August 20th.
On my way through the relatively quiet streets this morning, became rather irritated by a worrying click in my right pedal. Have to see to that.
At half past five, it was still too dark to read the paper (not that I would read a paper there and then, this image happens to have been my father's favourite measure of darkness). So many beautiful grey and even rainy days have passed, and of course, today (even in this darkness), promises to be another crispy clear sunny day (if this seems paradoxical, I refer you to my other blogs/pages). From across the river, from behind the line of trees, there rises a wall of sound and fury: it is the highway, although it sounds like a Great Migration in full swing.
I eat a sandwich (cheese and salami), and pour myself a mug of coffee. It's not even chilly or damp enough to make me shiver and feel like I'm outside, in nature. Just this tsunami of automobile noise, giving the impression that I'm in a gigantic aquarium. At least this coffee is good (Kenya).
In this darkness, it seems at first glance as if hundreds of battleships of the planet Zog have landed, yonder, where the horizon used to be, and along this bank of the river. Millions of multicoloured twinkling lights. They await the order of the fleet admiral to blast the town and its sleeping inhabitants into oblivion.
Only now, with the light increasing, these UFO's slowly change into the petrochemical plants we all know and love.
Only now, with the light increasing, these UFO's slowly change into the petrochemical plants we all know and love.
Yep, there he is, Alexander von Humboldt, from Luxembourg, heading straight for me, as always, slowing down gradually as he approaches, as if he was stupidly trying to stalk me. I've sort of noticed you, you fat buffoon. When he is about 30 yards away, he settles down, but not quietly, belching hot black smoke and rumbling like an earthquake. Then, suddenly, he rises out of the water a couple of meters, turns, and returns whence he came from. This was Alexander's first bowl movement of the day. Swirls of grey foreign foam rise to the surface and drift off hurriedly back to sea. And suddenly there are seagulls everywhere patrolling the river's surface in all directions.
By now, the dawn sky looks as if God has tried to sweep the clouds from it with his shirt sleeve (image courtesy Jules Renard, Journal).
By now, the dawn sky looks as if God has tried to sweep the clouds from it with his shirt sleeve (image courtesy Jules Renard, Journal).
On top of the light buoy, not far away, a moulting crow is perching, observing me. With his bald neck, he looks like a miniature vulture.
I guess this is not my best day. Have I been spoilt by the vast open space of Saeftinghe ? Can I ever again trust another weather man ? Will I come back here before winter, before Easter ?
This week means the return to the Stress Factory, and the cooling down of the fire and the irons in it.
Drawing was not too bad, though. Like # 2 especially.
A bientôt, I hope.
A bientôt, I hope.
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