Sunday Brunch

Tossed Salads & Scrambled Eggs

Choccy at the bright blue lake t hiemelrieck (realm of heaven)

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Last Sunday, instead of serving you brunch, I loaded stuff and things, and pets, into a car, and set off to Valthermond. My darling cousin drove all the way from Amsterdam to pick us up and drive us there (any excuse to spend time with her has me jumping for joy, grateful for her presence). We arrived safely, emptied out the car, had a cup of tea, and there I was, all settled with my friends and former death doula for my two-week initiation into various approaches to integrative psychotherapy, ranging from Acceptance and Commitment Therapy to integrative and transpersonal psychotherapy.

The name of this village may mean nothing to you. Valthermond is the longest linear village in the country. It is up in the North of the Netherlands in a province called Drenthe. It is known for the turf colonies, the ancient burial grounds (and more recently for an explosion killing two people), and it is close to where I lived for five years.

When cancer knocked me sideways the first time, I had been living in an artists’ squat in Haarlem. Not a suitable place to recover after two major surgeries. My parents took me in and for a few months I lived with them in Valthermond, before moving to the next village, Exloo, known as the pearl of Drenthe.

It is one of the best places I ever lived. My dad had seen a small add in a local newspaper, that said there was an apartment for rent in Exloo. When he called me, I was in Haarlem for the weekend, collecting some of my things and meeting up with various Amsterdam-based friends. “I think you should take that.”

He had a gut feeling about it. I yelled NO way!!. I am not sure what I thought the alternative would be, as I couldn’t stay in Haarlem and emigrating to Romania (which was the plan at the time) was off the table. Dad ignored me and insisted on securing the apartment. When he managed to make an appointment for a viewing I reluctantly hopped on the train and headed for Exloo. What the fuck am I looking for here, I thought. Not much later I would be eating my own words, along a slice of warm apple pie.

Dad was waiting for me at the train station in Emmen. I really think this is good for you, dad kept saying on the way. We arrived at an old farmhouse, surrounded by a garden full of nooks and crannies, with statues and creatures and ornaments everywhere you looked. It had a distinct Alice in Wonderland vibe.

That is when I met Rijk Blom and my life would change forever. He and his partner Mieke, and their children, would become like family. We sat down at the kitchen table, had tea and homemade apple pie. Occasionally Rijk, I gentle giant of a man clad in denim dungarees (which I would later find out was all he wore since the age of 19), would get up from the table to throw a log on the wood burner.

We talked. I spoked openly about the cancer, about my life expectancy at the time. I did not want to impose, be a burden. Rijk quietly listened, then leaned across the table and stretched out his hands to hold mine. “If this is where you want to live, you are more than welcome.”

I accepted the apartment without even seeing it. That it turned out to be the right size, light and bright and with a small conservatory, was a bonus. But it was about him. Rijk. I never felt more at home. There are so many stories I could (and at some point will) share about my time there. It healed me.

Two things he said still ring true:

1. There is no such thing as democracy. We live in a neo-feudal system.

2. Whenever you can raise a glass “to eternal chastity”.

Yesterday, after a long walk around a sunlit and stunning lake, called The Realm of Heaven, we went to Exloo for a drink. We brought Stella and Chocolate. It had me teary all the way there on the back seat, my arm gingerly resting on Stella’s furry back. Two worlds colliding: my Dutch life before Romania and the dogs from my life in Romania coming together.

Rijk is no longer with us in physical form. A small surgery followed by a fatal infection took him years ago. But all I had to do was close my eyes, to imagine him sitting in his Little Eden, the garden he referred to as “Het Hof van Heden” (not Eden, but a play on words, which in Dutch means “the present”). I saw him smile, and leaning forward to pet the girls, the way he held my hands the first time we met. I heard him say:

“hey patchwork pussycat, what are you up these days?”

“Following my heart, exactly like you told me to, the day I left for Romania.”

And it was my heart that led me back here, with my two furry girls in toe.

Forever grateful.

HOW TO BE A THERAPIST

In a way I feel I have bitten off more than I can chew. I have been given a memory stick which is basically a therapeutic treasure trove. I am diligently going through all folders and files, taking notes and creating a list of books I need to read. I continue to feel giddy with the excitement of learning and applying all that I have already learned, and experienced to date.

The information I have been given is extensive. It is a lot and as I have a meandering brain that loves to take little trips in various direction, triggered by pretty much everything, it is slow going. This isn’t “overload” on its own. It is, when I want to combine it with writing various pieces, I have lined up to share here. Plus, my fiction work that requires research and attention.

There is not much to share about this process yet. I am digging in, making connections, asking questions. I am sponging it all up. This is how my mind works. It is a giant hot pot of soup. It will feel overloaded and chaotic for a while, then I let it simmer, until piece by piece it all slots into place.

That may take about 2000 post-its in various colours, but I will get there. Again, something to be grateful for. The generosity of my friend, combined with allowing for a future perspective for myself, creates more space than I could imagine just a few months back.

After reminding me of the state I was in when I came here for my first session in end of life counselling back in 2011 (shuffling up the drive way, supported by my mother, my supra-pub catheter pee-bag hidden under a big cardigan, terrified, exhausted, in a lot of pain, and blown me up to about twice my normal size by the lymph oedema), she asked me:

“You are making plans now to work, but wouldn’t you rather take time? You have been through so much again lately?”

Yes and no.

Before all the scans and the tests that started last October and ended in perpetual confusion it was clear as day for me. Asking myself what I wanted to do, apart from writing, until my dying days, it was “become a therapist”. I had been slowly gravitating towards this for three years, and going to the Netherlands felt like the pivotal point to finally put this into action. Cancer recurrence has not changed this.

What has changed are my ability to focus, my energy levels and my emotional states. I do not underestimate the impact and time needed to recuperate. But the reality of my life is that I can’t live off welfare. It is not just because it makes me feel small and useless, it is simply not enough. Lack of funds has a way of sucking me into a vacuum, so I need to work again, earn money again, to give myself extra air to breathe. I also need to contribute. Life is short. I want to make it matter.

I am flipping the script on this, and many other circumstances of my life. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, because I can’t afford a six month, or year long cancer sabbatical, I see it as an opportunity to learn, grow, evolve, share, and give. Something good has to come out of it.

The current exploration is slightly “getting in the way” of my writing, but it is worth it. I don’t have infinite brain space available, and for another week I choose to give learning priority. It does make me realise, that even though I won back a lot of what I lost in 2011 in terms of focus, agility and energy, I have changed.

Considering I was told I was dying less than four months ago, being capable of absorbing information, receiving the generosity and joy these two weeks, is no mean feat. I am the strongest person I know. But I can’t do at all and certainly not all at once. And for that I can only be grateful too. Having to choose is clarifying.

NOSFERATU

The last film I saw at the cinema was Nosferatu. I did not know what to expect, but I loved it. Living in Transylvania, Dracula is different. I often joke he is the reason I went there. Hoping to be bitten, to live forever.

Before, long before I set foot in Transylvania, I wrote a thesis for Film & Television studies on the vampire. I will not take you on a ride through academic discourse on the undead. Instead, I urge you to watch the movie and tell me what you think.

The only thing that bugged me about it, as it always does, is the way Lily Rose Depp always looks, well, stoned. And pairing her with Nicholas Hoult was a little like watching a “best cheekbones of the century” competition.

APPLE CIDER VINEGAR

This one needs to sink in. While the old folks were out visiting a museum and having dinner last Thursday, I binge watched this new Netflix series, Apple Cider Vinegar. This cure all home remedy is an innocent sounding title for something that feels quite gutting. It loosely blends the stories of Belle Gibson, a lying and cheating influencer who pretended to cure brain cancer with a diet, with the tragic tale of Milla, whose character is based on Jessica Ainscough.

It immediately made me think of, well many things. I took notes the first time watching. I mulled it over, talked about, took more notes. I will watch it again, plus the documentary on Belle Gibson that was recently added. Then I will do my utmost to cram it all into a personal essay. I will stamp a big fat SPOILER ALERT on it, for those who want to watch it, slightly oblivious to the entirety of the thing. It’s a lot, I can tell you that much. Watching it there were tears, a lot of cussing, breaks where I frantically hoovered the house, and eventually red wine.

BABY GIRL / THE SUBSTANCE

Tuesday night we sat down for dinner, plates on our laps in front of the TV. The plan ws to watch Babygirl, Halina Reijn’s movie. I have been referring to it a lot lately, but never managed to catch it at the cinema. For a moment of exhilaration, we thought it was available for home viewing. It isn’t. We substituted it with the Substance, another movie that has been hard to miss and was on my maybe watch list (my friend walked out of the cinema after the first fifteen minutes so that wasn’t exactly a rave review).

I know now that when something says “body horror” it is not meant figuratively or metaphorically. Coralie Fargeat taught me that in a brutal lesson.

Much has been said about this movie already. Before watching it I found Demi Moore an odd choice for the role (Miss Moore is another topic I once dedicated a thesis to). I am not sure what novel insights I have to add, as the movie has been meticulously dissected already by others.

It did spark a conversation among ourselves here, where two women and one men came to the sad conclusion that patriarchy, misogyny and men suck. Nothing new here. What is new, is the relentless resurgence and expansion of all these, that we are currently living.

Jonathan Meijer, the answer to all our prayers.

TOXIC MASCULINITY AND THE NEW MESSIAHS

Which led to the following. I will give you my “dominos”, but will take my merry time to tie it up into something a little more elaborate, better thought through. The orange man. I watched the Apprentice, and like the Substance, I had to make a real effort to suppress my instant reflux.

Then I read that Elooney may have procreated with yet another female. It made me think about the need to spread seed, and it made me sad for not being able to muster an ounce of sympathy for the female who allegedly gave birth to said offspring. I wonder if he is also secretly renting bellies for an army of surrogate babies that will start to pop up all over the world. Although that way, he loses out on all the fun that comes with manipulating and making former lovers miserable.

The need to spread to seed led me to another phenomenon called Jonathan Meijer, who as added Messiah like tendencies to his role as mega sperm donator. Fathering a whooping 550 kids and counting, he has been in and out of court in efforts to stop him. He has found time in between to try to establish himself as a spiritual guide, making lame videos.

This then made Bentinho Massaro pop back into my head, after I had made great efforts to banish him from occupying any of my brainspace.

This is another enlightened individual, who holds the power to elevate the world to a higher level. Huhuh.

I was halfway through watching a short Vice documentary on Bentinho, when I received a message that said the orange man is now putting pressure on the Romanian government to lift the travel ban on two other male monkeys (with this I really insult actual monkeys), namely the Tate brothers. Jesus wept and then some. These vile individuals run an empire that make the orange man , elooney, Meijer and Bentinho look like amateurs. This is the advanced class for blatant misogyny. I don’t ostrich often, but if there ever was a time where I feel a strong desire to stick my head in the sand it is this. It makes me want to puke, or punch.

A similar vomit vibe surrounded another misogynist waste of space, known as Thierry Baudet.

Before he made an utter ass of himself as a pretend politician, he managed to catch the limelight by defending another vile villain, Julian Blanc. Before the Tates claimed the throne for “most hated man in the world”, he was doing an excellent job pissing people off. If you are not utterly nauseated by now, by how frighteningly easy it has become for my agile brain to connect from one sick puppy to the next, I suggest you google him, just for shitz and giggles.

Julian Blanc being a dating coach, my last piece of domino that got ticked and toppled this week was Matthew Coast. His concept of “high value women” and critique of feminism as being about “power and control” instead of equality makes him suspect. I have all his course material, which I am now ploughing through to sniff out the nasties.

If you are still with me and have dominos to add, let me know!

Julia Fox said she choose celibacy after Kanye.

The Lysistrata Effect

I don’t mind reading about what celibacy has brought Lenny Kravitz. His thing, not my concern. What does have me concerned is the various trends of celibacy and abstinence amongst women, who somehow think this is a way to get back their power from men. I will explore more, but for now I share this “random” Reddit comment:

“and due to this rise in “casual” flings and hook ups, i feel many women are over the patriarchal forced “sexual liberation” that, to be honest, benefited men more than it did women. so now that a lot of women are turning around and actually realising that sexual liberation was at its core, not rebelling the patriarchy like we wanted it to because it was men who were also getting something out of it, many women have turned to celibacy and abstinence. and rightfully so.”

Please tell me how? Because from where I am sitting, crossing your legs, tucking your boobs away, deleting all your dating apps and pretend men don’t exist, or that you don’t need them, these sex strikes does not look particularly empowering to me.

That’s all for now folks!

To be continued…

Love Lee

XXL