Transitioning… Happening, without me even realizing.

The though tonight surfaced when considering the origin of the headache that bothered me all this evening. I have known this headache for a few years already; it happens every now and then, the pain creates each time a sensation of déjà-vu without clear hints as to its precise causes.

Until today, where the dots were connected very blatantly. I had initiated today several interleaved conversations simultaneously in more than two languages, two of them being very intensive and conceptually complex.

Wait. The sheer intricacy of this statement sounds sufficient to warrant a headache, right?

Well, actually not. The complexity of the conversations per se was not relevant; nor was the multiplicity of languages nor their simultaneousness. Indeed, part of my daily work is dedicated to long work-related, technical and complex conversations in two different languages (not counting those I use with my computers), often alternating between both at short intervals, and without any subsequent pain nor second thought. I enjoy this situation greatly; it brings me both joy and fulfillment. It is part of my life, to the extent that these languages are also those I use daily with friends and family for social and personal interactions.

No, the headache only appears in this very specific situation when I start to use my native tongue during the day — next to the two others. This ability I am carrying around, learned at a young age, is hurting me whenever I exercise it in my new world. Unsurprisingly, I also no realize I am starting to avoid it altogether for this very reason — often unconsciously, and yet…

Last week-end I realized that several grammar forms that were once as natural as breathing are now eluding me. Understanding is still effortless, but the communication becomes straining. When compounded with my normal daily interactions, the effort becomes painful and causes the dreaded headaches.

I am slowly and deliberately ruining — in the literal, etymological sense: think about the crumbling stones of an old castle — my relationship with the first language I ever learned.

Some of my medium- and long-term plans already included taking on Swedish and Frisian classes. Now, I am seriously considering inserting German into the list as well, because it is the social norm where I live. This may require some additional sacrifice, too.

And yet I don't care. Actually, it feels great. I prefer my new tongues anyways.

Last sunday my mind decided against the will of my body and despite one night dancing out I was ended up biking from Amsterdam to Marken and back. Fifty kilometers and a few sunburns later, I felt strangely relaxed, surprised again by the merits of exercise on my psychological sanity.

Besides the experience of serotonin, a quite distinct memory lingered after my stride around North Holland: the acute realization, twenty kilometers down the way and after crossing a few bakfietsen full with children, of the psychological imprinting that riding bikes has on most Dutch people, at the same age where I was spending most of my time building lego sets or playing around in a fine dry sand, a shy six hundred kilometers from the equator. I found it interesting to note that while the first memory of a lower water level at one side of a dike than the houses on the other blurs here with those of the first playground, my first memories often bring up the ruins of days long gone by. (And yes, I still recognize what's on that picture, although it has been nearly twenty years…)

There is a lot to recall and to tell about growing up as a third culture kid, especially when the only “consistent social unit” ends up imploding with emotional abuse — although deprivation may suit better the situation here — at the most unfortunate point in time, that is, the narrow window where one should learn models for a social identity. That's a quiet story I usually keep to myself, since demons of the past are best left lurking at the back of one's consciousness, carefully acknowledged regularly during the day so that they can stay reasonably quiet at night.

And yet, I was lucky and I could rejoice when fate, in an ironical twist, kicked me out of my own ignorance onto a world where I had to shed the scales I was given previously and grow my own. It was an unexpected but invaluable opportunity to deconstruct, and then reconstruct — a much-needed second adolescence during which the emotional turmoil proved to be a fertile ground for a new self: while I was fed vodka in nursing bottles by the woman who first handled me as a real person, I would imprint durably — like an inside tatoo overlaid on a fading pattern — the combined effects of friendship, ethanol and melodious rythmic sounds and let them replace gradually my fears of an autonomous identity in society.

Alas, location-based friendships built during the final period of a cosmopolitan education system are due to disintegrate when individuals go on with their personal development, often at very different locations at the surface of the globe. What survives is indeed invaluable — those few friendships that span frontiers, oceans and continents — but their distribution is precisely what prevents them from pushing a missing sense of “geographical belonging” into the unrooted, floating young adult now mostly out of the common flow.

But this is merely a minor concern. While some rawness makes me sensitive, it also makes me more receptive to certain feelings.

Tonight, I watched Shelter.

Removed from the daily reads: Dilbert, Daily WTF, UF. Added: PhD Comics.

Gisteren ben ik naar Off_corso geweest. Die is een nachtclub in Rotterdam, en ik was er nog nooit gegaan - de typische avondthema is 80's and 90's, en dat heb ik gewoon geen zin in.

Maar gisteren was the thema erg anders. Villa achterwerk is een nieuwe party die van Betty Ford Clinic de plaats inneemt - en Betty Ford was de grooste party in Rotterdam voor fun en gay lovers. Het heeft verschillende stijlen van muziek (pop en techno), een heleboel mooie jongen, en helemaal gek show, en overal een leuke positieve sfeer. Gezellig! Als Betty Ford, Villa achterwerk vindt plaats elke maand; eind april ga ik zeker terug.

Trouwens is mijn agenda al bijna vol. Volgende week ga ik naar Sensation White in Antwerpen, en daarna doe ik waarschnijnlijk een paar reizen naar Frankrijk…

Drukke lente, druk leven.

• go to a gay bar, dance like crazy, hook into a random guy's eyes, exchange two times two stupid^Wsimple conversation lines, kiss, fondle and dance together, play tongue catch with an ice cube, and then leave the place with no real intent to see him again-

check.

Well, I still left him my number. He's cute and kisses well. I would not mind a followup.

Some days I look at women, shake all context and past experience out of my mind, and look at my feelings.

Then I realize that nothing prevents me from loving, sharing intimacy, having sex, support and live with one. My closest friend is female; the colleagues I go along better with are female; I find the female body beautiful, and I actually take pleasure at admiring females in art and around me. Some people have even told me I would be the perfect lover: I like to and know how to take care of a household; I can create and animate conversations; and I have demonstrated an ability to handle and educate children. I actually feel proud that many women like me.

And yet, I'm still not married and never been into a relationship with a woman. And I'm over 25!

I could, and I'm not.

I feel sometimes sub-human. Like I “miss” a feature all humans should have, even for basic reproductory purposes. I am just totally not attracted. No tingle spreading for voluptuous lips or gorgeous breasts. No out-of-the-ordinary interest for curious or brilliant female intellects. Absolutely no feeling when witnessing intimacy between males and females, or females and females. None. Nada.

And yet, I know how it feels. I have been branded several times by intense attraction at first sight, and I remember it so well that I'm still shaking of the memory. In fact, I know very well what I like and what makes the warmth spread from my heart to the rest of the body.

I do find it difficult to feel different. Especially the part about living with other people who are not this way and still be confortable. But I would give it up for nothing.

As would Shakespeare state it:

To be or not to be, that is the question —
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep —
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep —
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life,
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

That said, the acute reader could observe that some words are missing from this entry. I am actually having an vocabulary issue about it, which is beautifully explained by someone who shares the same concern.

Today was a day of rest, following a tiring fight against a cold for my voice.

But today was also a day for myself, time to organize some thoughts and renew my surroundings at home.

Inspired by a simple and clever classification system it was decided that I would stop spending time to find and decide what kind of classification hierarchy would fit the thousands of computer files I collected over years and don't want to throw away (yet).

Relieved by that thought, I was in the perfect mood for an experiment with a beautiful mind opener. The experiment was successful; upon waking up again it felt like a new birth.

And with birth comes celebration and change. I indulged myself with chocolate, then went on to experiment with new layouts for my furniture.

The afternoon and early evening were busy, and I eventually created a new home for myself. Coming up with a new layout for lighting was an integral part of this effort, and I am now feeling confortable in my living room for the first time since I arrived in this apartment.

The feeling of "gezelligheid" experienced through listening to di.fm / Mostly Classical and enjoying a beautiful view on a series of candles is totally awesome and nearly competes with the sense of fulfillment I have sometimes by looking at the sky when walking in the streets around my beloved new place.

That to say that I regret having underestimated the effect of a gezellig lighting on my mood and feelings until now. It becomes more and more clear to me that I tend to mistakenly ignore or disregard the requirements for my well-being which I cannot satisfy immediately or without effort. I noticed it many times in the past, for instance when I re-discovered music, reading, casual sex, taking care of a home, seeing friends, watching romance movies, hosting commendable guests and light-hearted conversations.

I also realize that many other things come to my mind if I let it open to more sources of well-being. And that comes with mitigated feelings, part of them fear and laziness about the required efforts and part of them curiosity and excitement about involving myself into new activities.

This incredible movie was brought to my curiosity by some pictures of its georgous cast.

Until now Notting Hill was my favourite item at the top of that list where younger people put Cinderella and other happy-ending fairy tales. But after I watched The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert I realized that Notting Hill was lacking a bit of… something. Something fabulous. Something queer. Something about chaos and immorality. Something about me.

And so here comes Ethan Green, and I can toss Notting Hill away from that list.