I'll have to write a column in english from time tot time, for those of my dear readers who won't read long pieces of dutch prosa.
When the day after you went to a party you find in your pocket a folded piece of paper with words like: "Mojo", "Kwa", "to find a minder" written on it, you know it has been a good party. If besides that you won't come out of your slumber, not even if lifted by a crane, to attend to the daily task of taking the little children to school, then you know it has been a really, really good party.
And when you finally wake up, and the bits of the night before which come to your inner eye through the mists of marihuana and beer are full of magic and marvel, what then do you call such a party? A party where you came into the bizarrely constructed loft in an old hospital where your friend lives, to find there a circle of good old whitches with or without their occasional man, each one of them beautiful and strong, telling you rightaway the most interesting story, digging deep, a German Goddess, walking through the room at a slow pace, head upright, the gorgeous fullness of her flesh cast in tight moulding veils of colours that soften the eye, three girls near their teens coming out of an adjacent closet with theatrical costumes on and starting dancing, not for one song, but two or three, and then a fourth (having changed costumes), till all the dance-eager women would rise from their seats and follow their example to dance on the craziest and funniest of music for hours, occasionnally dragging one of the men along who would comply and not do bad at all? Where the hostess, your good friend of old, dances along in her Volendammer costume, thumping her clogs on the floor, being Australian and all? Where you have done nothing else than laugh and be merry for hours and hours?
I call it: "Back to the eighties" and "So glad to be alive."
I call it: "Give me some more of that, please!"
When the day after you went to a party you find in your pocket a folded piece of paper with words like: "Mojo", "Kwa", "to find a minder" written on it, you know it has been a good party. If besides that you won't come out of your slumber, not even if lifted by a crane, to attend to the daily task of taking the little children to school, then you know it has been a really, really good party.
And when you finally wake up, and the bits of the night before which come to your inner eye through the mists of marihuana and beer are full of magic and marvel, what then do you call such a party? A party where you came into the bizarrely constructed loft in an old hospital where your friend lives, to find there a circle of good old whitches with or without their occasional man, each one of them beautiful and strong, telling you rightaway the most interesting story, digging deep, a German Goddess, walking through the room at a slow pace, head upright, the gorgeous fullness of her flesh cast in tight moulding veils of colours that soften the eye, three girls near their teens coming out of an adjacent closet with theatrical costumes on and starting dancing, not for one song, but two or three, and then a fourth (having changed costumes), till all the dance-eager women would rise from their seats and follow their example to dance on the craziest and funniest of music for hours, occasionnally dragging one of the men along who would comply and not do bad at all? Where the hostess, your good friend of old, dances along in her Volendammer costume, thumping her clogs on the floor, being Australian and all? Where you have done nothing else than laugh and be merry for hours and hours?
I call it: "Back to the eighties" and "So glad to be alive."
I call it: "Give me some more of that, please!"
Great column.
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