The roles have been reversed: the country where I used to live for seven years now dwells inside my head. Where else can I leave it? Where do you put a country, such a big and awkward thing? Who wants it, to hold it, behold and receive it? "Didn't you use to live in Czechia?" "Yes, for seven years." "Right. In Prague then?" "Yes in Prague too. And then in Olomouc." "Olomouc, never heard of it." "Never mind, it's in the east." "And? do you miss it a bit?" Miss it a bit. Ach, what is it you want to hear? You probably don't want to hear, do you? What is it to you.. what do I say... what would what could I say.. where do I even..
I have put it way. Like a map I've carefully straightened it out - all those cities, villages, streets, train tracks, country roads, forest paths, riversides, neighbourhoods, shops, markets, backstreets - straightened them out, folded them up and put them away. Too much room it should not take up. This topography of another world, these coordinates of another life. Folded up in my head it lives, it lodges - it fits, it's not in the way, in fact it does not stand out. This country that dwells in my head.
How is it possible! I sometimes think when I cycle through the city, when I travel on the train, speak with my colleagues, live a Dutch life - how is it possible! that I cycle here, sit here, talk here, whilst having this country dwell in my head. How does it fit, how is it possible, this colossus in my head. It fits there, it keeps quiet there, but when does it speak up, when does it rear its head?
If I would take it out, unfold it, smoothen it - how enormous it would be. Fourhundredeighty kilometres wide and twohundredeighty kilometres long all times seven. A map, endlessly unfoldable, endlessly inzoomable. A pop-up book. A 3-D film. A Narnia behind rows of fur coats in the deep oak cupboard in a quiet room upstairs.
That country that dwells in my head. Often I don't even notice it - it's discreet, no obtrusive, it is contented with a modest space. Until I'm done working, done running, done planning. Then it tends to project itself like a film on the back of my mind, like a landscape unfolding in my brain- as long as it lasts - the duration of a thought, the lengtth of an association, a day dream, a lingering memory, a melancholic day. In those moments I am nog thinking about there, I simply am there.
And to my own surprise a country of seven years is not a well-told story with a beginning, middle and end. No analysis of what was good and what disappointed - of what I loved and what caused friction. No item on my resumé. No collection of select anecdotes. It could be that, but then it's not. It's an exact knowing, a precise feeling. An endless stream of details, an undercurrent of consiousness. It's the loose tiles on the pavement on the way to the supermarket. How the city centre feels after closing time on a Saturday. Which trains and buses to take on my way to my good friends. How conversations spin out late at night at a kitchen table. The bends in the train tracks on the way to Prague, and which trees you then get to see. I freely move around in the country that dwells in my head.
A country like a stream of details, like a stream of useless details for everyone but me. A few details strung together and what you've got is an impression, an incoherent story. But if I put them all - but I mean all - together - all those mundane details, all that insignificance, all that not-worth-narrating - and I've got my country back, my other life back, that country where I used to be, and that's still here, and that is exactly like it used to be if only I would be there again. A country, a colossus, big as it is, hard as it is to catch. So small too, modest, unobtrusive, you don't even see it. I smoothen it out, fold it back up, and store it away in my head, where it then dwells. How is it possible, how does it fit. But it fits, and there it exists.
I have put it way. Like a map I've carefully straightened it out - all those cities, villages, streets, train tracks, country roads, forest paths, riversides, neighbourhoods, shops, markets, backstreets - straightened them out, folded them up and put them away. Too much room it should not take up. This topography of another world, these coordinates of another life. Folded up in my head it lives, it lodges - it fits, it's not in the way, in fact it does not stand out. This country that dwells in my head.
How is it possible! I sometimes think when I cycle through the city, when I travel on the train, speak with my colleagues, live a Dutch life - how is it possible! that I cycle here, sit here, talk here, whilst having this country dwell in my head. How does it fit, how is it possible, this colossus in my head. It fits there, it keeps quiet there, but when does it speak up, when does it rear its head?
If I would take it out, unfold it, smoothen it - how enormous it would be. Fourhundredeighty kilometres wide and twohundredeighty kilometres long all times seven. A map, endlessly unfoldable, endlessly inzoomable. A pop-up book. A 3-D film. A Narnia behind rows of fur coats in the deep oak cupboard in a quiet room upstairs.
That country that dwells in my head. Often I don't even notice it - it's discreet, no obtrusive, it is contented with a modest space. Until I'm done working, done running, done planning. Then it tends to project itself like a film on the back of my mind, like a landscape unfolding in my brain- as long as it lasts - the duration of a thought, the lengtth of an association, a day dream, a lingering memory, a melancholic day. In those moments I am nog thinking about there, I simply am there.
And to my own surprise a country of seven years is not a well-told story with a beginning, middle and end. No analysis of what was good and what disappointed - of what I loved and what caused friction. No item on my resumé. No collection of select anecdotes. It could be that, but then it's not. It's an exact knowing, a precise feeling. An endless stream of details, an undercurrent of consiousness. It's the loose tiles on the pavement on the way to the supermarket. How the city centre feels after closing time on a Saturday. Which trains and buses to take on my way to my good friends. How conversations spin out late at night at a kitchen table. The bends in the train tracks on the way to Prague, and which trees you then get to see. I freely move around in the country that dwells in my head.
A country like a stream of details, like a stream of useless details for everyone but me. A few details strung together and what you've got is an impression, an incoherent story. But if I put them all - but I mean all - together - all those mundane details, all that insignificance, all that not-worth-narrating - and I've got my country back, my other life back, that country where I used to be, and that's still here, and that is exactly like it used to be if only I would be there again. A country, a colossus, big as it is, hard as it is to catch. So small too, modest, unobtrusive, you don't even see it. I smoothen it out, fold it back up, and store it away in my head, where it then dwells. How is it possible, how does it fit. But it fits, and there it exists.
Comments
Post a Comment