik, <i>dat kun je gewoon bij de supermarkt krijgen. </i><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Blinde-Schildpad/244573585584084"> LIKE!</a> © original content <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/">CC BY-NC-SA 3.0</a> by <a href="http://www.blindeschildpad.nl">Blinde Schildpad</a></b></p></div>Blinde Schildpadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12089901404619251224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927287967324046803.post-10059551421313232552014-01-27T20:39:00.002+01:002014-01-27T20:39:50.300+01:00Snow<blockquote>yeah so everybody dies<br />
but in most ways<br />
no one does it best<br />
<br />
and now snow covers the branches<br />
so for a day at least<br />
you get to be the first to walk somewhere<br />
and look back at the tracks you made<br />
<br />
wondering if anything<br />
but time and logic<br />
makes them<br />
yours<br />
<br />
still</blockquote><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Blinde-Schildpad/244573585584084"> LIKE!</a> © original content <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/">CC BY-NC-SA 3.0</a> by <a href="http://www.blindeschildpad.nl">Blinde Schildpad</a></b></p></div>Blinde Schildpadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12089901404619251224noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927287967324046803.post-79368374346066238542014-01-22T20:45:00.001+01:002014-01-22T20:45:31.781+01:00January<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://blindeschildpad.tumblr.com/post/74063113535/bush" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUAeAOR59C576Om54klGfpBmThGYq4t88Gih2SuQFeyTiwJ30mTpSpI4SD8CRXAfBZ30AnkXIGFkOGmdCdMmnBeVqJMRUbS6fyTn5cB8e5HNrL2hqxCpDibqDW9jrj8BAaoOv9fV7S9o/s1600/tumblr_mzravdUX5t1qkxqvoo1_1280.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote>a blackbird sang at five today<br />
when the sun set<br />
<br />
but it’s january (we say)<br />
should it not be colder?<br />
should it not be winter yet?<br />
<br />
we desperately want <br />
for something to be wrong<br />
<br />
even if it’s just a bird singing</blockquote><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Blinde-Schildpad/244573585584084"> LIKE!</a> © original content <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/">CC BY-NC-SA 3.0</a> by <a href="http://www.blindeschildpad.nl">Blinde Schildpad</a></b></p></div>Blinde Schildpadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12089901404619251224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927287967324046803.post-3161379543399343392014-01-16T20:20:00.003+01:002014-01-16T20:20:52.288+01:00Otohiro's Secret<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBV6GgvXJxSdnp7J2Y6HFg5_3jdZM_Rj5SgAPRK9LHfd-F4dlGbO1ggyBC7bJIa_7BrldGSTXC7uJlJEeNE29jQkgQJaCSMDuEgNqAzw4vQw5x53Bext8wvAU6yRr-jwOoJ0QcNJ8eiZ4/s1600/3Td9300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBV6GgvXJxSdnp7J2Y6HFg5_3jdZM_Rj5SgAPRK9LHfd-F4dlGbO1ggyBC7bJIa_7BrldGSTXC7uJlJEeNE29jQkgQJaCSMDuEgNqAzw4vQw5x53Bext8wvAU6yRr-jwOoJ0QcNJ8eiZ4/s1600/3Td9300.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
In the end it was decided the girls would get the gasmasks. As in, only the girls.<br />
<br />
I don't know exactly how the teachers came to the conclusion that that was the most logical thing to do. They huddled together in a corner around the coffee maker until one of them turned around and yelled out <i>The girls!</i><br />
<br />
That teacher’s name was Mrs. Takatama, I think. She was a mousy lady but she managed to make the announcement sound, somehow, triumphal, especially considering the announcement that had just come over the city wide PA-system. As if decisive blow had been dealt in a war that was old enough to have children and grand-children.<br />
<br />
She taught maths, I think. I'm not sure. Must have been in one of the higher years.<br />
<br />
Soon a line formed in orderly fashion. A palisade of identically dressed girls lined the airy assembly hall, sorted mostly by age and, as a consequence, by height, with the younger, smaller girls (whose attention the teachers thought most likely to wander off) in front and the older girls bringing up the rear. Here and there discipline broke down, but only a little. The occasional sobbing kindergarten kid was allowed to hang on to their patient big sisters’ skirt hems while the straps of their masks were adjusted by a teacher whose creased, orange sash proclaimed a Level III proficiency at Tactical Preparations.<br />
<br />
Together with the other boys I was coraled around the stacked lunch tables in the center of the room. Otohiro, who was a year below me but who I knew well from extracurricular swimming lessons, surreptitiously handed me his tin pen case. He looked around, ever vigilant, but no one else seemed particularly interested in his latest secret. After an almost invisible nod I opened it. There was a bright green frog inside, dead as a doornail. I nodded in return.<br />
<br />
That was a fine dead frog, alright.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Inspired by <a href="http://www.reddit.com/r/HistoryPorn/comments/1vd7qx/gas_mask_parade_tokyo_by_masao_horino_19361939/" target="_blank">this thread on /r/historyporn</a>)</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://blindeschildpad.tumblr.com/post/72675913978/we-will-try-this-over-and-over-and-over-until" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSsGc1BYmGnpFjkZIwSgzZ3keNaNwpvVNHsQoHyRrxgIb6_fb6fxcVAaomMBWZ24qQm_khNI3hCiqsb6-KMIviKDudHCRcNlkfDNNlihaTzyQ9Lyym5itOSiELaLQmq5HMtQby0RwBVGw/s1600/tumblr_mz3gc4f2dG1qkxqvoo1_1280.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
There was an old man in one of the smoky huts who would play that song, sometimes. He would never talk, or at least not that I heard, but at night he would get his kalimba out and play for us. Even the littlest kids in our company, not used yet to the hunger and the cold, would be silent and just blink their big eyes at the fire light and listen and forget all about the winds raging outside -at least, for the moment.<br />
<br />
When the old man died, my own father threw his kalimba on the funeral pyre in the middle of the endless concrete and rebar ruins. Pah said he had been cruel for teaching us about memory. I think I cried more that day than any other in my life.<br />
<br />
Yes, I would like to say I cried. Even though by now, who could be sure about such things?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Story published before on Reddit and <a href="http://blindeschildpad.tumblr.com/post/70566984491/kalimba-there-was-an-old-man-in-one-of-the" target="_blank">Tumblr</a>.)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT1rx9lv3ToYsqXQTPDJxUFL8UVXXq9W0G9CsnH6mu-PlmcAxHWRAtUMQHIeYSynKihaR87SWEbhGbsKIl6N1IbSHw93xRvjmraLoCIMsvR0FVcem45MhAPmNc7noRYTUcttgmLllxpfI/s1600/yeti24122013_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT1rx9lv3ToYsqXQTPDJxUFL8UVXXq9W0G9CsnH6mu-PlmcAxHWRAtUMQHIeYSynKihaR87SWEbhGbsKIl6N1IbSHw93xRvjmraLoCIMsvR0FVcem45MhAPmNc7noRYTUcttgmLllxpfI/s640/yeti24122013_web.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
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<img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQCt1ZlNr4iINT24WEJCUBYBNKU9oCjcV7kxMsRF9rfsyDvX8ztWAIvBl2jIPutfrdVHATA0zZKDq3PZeANb9UZ_-QVZFVR2B1-KD-YYDZOOgVinTl2XwA2dn2M_oMHoV1A9VXM3fQ9k/s400/tumblr_mxmwo3j94n1qkxqvoo1_1280.jpg" width="400" /></div>
<br />
<blockquote>
I thought it was too long down the year<br />
for geese<br />
but midnight throbs<br />
with their slow wingbeats<br />
<br />
their calls above the freezing mist</blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://blindeschildpad.tumblr.com/post/69677159169/turning-to-speak-turning-to-hear" target="_blank">foto</a></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYW0XNkXLWKXs4QwrtxxtOT7XDrV0Rbbu53XX0qA7nfIRm55ZHyZ70jlMQ8KUOq04I9FzS54li8nxpgOMCj7v8jGTmePhTYpGLDw6fhIIumbu_7dlCQ433VvRm9DkZD5Aoe7Je4rU6PWo/s1600/IMG_20131104_130057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYW0XNkXLWKXs4QwrtxxtOT7XDrV0Rbbu53XX0qA7nfIRm55ZHyZ70jlMQ8KUOq04I9FzS54li8nxpgOMCj7v8jGTmePhTYpGLDw6fhIIumbu_7dlCQ433VvRm9DkZD5Aoe7Je4rU6PWo/s400/IMG_20131104_130057.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote>
now take this life’s record<br />
of dreams and wishes<br />
out under the same cool moon<br />
that watched the tired<br />
sabre-toothed tiger <br />
crumple <br />
at the end of his trail<br />
of twisting paw prints<br />
<br />
and in all directions<br />
only blinding snow</blockquote>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Blinde-Schildpad/244573585584084"> LIKE!</a> © original content <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/">CC BY-NC-SA 3.0</a> by <a href="http://www.blindeschildpad.nl">Blinde Schildpad</a></b></p></div>Blinde Schildpadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12089901404619251224noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927287967324046803.post-55383296609633463032013-10-31T21:28:00.000+01:002013-10-31T21:55:20.117+01:00Ten Thousand Mile Dream<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://blindeschildpad.tumblr.com/post/65031643982/the-most-beautiful-parts-of-the-world-are-not" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4XEXOJQ-X_vRn0TSOoJmk09gg9ezjRVbw_5tj3xf4AKXFpByhVa2v_s-3PsBUrqla6BH8nKniHYiUb8Hjo4bSu3hL_72wN4Dt2Z7AYyQuYAcVC3_w_NkcBLYeTJ40Mf_XJNUkngvuSHY/s400/tumblr_mv7vd4S4qG1qkxqvoo1_1280.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote>I will bring from this life<br />
a hat full of ashes<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
remember when you hit your elbow?<br />
<br />
before I felt like that but then<br />
it didn’t stop<br />
<br />
until it did<br />
<br />
sometimes you fall for so long<br />
it almost feels like flying<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
as I watch a man <br />
wait for his dog<br />
lifeless muscle <br />
starts beating <br />
a ten thousand mile dream</blockquote><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p>
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Blinde-Schildpad/244573585584084"> LIKE!</a> © original content <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/">CC BY-NC-SA 3.0</a> by <a href="http://www.blindeschildpad.nl">Blinde Schildpad</a></b></p></div>Blinde Schildpadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12089901404619251224noreply@blogger.com0