Dolce far niente, Archibald Lampman, John Birmingham, Cees Buddingh’, Diana Ozon

Dolce far niente

 


Summer Heat (A Road to the Ranges) door Arthur Streeton, 1889

 

Heat

From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half-way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.

In the sloped shadow of my hat
I lean at rest, and drain the heat;
Nay more, I think some blessèd power
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this hour
My thoughts grow keen and clear.

 

 
Archibald Lampman (17 november 1861 – 10 februari 1899)
Lampmans voormalige woonhuis in Ottawa

 

De Australische schrijver John Birmingham werd geboren op 7 augustus 1964 in Liverpool, Engeland. Zie ook alle tags voor John Birmingham op dit blog.

Uit: Emergence: Dave vs. the Monsters

« A helicopter is no place for a hangover. Hooper closed his eyes and breathed carefully as the engine spooled up. His gorge rose at the toxic mix of jet fuel, stale sweat, and bile at the back of his throat. The thudding of the rotors punched deep into his chest: sickening deep-body blows that traveled up his spinal column, directly into his neck and head. He bit down hard on a gag reflex, refusing to heave up what little remained of his stomach contents, most of which he’d left in a steaming pile on the grass at the edge of the helipad.
“Oh, fuck me,” he grunted as the red and white Era Helicopter took off, driving him down into his seat. Years of ass compression had squashed the foam cushioning into a thin hard sandwich between his butt and the steel struts of the seat fitting. The chopper, a venerable old AW139, was streaked with rust and oil, the Plexiglas scratched and the nonslip floor sticky with chaw tobacco and chewing gum. Like Dave, its glory days were behind it, and the AC did nothing to mask the baked-in stench of sweat, cigarette smoke, and budget cologne. Dave was just glad he had the cabin to himself on this trip. The only stewed farts and bad breath he had to contend with were his own. As they ascended, the great rusty iron lever behind his eyeballs cranked up the pressure on his headache. He squeezed his eyes shut behind wraparound Oakleys, but the bright Gulf sun burned through anyway, driving a sharp spike through his eyeballs, an unpleasant contrast to the duller concussive hammering on the sides of his skull. He removed his Dallas Cowboys cap and rubbed gently at the thinning hair on top of his skull in an effort to alleviate the pain—all to no avail. He kept his hair short these days. You had to when it started to fall out, and no matter how tenderly he ministered to himself, his fingertips seemed to rake deep and surely bloody furrows through the unprotected scalp.
“Oh, fuck me,” he grunted again, replacing the cap and making the stubbled skin disappear.”


John Birmingham (Liverpool, 7 augustus 1964)

 

De Nederlandse dichter en prozaïst Cees Buddingh’ werd op 7 augustus 1918 geboren in Dordrecht. Zie ook alle tags voor Cees Budding’ op dit blog.

 

Portret van een witte muis

Het is niet voldoende
een lap linnen van twee bij twee meter
helemaal wit te schilderen

om een lekker tof schilderij te maken
dient men er daarna niet alleen
met dezelfde witte verf
een volkomen witte muis op te schilderen
maar men moet vervolgens die witte muis
met een stuk puimsteen langzaam wegschuren
tot er geen spoor meer van overblijft

het kost tijd en moeite natuurlijk, maar dan pas
heeft men een lekker tof schilderij
dat men met een diepgerust hart
portret van een witte muis kan noemen.

 

Heel oud spel

het is een heel oud spel,
maar gelukkig nog vrij eenvoudig te leren

er komen geen stukken bij te pas,
geen stenen, geen schijven, geen fiches, geen kaarten,
alleen, soms, een simpel rekensysteem

het wordt gespeeld met drie of vier benen
(en nog een paar andere benodigdheden)
in een al dan niet opgemaakt bed
(bij gebreke daarvan kan vrijwel ieder
min of meer effen oppervlak dienen,
mits min of meer horizontaal van stand)

het is, als gezegd, een heel oud spel,
maar nog steeds veruit het gezelligste

 

 
Cees Buddingh’ (7 augustus 1918 – 24 november 1985)

 

De Nederlandse dichteres Diana Ozon (pseudoniem van Diana Groenveld) werd geboren in Amsterdam op 7 augustus 1959. Zie ook alle tags voor Diana Ozon op dit blog.

 

Moeder

Een bushokje is erg klein
tochtig en onherbergzaam
met je zeven kinderen
slapen op het plaveisel
samen onder één deken
ver van je thuisland
op reis overal uitgewezen

Je wou naar Rotterdam toe
daar zou iemand je helpen
waarschijnlijk had je nog nooit
van dat Groningen gehoord
tot bleek dat de trein daar stopt
het vervoer niet verder gaat
het was al na middernacht

Ik zie je steeds opnieuw staan
met koffers en kinderen
in vele gedaantes en
met elke taal verlegen
duizend angstige vragen
letters kan je niet lezen
geen plaats om in te rusten

 

MA~, AMIGA

Wil je een Duits toetsenbord
met ringel-s en umlaut
of liever compatibel met
de Commodore 64
de eerste volkscomputer
op de voet gevolgd door
de MSX 1, 2 en 2+

De optimalizering van pc
naar pct, xt, xtt naar at en
dan vergeet ik nog de st die
staat bij Chinees restaurant
Pa Lin ter controle of
de bamie is geënterd
Ik druk op einde F7 en ga eten

heb nog niet zo’n spatvrij zeil als
de nieuwe kok uit Hong Kong


Diana Ozon (Amsterdam, 7 augustus 1959)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 7e augustus ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2017 en ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2011 deel 1 en ook deel 2.

John Birmingham, Cees Buddingh’, Diana Ozon, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Joachim Ringelnatz, Garrison Keillor, Dieter Schlesak, Othon III de Grandson

De Australische schrijver John Birmingham werd geboren op 7 augustus 1964 in Liverpool, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor John Birmingham op dit blog.

Uit: Weapons of Choice

“He unwrapped the banana leaves from around a small rice cake, thanking Allah for the generosity of his masters. They had included a little dried fish in his rations for today, a rare treat.
Sometimes, when the sun climbed directly overhead and beat down with a slow fury, Adil’s thoughts wandered. He cursed his weakness and begged God for the strength to carry out his duty, but it was hard. He had fallen asleep more than once. Nothing ever seemed to happen. There was plenty of movement down in Dili, which was infested with crusader forces from all over the Christian world, but Dili wasn’t his concern. His sole responsibility was to watch those ships that were hiding in the shimmering haze on the far horizon.
Still, Adil mused, it would be nice to know he had some real purpose here; that he had not been staked out like a goat on the side of a hill. Perhaps he was to be part of some elaborate strike on the Christians in town. Perhaps tonight the darkness would be torn asunder by holy fire as some martyr blew up one of their filthy taverns. But then, why leave him here on the side of this stupid hill, covered in monkey shit and tormented by ants?
This wasn’t how he had imagined jihad would be when he had graduated from the Madrasa in Bandung.
USS Kandahar, 1014 Hours, 15 January 2021
The marines wouldn’t have been surprised at all to discover that someone like Adil was watching over them. In fact, they assumed there were more than two hundred million pairs of eyes turned their way as they prepared to deploy into the Indonesian Archipelago.
Nobody called it the Caliphate. Officially the United States still recognized it as the sovereign territory of Indonesia, seventeen thousand islands stretching from Banda Aceh, three hundred kilometers off the coast of Thailand, down to Timor, just north of Australia.
The sea-lanes passing through those islands carried a third of the world’s maritime trade, and officially they remained open to all traffic. The Indonesian government-in-exile said so-from the safety of the Grand Hyatt in Geneva where they had fled, three weeks earlier, after losing control of Jakarta. »

 
John Birmingham (Liverpool, 7 augustus 1964)

Continue reading “John Birmingham, Cees Buddingh’, Diana Ozon, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Joachim Ringelnatz, Garrison Keillor, Dieter Schlesak, Othon III de Grandson”

Dolce far niente, Abdelkader Benali, John Birmingham, Cees Buddingh’, Diana Ozon, Othon III de Grandson

Dolce far niente

 

 
Kasteel Assumburg, Heemskerk

 

Heemskerk

Paars pioenroze in juni. Twee vijftig voor een bosje.
Te geef. Ze liggen in een kratje te wachten op een
hardloper, een wandelaar, een koper.Wij passeren.
Mijn tweede keer in Heemskerk. Drie rondjes

van zeven kilometer. Een bordje met daarop kam-
pioenen. Bloemen geurt alles naar. Drie rondjes
betaald door Tata Steel. Tietenijzer. De eerste keer
liep ik harder, de tweede keer kom ik niet verder

dan de derde. Villawijk. Polder. De geur van
mest. Mensen op het gazon, kortgeknipt en
groen. Een villa staat te koop. Een donkere
vrouw met aan haar voet een flesje water,

wacht op haar man, haar minnaar, haar vriend,
een zus. Familie. Onze blikken missen elkaar.

 
Abdelkader Benali (Ighazzazen, 25 november 1975)

Continue reading “Dolce far niente, Abdelkader Benali, John Birmingham, Cees Buddingh’, Diana Ozon, Othon III de Grandson”

John Birmingham, Diana Ozon, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Cees Buddingh’, Joachim Ringelnatz

De Australische schrijver John Birmingham werd geboren op 7 augustus 1964 in Liverpool, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor John Birmingham op dit blog.

Uit: Stalin’s Hammer

“Harry dug a thumb into the man’s biceps to emphasize just who was controlling this negotiation.
“You won’t get a chance to tell anybody anything until you get to a safe house, and I’m not taking you anywhere until I know whether it’s worth it. Quite frankly, comrade, there’s a very good chance I’m going to get my arse shot off tonight.
It’s a fine-looking arse too. I spend a lot of time keeping it in trim and my girlfriend will be jolly fucking upset if some filthy Smedlov shoots a big bloody hole in it. So before we go anywhere, before you begin the first day of your new life as a pampered turncoat on some beach in bloody Australia, you’re going to tell me everything you know. Just. In. Case.”
The businessman grinned, or at least tried to. It was a weak, unconvincing effort. His eyes shifted left and right, and he jumped a little as the fire-exit door suddenly opened.
“Still looks clear out here, guv,” reported St. Clair.
“Thanks, Viv.”
“Don’t thank me, Your bloody Highness. Just make sure they pay my invoice promptly when I send it for this little bit of freelancing. Seven-day terms.”
“Your check is in the mail.”
Harry laid his gaze back on the quivering Sobeskaia, allowing the Russian to see the smile in his eyes die when he turned away from his old friend.
“Is complicated, and much difficulty,” blurted Sobeskaia.
“Much I do not know, much I have to tell. This is not place and, really, we must go now. I can tell all, later.”
“Aggregate it for me, Comrade Huff Po.”

 
John Birmingham (Liverpool, 7 augustus 1964)

Continue reading “John Birmingham, Diana Ozon, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Cees Buddingh’, Joachim Ringelnatz”

John Birmingham, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Cees Buddingh’, Joachim Ringelnatz

De Australische schrijver John Birmingham werd geboren op 7 augustus 1964 in Liverpool, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor John Birmingham op dit blog.

Uit:Without Warning

„They were her mission. And her name wasn’t Cathy. It was Caitlin.
The women were dressed in cheap clothing, layered for warmth. Falling back into the pillows, recovering from an uncontrolled moment of vertigo into which she had fallen, Caitlin Monroe composed herself. She was in a hospital bed, and in spite of the apparent poverty of her “friends,” the private room was expensively fitted out. The youngest of the women wore a brown suede jacket, frayed at the cuffs and elbows and festooned with colorful protest buttons.
A stylized white bird. A rainbow. A collection of slogans: Halliburton Watch. Who Would Jesus Bomb? And Resistance Is Fertile.
Caitlin took a sip of water from a squeeze bottle by the bed.
“I’m sorry,” she croaked. “What happened to me?”
She received a pat on the leg from an older, red-haired woman wearing a white T-shirt over some sort of lumpy handmade sweater. Celia. “Auntie” Celia, although she wasn’t related to anyone in the room. Auntie Celia had very obviously chosen the strange ensemble to show off the writing on her shirt, which read If you are not outraged you are not paying attention.
“Doctor!” cried the other older woman, who had just moved to the doorway.
Maggie. An American, like Caitlin. And there the similarity ended. Maggie the American was short and barrel-chested and pushing fifty, where Caitlin was tall, athletic, and young.
She felt around under her blanket and came up with a plastic control stick for the bed.
“Try this,” she offered, passing the controller to the young girl she knew as Monique, a pretty, raven-haired Frenchwoman. “See, the red call button. That’ll bring ’em.” Then, gently touching the bandages that swaddled her head, she asked, “Where am I?”
“You’re in a private room, at the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris,” explained Monique. “Paris, France,” she added self-consciously.
Caitlin smiled weakly. “’Okay. I remember that Paris is in France.” She paused. “And now I am, too, I guess. How did I get here? I don’t remember much after coming out of the Chunnel on the bus.

 
John Birmingham (Liverpool, 7 augustus 1964)

Continue reading “John Birmingham, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Cees Buddingh’, Joachim Ringelnatz”

John Birmingham, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Cees Buddingh’, Joachim Ringelnatz

De Australische schrijver John Birmingham werd geboren op 7 augustus 1964 in Liverpool, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor John Birmingham op dit blog.

 

Uit: After America

„New York
“No siree, Mister President, you do not get these from pettin’ kitty cats.”
James Kipper nodded, smiling doubtfully as the slab-shouldered workman flexed his biceps and kissed each one in turn. His Secret Service guys didn’t seem much bothered, and he’d long ago learned to pick up on their unspoken signals and body language. They paid much less attention to the salvage crew in front of him than to the ruined façades of the office blocks looking down on the massive, rusting pileup in Lower Manhattan. The hard work and unseasonal humidity of Lower Manhattan had left the workman drenched in sweat, and Kipper could feel the shirt sticking to his own back.
Having paid homage to his bowling-ball-sized muscles, the workman reached out one enormous, calloused paw to shake hands with the forty-forth president of the United States. Kipper’s grip was not as strong as it once had been and had certainly never been anywhere near as powerful as this gorilla’s, but a long career in engineering hadn’t left him with soft fingers or a limp handshake. He returned the man’s iron-fisted clench with a fairly creditable squeeze of his own.
“Whoa there, Mister President,” the salvage and clearance worker cried out jokingly. “I need these dainty pinkies for my second job. As a concert pianist, don’tcha know.”
The small crush of men and women gathered around Kipper grinned and chuckled. This guy was obviously the clown of the bunch.
“A concert penis, you say?” Kipper shot back. “What’s that, some sorta novelty act? With one of those really tiny pianos?”
The groan of his media handler, Karen Milliner, was lost in the sudden uproar of coarse, braying laughter as the S&C workers erupted at the exchange. That did put his security detail a little on edge, but the man-mountain with the kissable biceps was laughing the loudest of them all, pointing at the chief executive and crying out, “This fuggin’ guy. He cracks me up. Best fuggin’ president ever.”

 

John Birmingham (Liverpool, 7 augustus 1964)

Continue reading “John Birmingham, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Cees Buddingh’, Joachim Ringelnatz”

Michael Roes, John Birmingham, Vladimir Sorokin, Cees Buddingh’, Garrison Keillor

De Duitse dichter, schrijver en filmmaker Michael Roes werd geboren op 7 augustus 1960 in Rhede. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2010.

 

Uit: Geschichte der Freundschaft

 

Wir sitzen am Strand reden über sein Studium, über Literatur und Philosophie und über die Schwierigkeiten des Übersetzens. Plötzlich ändert sich sein Ton. Heute Nacht habe ich von dir geträumt, sagt er. Im Traum hattest du die Gestalt eines Elefanten. Aber ich wusste von Anfang an, dass du es warst. Zunächst fürchtete ich, du würdest alles zertrampeln, die Obstkisten vor den Geschäften, die Tische und Stühle vor den Cafés. Doch du bewegst dich ganz vorsichtig durch die enge Straße, lässt dich von den Kindern streicheln und hebst die Mutigeren von ihnen mit deinem Rüssel sogar auf deinen Rücken. Als du dann mich packst, bekomme ich doch Angst. Ich will etwas rufen, aber halte dann lieber den Mund, um den Elefanten nicht zu erschrecken.”

 

 

 

Michael Roes (Rhede, 7 augustus 1960)

Continue reading “Michael Roes, John Birmingham, Vladimir Sorokin, Cees Buddingh’, Garrison Keillor”