temporary shelters

(shots of my final art exhibition as i attempt to re- and deconstruct the homes I've built)

dreams of beyond

(photos taken by the lovely Karanjit)

Some photos of Active English (where we taught the children in the local village English on a weekly basis), while I stumble my way through piles of assorted notes.

Algerian War of Independence/Reactions of Alkanes/Trangression in God of Small Things, anyone?

throw away survival kits

Campus races to photocopy, scan, fix, finish art in all its forms and features have begun, so here are some images of Hampi, a deserted little hippie-temple-rock town, and of my mental state in Bangalore, pre-MUWCI-return to races and running and typing at double-speed.

As for the rest of life, INC is coming up, which means the selection of the 'new generation' of Indian UWC kids, and I'm still only adjusting, readjusting and actually just settling in to the continuous changes of pace that make this place so exhaustingly interesting. In the last week alone, our headmaster resigned, Mamma Mia (the musical) was performed with much gusto and extravagance, and mock exams rounded off with a dull thud and the gradual pain as we realise that we may just have to study sometime soon. Maybe.

Besides all that, here's a poem from the book I'm so successfully concealing myself with in the last picture.
Love from a sunny India!

Kid // Simon Armitage

Batman, big shot, when you gave the order
to grow up, then let me loose to wander
leeward, freely through the wild blue yonder
as you liked to say, or ditched me, rather,
in the gutter ... well, I turned the corner.
Now I've scotched that 'he was like a father
to me' rumour, sacked it, blown the cover
on that 'he was like an elder brother'
story, let the cat out on that caper
with the married woman, how you took her
downtown on expenses in the motor.
Holy robin-redbreast-nest-egg-shocker!
Holy roll-me-over-in the-clover,
I'm not playing ball boy any longer
Batman, now I've doffed that off-the-shoulder
Sherwood-Forest-green and scarlet number
for a pair of jeans and crew-neck jumper;
now I'm taller, harder, stronger, older.
Batman, it makes a marvellous picture:
you without a shadow, stewing over
chicken giblets in the pressure cooker,
next to nothing in the walk-in larder,
punching the palm of your hand all winter,
you baby, now I'm the real boy wonder.

fear of flying

(analogue snapshot of a corner of my Dutch room)

Here's something I wrote a couple of months ago for an English assignment, which was inspired by a prompt piece about love. Art and workbooking calls, and having just rounded off my mocks with thousands of fountain-pen inked words hollowed of meaning, I'm feeling as empty as the receding tide. Time and applications and self-reflective thoughts that circle and spiral inwards towards a centre I hope is fixed, it's April and I'm still passing my time listening to guitar-strumming co-years sing tales of lives far removed. I'm repeating steps in my mind, with my feet, hearing the sound of illusionary settling and the shattering glass of expectations, as things continue to change, as I want and need and can't stop them from doing.

Spaces in Togetherness

Spooning in a small bed, they talk about everything and everyone under the stars and moon and sky. Merging into one being with two sets of eyes, limbs and toes is a secret longing of hers. She imagines it would be so much more effective, stronger and more resilient to have a spare or double of every and any piece the world only gave her one of. If they did merge, she would be a they, they would be one and no spaces would need to be filled between their physical beings, no chasms of mental differences would need to be bridged.

She likes bridges, of course. Bridges are useful, she knows that. Every morning, she crosses at least three, living in the small, canal-segmented city of Delft as she does. Bridges are ingenious, she knows that. She loves the massive Erasmus bridge in Rotterdam, the architectural achievement it stands for. Even smaller, more mental bridges are great. Connections built through new knowledge, bridging the gaps between two facts that were previously seemingly unrelated. In relationship terms as well, she feels an appreciation for the skill constructing and maintaining bridges of comprehension requires. But, she'd rather be a single entity, a solid piece of land without intervention, without bridges that would imply small streams of troubled water.

He is big, tall, broad and safe. Enveloped in his embraces, generic as that sounds, comfort her and make her feel at home. He is not small, like everything she has grown up in and around. It is brilliant.

"She wants to know if I love her, that's all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there, like new batteries in the flashlight in the emergency kit in the hall closet."

(Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close)

I'm not a spare tire, he thinks. He knows she wants nought but all, but he needs to find some room. It's a comfort thing, he understands, it's a size thing, he gets it. In his mind though, he is not in the cramped room with the clingy girl, but out in Iceland, with the free and the wild and the alien of the unknown. He's too big for this space.

I always wanted to be an astronaut, he thinks. Can you imagine the insane feeling of being completely separate from the world? His favourite song used to be the one about Major Tom, the one about the man who manages to lose contact with Ground Control. He pictures himself in space, in endless amounts of space and stars and emptiness. He needs emptiness.

I like balloons because they're empty, he thinks. The notion of negative space, something that only works because so much space is left alone. He pictures himself in a bubble, a personal bubble of space. If he had his own bubble, he would look like an outsized goldfish. Maybe he wouldn't even have to wear clothes - the bubble could be opaque and only open for food and love. If everyone lived like that, in a private space of their own, then nobody could lose themselves into others unless they intentionally stepped out of their bubble. She always loses herself, he thinks.

He stirs, she stirs, the alarm rings. They set off to work, their separate ways, where distance will hopefully make the heart grow fonder.