5 Words...Images..a long one; april 19 2007

Thursday. Had a couple of cold days, always sunny though. The wind changed from the north to the west, driving white caps on the crest of the waves.
1830 hours.
While writing I occupy one of the cornerseats of "Veenhoeve". "Brown café, "gezellig", good kitchen too.
Behind the bar a huge picture of the American Moviestar I most like, Kathleen Hepburn. Died a couple of years ago. Fierce, independent, weird. Tender too- if she wanted to be. The picture of the happy recipient of her affection, that of anonther star, Bogart(?) is hanging on the other side. From the corner of her eyes she just can see him. She nurtured him the last 28 years of his life. Til his death. It took almost 30 years before she did.
Kathleen had a husband, called Duffy. Kept seeing him afterwards on a regular basis. All her life. But she loved another person.
In one of her books she wrote: "Poor Duffy, he had every reason to be angry with me. But what could I do. I had to follow the music of my soul."
"The music of my soul"is one theme in the novel I am working on. Spent a lot of hours on it the last several days. Fine tuning. After I finish I go to a publisher. Working longer on it will make the story stale like an old piece of bread.
"And how you yourself, Jan. How is the music of your soul?'
"Fine."My usual answer the last days. Rightly so. But looking in the fine green eyes of Anne
I gave her the words of which""fine"is a bleak, though correct, summary.

If this visit to Argentine is a holiday, its the holiday I like. Not cut off, but temporarily living alone in a world I- apart from Bobbian and his wife- don't know anybody. A lot of strangers talking to me, when I wander around my House on the Lake. And even if I think I understand them, I know I actually don't, because words stay friendly and multiinterpretable superficialities, unless you get at the source. And I dont want it. I have already plenty sources that fill my brain.
But words are necessary.
Take the word "blossom".
Everywehere I live, the world is full of blosom. But I miss the words to specify. What blosoms of what trees and please how do you describe the colours? Beautiful? Rose? Or green? But what kind of green? How to describe the 100 different shades of green of spring that surround me.
So I gave myself the assignment to refresh my vocabulary I need to observe better and enjoy more.
The soup the owner offered me as an appetizer was very tasty. Not spicy, so I stick to the taste of the clear bouillon. Beef. Clear. Not stickey. A tiny bit salty. But predominantly soft and sweet. The main course consisted of a small heap of fieldsalad, heaped in the middle of a rectangular plate. Around this little green haystack five little cups were placed, small like the ones in a Chinese teaceremony, each filled with a different ingredient: salt, oil, piece of onion, soja, palmpits. The taste of this delicatesse lingers on not deafened by the cigar i just between my lips.
The owner picked up the empty plate and cutlery. She is an atletic not yet middleaged woman, compact, slightly rounded shoulders. Clerar brown eyes, a lot of friendliness around her lips. Practical, not businesslike.
She smiled.
"You are not writing about me, arent you?"
I pointed at the picture.
"Just about Kathleen," I said.
She smiled again. Nice teeth.
I smiled back. Liar me.

After my inspection tour of the geography of her house I took some time to spend some time on my face. The light from the plafonniers was not cruel, so I only had one option and that is to admit that I looked well. Eyes clear. Skin browning. By taking this all in I had the sudden rembrance of the Acrobat using Nivea Bleaching Cream, as manay young Chinese Women do. Bad. But trhese toughts stayed only an couple of seconds. Because looking at the top of my head
I had to congratulate myself with the fresh haircut, I bought yesterday. Men are not vain, they say.