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\n \n\n \n\n\n

\n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n

\n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n\n\n\n\n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n\n\n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n Learn More / Nederlandse Versie \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n\n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n Learn More / Nederlandse Versie \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n Amazon \n \n \n \n Barnes & Noble \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n Brave New Books \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n Amazon \n \n \n \n Barnes & Noble \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n Brave New Books \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n Read More / Nederlandse Vertaling \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n

\n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n\n\n\n\n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n \n

\n \n \n \n \n \n

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Firmament

Hé Grote Beer
Grote Klote Beer
Ik kijk omhoog en daar ben je weer
Grote Klote Beer

Hé Steelpan
Stomme Steelpan
Wat doe je daar aan de hemel dan?
Stomme Steelpan

$\"\"$

Als je mijn blogs leuk vindt, klik dan eens op mijn fictie en non-fictie op deze website.

","value":"

Firmament

Hé Grote Beer
Grote Klote Beer
Ik kijk omhoog en daar ben je weer
Grote Klote Beer

Hé Steelpan
Stomme Steelpan
Wat doe je daar aan de hemel dan?
Stomme Steelpan

$\"\"$

Als je mijn blogs leuk vindt, klik dan eens op mijn fictie en non-fictie op deze website.

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-06-04T06:12:29.428Z","editedDate":"2024-06-05T14:19:08.779Z"}},"li_9RRz6jZv3K":{"components":{"ids":["link","text","heading","date","textDutchVersion"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2024-03-26T17:00:00.000Z","value":"2024-03-26T17:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Pine Ridge, South Dakota (August 2018)","value":"Pine Ridge, South Dakota (August 2018)"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/post/pine-ridge-south-dakota-august-2018"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

At 11 o'clock in the morning I land at Denver airport, pick up my rental car and drive north through Colorado and Nebraska. To my left, in the distance, are the Rocky Mountains, but once in Nebraska the country is empty, flat and boring, with straight roads. I am on my way to Pine Ridge, the Indian reservation of the Oglala Lakota, just across the South Dakota border, a six-hour drive. My contact person repeatedly advised me to arrive at least one hour before dark and I take that seriously. My GPS will not work in Pine Ridge and the last miles will be on a dirt road.

I'm on an adventure, that's how it feels, and I've missed that kick for a while. As an anthropologist, I’m used to traveling alone to remote places. I was warned from all sides for the dangers in Brazil when I first went there in the early 90s, but on arrival in Rio that paranoia faded away after ten minutes to never return. So I put the warnings of people who had been in Pine Ridge into perspective, although it was remarkable how they kept nagging in the back of my head: do not go there alone, beware of gangs and cars with blinded windows, and realize that, as a white man, you’re not welcome everywhere.

It might not be the best idea in that case to enter Pine Ridge through the town of Whiteclay, Nebraska, formerly the alcohol supplier of the reservation. Almost every resident of Pine Ridge is somehow affected by alcoholism. It has been a problem for so long. Alcohol, however, is banned from the reservation, so people used to go to Whiteclay until the government closed all stores in 2017. Now, it’s a ghost town. Left and right of the main street are old, neglected buildings. The street scene of drunken Indians hanging around is history, but alcoholism is not. The problem has only moved to different places.

Whiteclay merges into the town of Pine Ridge. There is no border. I am now in the reservation, which is clear from the way people look. On both sides of the road there is activity, there are stores, a gas station, even a Pizza Hut. I don’t know where to look or what I’m looking for. It is too sudden. In five minutes I am through it, the endless prairie stretches out in front of me and I relax. Rolling hills with patches of green here and there. The reservation is roughly the size of Connecticut, but has only around 30,000 inhabitants. I’m on my way to Manderson, my final destination. At a junction after half an hour's drive I stumble upon the Wounded Knee Massacre Monument, which I previously only knew from photographs. It’s right in front of me on a hill, in the emptiness of the land. I’ll return there tomorrow, when I’m rested. Now I turn left. The two-lane road meanders through the hills until I reach Manderson. Just before the town is the exit to the dirt road. It all fits with the satellite photo I have on a printout. There are so few roads that the chance of taking a wrong turn is small. After a couple of miles I slow down when I see a white tepee in the landscape, near a few houses and wrecked cars.

Two dogs run around my car barking as I pull up on the driveway towards an open field. My arrival has now been announced, I think, but when I get out at the biggest house, no one comes out to greet me. The dogs are harmless and like to get petted. I knock on the door and wait until I finally hear footsteps. Fortunately, they know why I’m here. After a friendly greeting by two men, one of them hands me a key for the smaller house. I will sleep in the tepee, a few hundred feet away, but I can make coffee or cook a meal in that cottage. Its resident, who happens to be my contact person, has apparently left for a couple of days. I may park my car near the tepee. When I ask if it’s safe to leave my stuff in there, the youngest of the two men laughs, showing me his missing teeth. I don’t have to worry about that. Nobody ever comes here, but a coyote perhaps. \"Who wants to be here anyway?\" he says and shrugs his shoulders.

The tepee is big, tall and sturdy. There is a rug on the ground. There are three beds of which I choose one. One of the dogs comes in with me through the entrance, but wriggles outside again under the canvas. Shutting the tent therefore makes little sense. I leave my food in the car. In the cottage, I heat water and return with a full thermos of tea. I have witnessed poverty in Brazil and in Africa. Here, in the heart of the United States, it is certainly no better. But there’s a gas stove and a refrigerator in the cottage. Running water and electricity are not self-evident in Pine Ridge, but fortunately this shelter has it. The toilet is a hole in the ground in an outhouse: a dilapidated wooden hut outside in the field, without a front door, overlooking the hills.

The silence is a blessing when I sit outside my tepee and it’s slowly getting dark. It’s cooling down but the tea keeps me warm. The dogs are playing around me. I give them some goodies in the hope that they will stay. A group of wild horses graze in the distance at the edge of a row of trees. I now see light burning in the house where the two men live. After our greeting, I have not seen anyone outside. I realize once again where I am and feel gratitude for the experience. This is not an ordinary campsite. The starry sky that appears is breathtaking. With the dogs next to me, I finally get into my sleeping bag and fall asleep like a log.

Wounded Knee is actually smaller than I thought. I park my car at the bottom of the hill and take the path upwards. It’s not steep. I’m followed by an SUV with 'security' on it in large letters. The two guards remain in their car. There’s a reason they’re here, it’s obviously necessary. I try to ignore them and solemnly walk around the grave, read the names on the monument, take pictures and nod friendly to two other visitors. I know exactly what happened here, wrote about it, and it makes me feel more involved. I try to imagine the massacre, caused by the US army, while I look at the landscape.

But only when I’m back down, where a young Lakota with long black hair sells his art, do I get into a discussion that brings history to life. He tells me how, long ago, the Cheyenne came to Pine Ridge to warn the Lakota for General Custer’s advancing army. The boy even points out where it was, right there, in the nearby northern hills. The panic was great. The tribes decided to cooperate and lured Custer into an ambush in Little Bighorn, Montana. They defeated the army, but years later the Wounded Knee massacre could be seen as retaliation.

The distances boggle me. Montana is far away on horseback over these hills. The boy likes to read, he says, and I give him a copy of my book, which is about Pine Ridge and Lakota culture. What he told me was not new to me, but the way he did it was impressive, showed his pride, his culture. I buy a necklace with a dragonfly that I will wear my entire stay. When I thank him in the Lakota language, he looks at me in amazement and then laughs. He corrects me: men say thank you differently from women and I said it the feminine way.

It makes no sense at all, but the landscape of Pine Ridge reminds me somehow of the dunes of an island in the north of The Netherlands, a place I used to visit on summer holidays. The ocean couldn’t be farther away here, but it still comes to mind. It must be the light, the vastness, the emptiness and the feeling of freedom that comes with it. But as wonderful as life on that island is, as miserable it is here. The islanders live off tourism; in Pine Ridge, tourism does not start until you leave the reservation at National Park The Badlands to the north or The Black Hills to the west. In the reservation, 80 percent of people are unemployed, diabetes is prevalent because good food is too expensive and the suicide rate among the youth is shockingly high.

It’s hard to imagine that the misery can be so great, but it’s confirmed once again when I get into a conversation with an employee from the Oglala Lakota College, just outside the town of Kyle. I ask whether alcoholism is really such a big problem, because it’s not always visible and because I hope that things are improving by now. That hope evaporates when I see her face cloud over. \"Unfortunately,\" she says. \"It's terrible. That and chrystal meth. \"

Nevertheless, the college is a major positive force, not just because its fine modern architecture, but above all because it symbolizes a better future. People can take courses here in many disciplines. There’s also a large bookstore and a Heritage Center. Everything is spacious. The employee tells me that the age of the students varies between 16 and 75 years. On average, it takes them twice as long to graduate because they have to maintain a family or simply lack the money, but the most important thing is that the college acts as a way out and as an awareness towards a better future through education. There is support from the government, but the college is also dependent on donations.

When I’m back at my tepee with the dogs at the end of a long day, I realize that I should not let myself be bewildered by the beautiful nature. It’s so tempting to imagine herds of buffaloes grazing here, settlements with tepees and nomadic Indians, but all of that is a thing of the distant past. That in itself is not the problem, but what has come in its place is. The Oglala Lakota have deteriorated badly since the reservation. I should rather look at the neglected, condemned trailers scattered around the country with always a few wrecked cars around them (yes, people live there); trapped people hanging around in places like Manderson, Porcupine or Kyle, who simply have no opportunities to make something of their lives and are left to their fate. On paper they have the same opportunities as every American; in reality they remain the Indian from Pine Ridge, who has no place to go. That is what becomes painfully clear when you look beyond the beautiful hills.

The next day I leave Pine Ridge on the north side, where the reservation borders on National Park The Badlands. Right away, the scenery changes and there are only white people. There are large RV’s, groups of motorcyclists and a huge 'Visitor Center'. Here, the Lakota used to come for their ceremonies, this was where they would like to retreat, ride their horses or dance. I take photos here and there. The mountains are capricious and colorful. I’m back in America.

That feeling grows stronger as I drive through the Badlands to The Black Hills and billboards appear on the side of the road screaming cheap entertainment. This mountain range, which borders Pine Ridge on the east side, is the birthplace of the Lakota. It is where they come from, according to their culture. It was also their property, signed by an official treaty that was broken by the government when gold was found. Now the area is best known for Mount Rushmore, the carved out faces of four presidents. I see how impressive it is, but can’t neglect the fact that I’m biased. I also make a stop in the town of Deadwood, famous for its gold digging history. Walking through the historic center, full of white tourists—mostly cowboys and rednecks—I find myself checking: I don’t see one Native American, Afro-American or Latino.

The contrast with Pine Ridge cannot be bigger. When I realize how close I am to the reservation here, and how shockingly different these worlds are, it’s too much for my brain. My involvement with the Oglala Lakota has grown and I hope this wasn’t my last visit to Pine Ridge. Perhaps I can do something for them in the future other than donate money. Perhaps writing about it helps a little. Fortunately, I end my journey at the huge Crazy Horse Memorial - a kind of counterpart to Mount Rushmore - that has been under construction for the last 70 years. There’s no government support for it and is dependent solely on donations. I see it from a distance, it’s quite impressive, but so far only his face is carved out. It’s somewhat controversial, because the builders never asked permission for it from the descendants of Crazy Horse. The mountains are sacred to the Lakota. You can’t just carve into it.

~~~~

In my novel ‘The Girl in the Web' you can read more about the history, culture and spirituality of the Oglala Lakota in Pine Ridge.

Photos:

http://jaapcove.com/nieuws-2/

Links (also for possible donations):

http://www.olc.edu/
https://www.redcloudschool.org/
https://www.theguardian.com/society/2017/sep/29/pine-ridge-indian-reservation-south-dakota
https://crazyhorsememorial.org/

","value":"

~~~~

In my novel ‘The Girl in the Web' you can read more about the history, culture and spirituality of the Oglala Lakota in Pine Ridge.

Photos:

http://jaapcove.com/nieuws-2/

Links (also for possible donations):

http://www.olc.edu/
https://www.redcloudschool.org/
https://www.theguardian.com/society/2017/sep/29/pine-ridge-indian-reservation-south-dakota
https://crazyhorsememorial.org/

"}}},"textDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Om 11 uur ’s ochtends land ik op luchthaven Denver, pik mijn huurauto op en rijd door Colorado en Nebraska naar het noorden. Links van me, in de verte, liggen de Rocky Mountains, maar eenmaal in Nebraska is het land leeg, vlak en saai, met kaarsrechte wegen. Ik ben op weg naar Pine Ridge, het indianenreservaat van de Oglala Lakota, net over de grens van South Dakota, een rit van zes uur. Mijn contactpersoon heeft me herhaaldelijk aangeraden om minstens een uur voor het donker te arriveren en ik neem dat serieus. Mijn GPS zal in Pine Ridge niet meer werken en de laatste kilometers gaan over een dirt road.

Ik ben op avontuur, zo voelt het, en die kick heb ik al een tijdje gemist. Als antropoloog ben ik gewend aan het reizen alleen, naar afgelegen oorden. Ik werd van alle kanten bang gemaakt toen ik voor het eerst naar Brazilië ging, begin jaren ’90, maar bij aankomst in Rio viel die paranoia na tien minuten van me af om nooit meer terug te keren. Dus relativeerde ik de waarschuwingen van mensen die in Pine Ridge waren geweest, al was het opmerkelijk hoe ze bleven knagen: ga er niet alleen naartoe, pas op voor gangs en auto’s met geblindeerde ramen, en besef dat je als blanke niet overal welkom bent.

Dan helpt het niet als je Pine Ridge binnenrijdt door het gehucht Whiteclay, Nebraska, voorheen de alcoholleverancier van het reservaat. Bijna iedere inwoner van Pine Ridge heeft op een of andere manier te maken met alcoholisme. Het is al zolang een probleem. Drank is echter verboden in het reservaat, dus ging men daarvoor naar Whiteclay, totdat in 2017 alle winkels door de overheid definitief werden gesloten. Nu is het een spookstad. Links en rechts van de hoofdstraat staan oude, verwaarloosde gebouwen. Het straatbeeld van rondhangende, dronken indianen is verleden tijd, maar het alcoholisme niet. Het probleem heeft zich slechts verplaatst.

Whiteclay gaat over in het plaatsje Pine Ridge. Er is geen grens. Ik ben nu in het reservaat, dat is duidelijk te zien aan het uiterlijk van de mensen op straat. Aan weerszijden van de weg is er bedrijvigheid, zijn er winkeltjes, een benzinestation, zelfs een Pizza Hut. Ik weet niet waar ik kijken moet en wat ik nou eigenlijk wil zien. Het is te plotseling. In vijf minuten ben ik erdoorheen, begint de eindeloze prairie en zakt mijn opwinding. Glooiende heuvels met hier en daar groen. Het reservaat is qua grootte bijna de helft van Nederland, maar heeft slechts rond de 30.000 inwoners. Ik ben op weg naar Manderson, mijn eindbestemming. Bij een splitsing na een half uur rijden stuit ik zomaar op het monument van het massagraf van Wounded Knee, dat ik voorheen alleen van foto’s kende. Het ligt voor me op een heuvel, in de leegte. Ik zal er morgen terugkeren, als ik uitgerust ben. Nu sla ik linksaf. De tweebaansweg slingert zich door het landschap tot ik Manderson bereik. Vlak voor het plaatsje is de afslag naar de dirt road. Het klopt allemaal met de satellietfoto die ik thuis printte. Er zijn zo weinig wegen dat de kans klein is om een verkeerde afslag te nemen. Na vier kilometer minder ik snelheid als ik een witte tipi zie staan in de buurt van een paar huisjes en autowrakken.

Twee honden rennen blaffend om mijn auto als ik over de oprit het land op rijd. Mijn komst is nu wel aangekondigd, bedenk ik, maar als ik bij het grootste huisje uitstap, komt er niemand naar buiten. De honden zijn ongevaarlijk en laten zich graag door mij aaien. Ik klop op de deur en wacht tot er gestommel klinkt. Gelukkig, ze weten waarom ik er ben. Ik word vriendelijk begroet en krijg een sleutel van het kleinere huisje. Ik slaap in de tipi, een paar honderd meter verderop, maar mag in het huisje koffie zetten of een maaltijd koken. De bewoner, tevens mijn contactpersoon, is namelijk een paar dagen op pad. Ik mag mijn auto parkeren bij de tipi. Als ik vraag of het veilig is en mijn spullen kan achterlaten, lacht de jongste van de twee mannen zijn paar tanden bloot. Daar hoef ik me geen zorgen om te maken. Hooguit komt er een coyote langs. ‘Who wants to be here anyway?” zegt hij en haalt zijn schouders op.

De tipi is groot, hoog en staat stevig. Op de grond ligt een kleed. Er staan drie bedjes waarvan ik er een kies. Een van de honden is met me mee naar binnen gegaan door de ingang, maar wurmt zich weer naar buiten onder het tentdoek door. Afsluiten heeft dus weinig zin. Mijn voorraad eten laat ik in de auto. In het huisje warm ik water op en keer terug met een volle thermosfles thee. Ik heb armoede gezien in Brazilië en in Afrika. Hier, in het hart van de Verenigde Staten, is het beslist niet beter. Gelukkig heeft dit huisje een gasfornuis en een koelkast, evenals stromend water en elektriciteit, iets dat niet vanzelfsprekend is in Pine Ridge. De WC is een gat in de grond in een outhouse: een bouwvallig houten hutje buiten in het veld, zonder voordeur, met uitzicht op de heuvels.

De stilte is een zegening als ik bij mijn tipi zit en het langzaam donker wordt. Het koelt af maar de thee houdt me warm. De honden spelen om me heen. Ik geef ze wat lekkers in de hoop dat ze blijven. In de verte aan de rand van een rij bomen graast een groep wilde paarden. Ik zie nu licht branden in het huis waar de twee mannen wonen. Na onze begroeting heb ik niemand meer buiten gezien. Ik realiseer me nog maar eens waar ik ben en voel dankbaarheid voor de ervaring. Dit is geen gewone camping. De sterrenhemel die verschijnt is adembenemend. Met de honden naast me kruip ik uiteindelijk in mijn slaapzak en val als een blok in slaap.

Wounded Knee is in werkelijkheid kleiner dan ik dacht. Ik parkeer mijn auto onderaan de heuvel en neem het pad naar boven. Het is niet steil. Ik word gevolgd door een SUV waar met grote letters ‘security’ op staat. De twee bewakers blijven in hun auto zitten. Ze zijn er niet voor niets, het is kennelijk nodig. Ik probeer ze te negeren en loop plechtig mijn rondje om het graf, lees de namen op het monument, maak foto’s en knik vriendelijk naar twee andere bezoekers. Ik weet precies wat hier gebeurd is, heb erover geschreven, waardoor ik me meer betrokken voel. Ik probeer me het bloedbad voor te stellen, aangericht door het Amerikaanse leger, terwijl ik over het landschap kijk.

Maar pas terug beneden, waar een jonge Lakota met lang zwart haar zijn kunst verkoopt, raak ik in discussie en komt het tot leven. Hij vertelt me hoe, lang geleden, de Cheyenne naar Pine Ridge kwamen om de Lakota te waarschuwen voor het oprukkende leger van General Custer. Hij wijst me zelfs aan waar het was, daar, in de nabijgelegen noordelijke heuvels. De paniek was groot. De stammen besloten samen te werken en lokten Custer in een hinderlaag in Little Bighorn, Montana. Ze versloegen het leger, maar jaren later kon het bloedbad van Wounded Knee gezien worden als vergelding.

De afstanden duizelen me. Montana is ver weg, te paard over deze heuvels. De jongen leest graag, zegt hij, en ik geef hem een exemplaar van mijn boek dat over Pine Ridge en Lakota spirituality gaat. Wat hij vertelde was niet nieuw voor me, maar de manier waarop maakte indruk: zijn trots, zijn cultuur. De ketting die ik van hem koop, met daarop een dragonfly, draag ik mijn hele verdere verblijf. Hij kijkt me verbaasd aan als ik hem bedank in de taal van de Lakota en moet lachen. Hij verbetert me: mannen zeggen anders dank je wel dan vrouwen en ik zei het vrouwelijk.

Het slaat nergens op, maar het landschap van Pine Ridge doet me denken aan de duingebieden van Oost-Terschelling of Schiermonnikoog. Er is hier in de verste verten geen zee of oceaan te bekennen, maar toch. Het moet het licht zijn, het weidse, de leegte en het gevoel van vrijheid dat daarbij hoort. Maar zo fijn als het leven op de eilanden is, zo erbarmelijk is het hier. De eilanders leven van het toerisme; in Pine Ridge begint het toerisme pas als je het reservaat verlaat bij National Park The Badlands in het noorden of The Black Hills in het westen. In het reservaat is 80 procent van de mensen werkloos, heerst er diabetes omdat goed voedsel te duur is en is het zelfmoordcijfer onder de jeugd schrikbarend hoog.

Het is moeilijk voor te stellen dat de misère zo groot kan zijn, maar het wordt bevestigd als ik in gesprek raak met een medewerkster van het Oglala Lakota College, even buiten Kyle. Ik vraag nog maar eens of het alcoholisme nou echt zo’n groot probleem is, omdat het niet altijd zichtbaar is en omdat ik vurig hoop dat het inmiddels beter gaat. Die hoop vervliegt als ik haar gezicht zie betrekken. “Helaas,” zegt ze. “Het is verschrikkelijk. Dat en chrystal meth.”

Toch is het college een verademing, omdat het niet alleen qua moderne architectuur geslaagd is, maar vooral een betere toekomst symboliseert. Mensen kunnen hier opleidingen volgen in veel richtingen. Er is bovendien een grote boekwinkel en een ‘Heritage Center’. Alles is ruim opgezet. De medewerkster vertelt me dat de leeftijd van de studenten varieert tussen de 16 en 75 jaar. Ze doen er gemiddeld twee keer zo lang over om af te studeren, omdat ze een gezin moeten onderhouden of omdat gewoonweg het geld ontbreekt, maar het belangrijkste is dat het college fungeert als een ‘way out’ en als bewustwording naar een betere toekomst door educatie. Er is steun van de overheid, al is het college ook afhankelijk van donaties.

Als ik aan het eind van een lange dag terug ben bij mijn tipi en de honden, realiseer ik me dat ik me niet voor de gek mag laten houden door de prachtige natuur. Het is zo verleidelijk om je hier grazende kuddes buffalo’s voor te stellen, nederzettingen met tipi’s en rondtrekkende indianen, maar dat is allemaal voltooid verleden tijd. Dat op zich is niet het probleem, maar wat er voor in de plaats gekomen is wel. De Oglala Lakota zijn er verschrikkelijk op achteruit gegaan sinds het reservaat. Ik moet vooral ook kijken naar de verwaarloosde woonwagens, rijp voor de sloop, die her en der in het land verspreid staan met altijd een paar autowrakken eromheen (ja, er wonen mensen); de rondhangende mensen op straat in plaatsen als Manderson, Porcupine of Kyle. Ze hebben simpelweg geen mogelijkheden om iets van hun leven te maken en zijn aan hun lot overgelaten. Op papier hebben ze dezelfde kansen als iedere Amerikaan; in werkelijkheid blijven ze de indiaan uit Pine Ridge, die geen kant op kan. Dat is wat pijnlijk duidelijk wordt als je verder kijkt dan de mooie heuvels.

De volgende dag verlaat ik Pine Ridge aan de noordkant, waar het reservaat grenst aan het National Park The Badlands. Meteen is het beeld veranderd en is iedereen blank. Grote campers, groepen motorrijders en een enorm ‘Visitor Center’. Hier kwamen de Lakota voor hun ceremonies, dit was waar ze zich graag terugtrokken om paard te rijden of te dansen. Ik maak hier en daar foto’s. De bergen zijn grillig en bijzonder van kleur. Ik ben weer terug in Amerika.

Dat gevoel wordt sterker als ik door de Badlands verder rijd naar The Black Hills en overal schreeuwende billboards langs de weg zie met goedkoop vertier. Dit gebergte, dat aan de oostkant aan Pine Ridge grenst, is de geboortegrond van de Lakota. Het is waar ze vandaan komen, volgens hun cultuur. Het was ook hun eigendom, volgens een officieel verdrag, dat door de overheid verbroken werd toen er goud gevonden werd. Nu is het gebergte vooral bekend vanwege Mount Rushmore, de berg met de vier uitgehouwen koppen van presidenten. Ik zie hoe indrukwekkend het is, maar ik kan er niet meer onbevooroordeeld naar kijken. Ik stop ook in het stadje Deadwood, beroemd vanwege het goudzoekersverleden en wandel door het historische centrum, vol met blanke toeristen—het cowboy-type of de redneck. Ik ga erop letten en tel niet één Native American, Afro-American of Latino.

Het contrast met Pine Ridge kan niet groter zijn. Als ik bedenk hoe dichtbij het reservaat ik hier ben en hoe verschillend de twee werelden zijn, kan ik er met mijn verstand niet bij. Ik voel me meer betrokken bij de Oglala Lakota en hoop dat het niet mijn laatste bezoek was aan Pine Ridge. Misschien kan ik wat betekenen voor hen in de toekomst, behalve geld doneren. Misschien help ik een beetje door erover te schrijven. Gelukkig eindig ik mijn reis bij het enorme Crazy Horse Memorial—een soort tegenhanger van Mount Rushmore— dat al 70 jaar in aanbouw is, omdat het afhankelijk is van giften en het zonder steun van de overheid moet stellen. Het ligt prachtig in de verte, maar vooralsnog is alleen zijn gezicht klaar. Het is enigszins controversieel, omdat er nooit toestemming is gevraagd aan de afstammelingen van Crazy Horse. De bergen zijn heilig voor de Lakota. Er mag niet zomaar in gehakt worden.

~~~~

In mijn roman ‘Het Web van Iktomi’ kun je meer lezen over de geschiedenis, de cultuur en de spiritualiteit van de Oglala Lakota in Pine Ridge: www.jaapcove.com

Foto’s:

http://jaapcove.com/nieuws-2/

Links (ook voor evt. donaties):

http://www.olc.edu/
https://www.redcloudschool.org/
https://www.theguardian.com/society/2017/sep/29/pine-ridge-indian-reservation-south-dakota
https://crazyhorsememorial.org/=

","value":"

~~~~

In mijn roman ‘Het Web van Iktomi’ kun je meer lezen over de geschiedenis, de cultuur en de spiritualiteit van de Oglala Lakota in Pine Ridge: www.jaapcove.com

Foto’s:

http://jaapcove.com/nieuws-2/

Links (ook voor evt. donaties):

http://www.olc.edu/
https://www.redcloudschool.org/
https://www.theguardian.com/society/2017/sep/29/pine-ridge-indian-reservation-south-dakota
https://crazyhorsememorial.org/=

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-03-31T21:18:14.587Z","editedDate":"2024-03-31T21:24:11.283Z"}},"li_AjsZHBZp9C":{"components":{"ids":["date","heading","link","text","textDutchVersion"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2024-06-05T10:00:00.000Z","value":"2024-06-05T10:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"La Nostra Avventura Italiana, #3","value":"La Nostra Avventura Italiana, #3"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/post/la-nostra-avventura-italiana-3"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

No Idea

We are parked with the campervan almost on the beach, in Falerna, Calabria. The rear doors are open, and we have a view from our bed of the Mediterranean Sea. It's a simple camping spot, but all facilities are there. Upon waking up, I take a long beach walk. I really want to run, but the heavy sand is too loose and sharp. The low sun is warm enough for my bare chest. Before I return, I do my exercises and meditate. The sea is like a mirror and tempts me, so I take a dip in the clear water. A delightful start to the day.

“Would you want to live here?”
I ask Geno this question at every new destination.
“No,” has been the consistent answer so far, and I think, thank goodness, it’s not just me. Even though we are on the beach, the view on the other side is significantly less appealing: miles of ugly new buildings, similar to what you find on the Spanish coasts and the Dutch North Sea coast. No character or taste. Falerna is off the list, just like Rome and Sorrento earlier.

$\"\"$

Rome is a family affair, a Russo reunion. Six of us stay in a large apartment just outside the center: Geno’s older brother Sam Russo and his wife Charmaine from New Orleans, nephew Chris Russo and his wife Robin from Castel Sant Angelo, and Geno and I, the nomads. It’s very special to spend a week together. They are my in-laws and I’m loving it. The Italian roots are talked about thoroughly over various antipastas and wine.

$\"\"$ $\"\"$ $\"\"$

Rome, the eternal city, is beautiful but swarmed by massive amounts of tourists, so many that it spoils the sight-seeing. The eternal is being tested: how long can a city withstand such invasions? When is it enough? I keep thinking of the novel Grand Hotel Europa, Ilja Pfeiffer's masterpiece—Europe as one big open-air museum—and I realize that I am part of it. I can’t pretend otherwise: Mr. Tourist. But I’m old enough to know that the stunning Pantheon was always freely accessible. You walked in and marveled. Now there are long lines, and it’s shamelessly exploited, like most attractions. The marble, the fountains, Michelangelo’s beautiful treasures… soon they’ll be bought by the Chinese. Only outside the city center do the tourists disappear, does it get quieter, and I think, oh wait, Rome is worth it after all. But not to live.

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Nerano is on the Amalfi coast, south of Sorrento. It’s our first destination with the campervan at a campsite. Being checked out by neighbors. It takes some getting used to. Yes, we’re a gay couple, did you notice? Now please cover that beer belly with a shirt, will you? I have a chat with two lesbians who are nearby, and feel less exclusive. Pride Month has started, I think.

Heading towards Sorrento and Positano, it gets very touristy again, and it’s only early June. It must be my age. If you’re twenty, this is your starting point, you just accept it. We drive through the mountains and enjoy the phenomenal views. They are as they always were, unchanged. We squeeze through the narrow streets of Positano, where crowds of tourists descend to the beach in a slow conga line along one wall and climb back up along the other, as there is only one route. A stroller bumps annoyingly against my heels a few times. The mother apologizes, and I understand that it’s even harder for her. From a distance, Positano is a picturesque scene. Maybe that’s where you should leave it. The beach is not that special. No, we won’t live here either.

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But then there’s Castel Sant’Angelo. We were there the week before Rome (yes, I’m jumping back and forth). We stayed with nephew Chris and his wife Robin. In two years, they have built a wonderful circle of friends. They proudly showed us their new house, which they will move into in August. An ancient house full of antique details in a small Italian village. Three floors, a terrace, and a garden. It’s 20 minutes from old Rieti (which is older than Rome) with its walled inner town. Geno and I love Rieti and Castel Sant’Angelo in the rolling green hills, where Roman treasures await to be unearthed everywhere. Susan, one of the friends, guided us to an abandoned,originally white marble pool once belonging to Emperor Tiberius, near the remains of his villa. It’s bigger than an Olympic pool. And we have it all to ourselves. We could settle here, if it weren’t for our desire to be near a coast, and Rieti is the navel of Italy, right in the middle.

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I’m writing this story near Reggio Calabria, in the far south of the mainland where Italy’s big toe kicks the island of Sicily. It’s the best camping spot so far, high in the mountains. I have time to think. I know it’s high time to seriously learn the language. I thought it would come easily with my Portuguese and Spanish, which is somewhat true, but I really need to make an effort. Always a nice challenge.

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We can see Sicily lying there in the distance. It’s just a short ferry ride with the camper. Expectations are high. We’ve done our homework over the past year, and Sicily is one of our most hopeful destinations. The promised island. First, we’ll stay another day on the mainland. We’ll see what happens. I have no idea.

If you enjoy my writing, check out my fiction and nonfiction on this website.

","value":"

No Idea

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If you enjoy my writing, check out my fiction and nonfiction on this website.

"}}},"textDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Geen idee

We staan met de campervan zowat op het strand, in Falerna, Calabrië. De achterdeuren staan open en we hebben uitzicht vanaf ons bed op de Middellandse Zee. Het is een eenvoudige kampeerplaats, maar alle voorzieningen zijn aanwezig. Bij het opstaan maak ik een lange strandwandeling. Ik wil eigenlijk rennen, maar het zware zand is te rul en te scherp. De laagstaande zon is warm genoeg voor mijn ontblootte bovenlijf. Voor ik terugkeer, doe ik mijn oefeningen en mediteer. De zee is een spiegel en verleidt me, en ik neem een duik in het heldere water. Een verrukkelijk begin van de dag.

‘Zou je hier willen wonen?’ Ik vraag het Geno bij elke nieuwe bestemming.

‘Nee,’ is tot dusver steevast het antwoord en ik denk, gelukkig, het ligt niet aan mij. Want ook al staan we aan het strand, het uitzicht naar de andere kant is beduidend minder: kilometerslange lelijke nieuwbouw, waar ze aan de Spaanse costa’s en de Nederlandse Noordzeekust ook een handje van hebben. Kraak noch smaak. Falerna valt af, net als eerder Rome en Sorrento.

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Rome is een familieaangelegenheid, een Russo-reünie. We betrekken met z’n zessen een groot appartement, net buiten het centrum: Geno’s oudere broer Sam Russo en zijn vrouw Charmaine uit New Orleans, neef Chris Russo en zijn vrouw Robin uit Castel Sant Angelo, en Geno en ik, de nomaden. Heel bijzonder dat we een week met elkaar doorbrengen. Het is mijn schoonfamilie en ik geniet ervan. De Italiaanse wortels komen ruimschoots ter sprake onder het nuttigen van diverse antipastas en wijn.

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Rome, de eeuwige stad, is prachtig, maar wordt overspoeld door enorme aantallen toeristen, zoveel dat het plezier je vergaat. Het eeuwige wordt op de proef gesteld: hoelang is een stad tegen dergelijke invasies bestand? Wanneer is het genoeg? Ik moet steeds aan de roman Grand Hotel Europa denken, Ilja Pfeiffer’s meesterwerk—Europa als één groot openluchtmuseum—en realiseer me dat ik er zelf aan meedoe. Ik hoef me niets te verbeelden in dat opzicht: meneer de toerist. Maar ik ben oud genoeg om te weten dat het verbluffend mooie Pantheon altijd vrij toegankelijk was. Je liep naar binnen en ging je vergapen. Nu staan er lange rijen en wordt het onbeschaamd geëxploiteerd, zoals de meeste bezienswaardigheden. Het marmer, de fonteinen, de prachtige schatten van Michelangelo… nog even en het wordt opgekocht door Chinezen. Pas buiten de binnenstad verdwijnen de toeristen, wordt het rustiger en ik denk, oh wacht, Rome is tóch leuk. Maar dus niet om te wonen.

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Nerano ligt aan de Amalfi-kust, ten zuiden van Sorrento. Het is onze eerste bestemming met de campervan op een camping. We worden bekeken door de buren. Even wennen. Ja, wij zijn een mannenstel, heb je het nou gezien? Doe dan nu maar een shirt aan over die dikke bierbuik, oké? Ik heb een babbel met twee lesbiennes die vlakbij staan en voel me minder exclusief. Pride Month is begonnen, bedenk ik.

Richting Sorrento en Positano wordt het wederom erg toeristisch en het is pas begin juni. Het zal wel aan mijn leeftijd liggen. Ben je twintig, dan is dit je punt van vertrek, dan vind je dit gewoon. We rijden door de bergen en genieten van de fenomenale uitzichten. Die zijn als vanouds, onveranderd. We wurmen ons door de smalle straatjes van Positano, waar drommen toeristen in een trage polonaise langs de ene muur naar het strand afdalen en langs de andere weer omhoogklimmen, want er is maar één route. Een kinderwagen botst een paar keer hinderlijk tegen mijn hielen. De moeder verontschuldigt zich en ik begrijp dat het voor haar nog lastiger is. Van veraf is Positano een pittoresk plaatje. Wellicht moet je het daar ook bij laten. Zo bijzonder is het strandje niet. Nee, hier gaan we ook niet wonen.

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Maar dan Castel Sant’Angelo. Daar waren we de week voor Rome (ja, ik spring heen en weer). We logeerden bij neef Chris en zijn vrouw Robin. In twee jaar tijd hebben zij een bijzonder fijne vriendenkring opgebouwd. Ze lieten ons vol trots hun nieuwe huis zien dat ze in augustus gaan bewonen. Een eeuwenoud huis vol met antieke details in een klein Italiaans dorpje. Drie verdiepingen, een terras en een tuin. Het ligt op 20 minuten van het oude Rieti (dat ouder is dan Rome) met zijn ommuurde binnenstadje. Geno en ik houden van Rieti en van Castel Sant’Angelo middenin de glooiende groene heuvels, waar overal Romeinse schatten wachten om opgegraven te worden. Susan, een van de vrienden, gidste ons naar een leegstaand zwembad, ooit van wit marmer en toebehorend aan keizer Tiberius, vlakbij de resten van zijn villa. Het is groter dan een Olympisch zwembad. En we hebben het voor ons alleen. Hier zouden we kunnen aarden, ware het niet dat we onze zinnen hebben gezet op een plek dichtbij een kust en Rieti is het Utrecht van Italië, de navel.

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Dit verhaal schrijf ik in de buurt van Reggio Calabria, in het uiterste zuiden van Italië waar de grote teen van de voet Sicilië een schop geeft. Het is de beste kampeerplek tot nu toe, hoog in de bergen. Tijd om na te denken. Ik weet dat het hoog tijd wordt om serieus de taal te gaan leren. Ik dacht dat het me wel aan zou komen waaien met mijn Portugees en Spaans, wat wel een beetje klopt, maar ik zal toch ook echt mijn best moeten gaan doen. Altijd een leuke uitdaging.

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We kunnen Sicilië zien liggen. Het is maar een korte overtocht met de camper. De verwachtingen zijn hoog. We hebben het afgelopen jaar ons huiswerk gedaan en Sicilië is één van onze hoopvolste bestemmingen. Het beloofde eiland. Eerst plakken we er nog een dag aan vast op het vasteland. We gaan het zien. Ik heb geen idee.

Als je mijn blogs leuk vindt, klik dan eens op mijn fictie en non-fictie op deze website.

","value":"

Geen idee

‘Zou je hier willen wonen?’ Ik vraag het Geno bij elke nieuwe bestemming.

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Als je mijn blogs leuk vindt, klik dan eens op mijn fictie en non-fictie op deze website.

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-06-05T12:42:13.756Z","editedDate":"2024-06-05T19:37:11.502Z"}},"li_HDducSy2ZX":{"components":{"ids":["date","heading","link","text","textDutchVersion"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2024-05-22T10:00:00.000Z","value":"2024-05-22T10:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"La Nostra Avventura Italiana, #2","value":"La Nostra Avventura Italiana, #2"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/post/la-nostra-avventura-italiana-2"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Where do we go from here?

It's the question we ask ourselves throughout our entire lives. Everything changes continuously and we must always anticipate these changes, even though we think we have certainties and stability. We plan endlessly.

Living like nomads is inherently changeable. Any place I hang my hat is home. We are in the Netherlands for six days, and have only time for quick visits here and there. We don’t want to be running around all the time. Soon we will depart for Rome, and the adventure can begin. I realize once again that we don't have a home, nothing to return to. Everywhere we go, we are guests. We’re grateful, but it’s a fleeting existence. I look forward to the weeks in the campervan.

May 18 is the day when we, together with my brothers and their families, scatter the ashes of my mother and father in Soest, the place where they met and fell in love. We gather at the spot where the Zonnegloren sanatorium once stood, where my mother was a nurse and my father was treated for tuberculosis. They weren’t allowed to fall in love and escaped in the forest to kiss. We like to think that we found the exact spot. It has been raining in the Netherlands every day, but on this day the sun is out, and we are together on this memorable ground. It is dignified and beautiful. We conclude the ritual with a joint lunch.

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Where do we go from here?
It was also the last question my mother asked me in January before she permanently closed her eyes. I held her hand. There I was at her bedside with all my convictions. What could I say?

‘It’s okay, Mom. You’re going to Dad,’ I answered.

The way she lay there after the stroke was inhumane. She mainly slept, but during brief, alert moments, her mind was as sharp as ever.

‘You are not your body, you know that, right?’ I asked her a day earlier.

‘Yes,’ she answered softly. We talked about these things so much.

‘It will be like taking off a painfully tight shoe. Relief. And then you’ll be free,’ I added, in the words of Emmanuel. Her eyes searched mine, and we made contact. My niece Rosa was also in the room. She gave me a quick smile, despite the sadness.

My mother’s question wasn’t so strange. Of course, you want to anticipate how things will go, even when you know you are going to die, even if you believe that everything ends after that, which is not what I believe; I’ve experienced too much that proves otherwise.

But my mother, the woman who always talked everyone’s ear off, is now completely silent. It’s incomprehensible. It’s still fresh. Where are you, Mom?

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And now we move on in Italy. On Monday, May 20, we arrive in Rome and drive with the rental car to Castel Sant’Angelo, a village high up in the hills from the 12th century. It’s where our other family lives. We toast with a glass of local white wine. We are here for six days. The next morning, when the family is still drinking coffee and tea, I take a hike, a strenuous climb up the mountain to enjoy the view of green hills and valleys with scattered villages. The clouds hang low, the humidity is high, but in two days the sun will come out again. The first day in Italy is one to fill the lungs and recharge with new zest for life.

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In time we are separated, in eternity we are one.

If you enjoy my writing, check out my fiction and nonfiction on this website.

","value":"

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‘It’s okay, Mom. You’re going to Dad,’ I answered.

The way she lay there after the stroke was inhumane. She mainly slept, but during brief, alert moments, her mind was as sharp as ever.

‘You are not your body, you know that, right?’ I asked her a day earlier.

‘Yes,’ she answered softly. We talked about these things so much.

But my mother, the woman who always talked everyone’s ear off, is now completely silent. It’s incomprehensible. It’s still fresh. Where are you, Mom?

$\"\"$ . $\"\"$ $\"\"$

In time we are separated, in eternity we are one.

If you enjoy my writing, check out my fiction and nonfiction on this website.

"}}},"textDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Hoe gaat het nu verder?

Het is de vraag die we ons gedurende ons hele leven stellen. Alles verandert continu en we moeten daar steeds op anticiperen, terwijl we denken zekerheden en vastigheid te hebben. We plannen erop los.

Het nomadenbestaan is per definitie veranderlijk. Any place I hang my hat is home. We zijn zes dagen in Nederland en hebben slechts tijd voor bliksembezoekjes hier en daar. We willen niet als gekken rondrennen om iedereen te zien. Spoedig vertrekken we naar Rome en kan de ontdekkingsreis beginnen. Ik besef eens te meer dat we geen thuis hebben, niks om naar terug te keren. Overal waar we komen zijn we te gast. We zijn dankbaar, maar het is een vluchtig bestaan. Ik kijk uit naar de weken in de campervan.

18 Mei is de dag waarop we met mijn broers en hun gezinnen de as verstrooien van mijn vader en moeder in Soest, de plaats waar ze elkaar ontmoetten en verliefd werden. We verzamelen op de plek waar ooit sanatorium Zonnegloren stond, waar mijn moeder verpleegster was en mijn vader kuurde vanwege tuberculose. Ze mochten niet verliefd worden en vluchtten het bos in om te zoenen. Wij beelden ons in dat we de exacte plek hebben gevonden. Het regent alle dagen in Nederland, maar deze dag schijnt de zon en zijn we onder elkaar op deze voor ons gedenkwaardige grond. Het is waardig en mooi. We sluiten het ritueel af met een gezamenlijke lunch.

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Hoe gaat het nu verder?

Het was ook de laatste vraag die mijn moeder me stelde in januari, voordat ze voorgoed haar ogen sloot. Ik hield haar hand vast. Daar zat ik aan haar bed met al mijn overtuigingen. Wat kon ik zeggen?

‘Het is goed, mam. Je gaat naar papa,’ antwoordde ik.

Zoals ze erbij lag, na de beroerte, was mensonwaardig. Ze sliep voornamelijk, maar gedurende korte, alerte momenten, was haar geest scherp als altijd.

‘Je bent niet je lichaam, dat weet je, hè?’ vroeg ik haar een dag eerder.

‘Ja,’ antwoordde ze zachtjes. We hadden zo vaak met elkaar over dit soort zaken gediscussieerd.

‘Het zal zijn alsof je een pijnlijk knellende schoen uittrekt. Opluchting. En dan ben je vrij,’ voegde ik eraan toe, in de woorden van Emmanuel. Haar ogen zochten de mijne en we hadden contact. Mijn nichtje Rosa was ook in de kamer. Ze moest glimlachen, ondanks het verdriet.

Zo gek was de vraag van mijn moeder niet. Natuurlijk wil je anticiperen op hoe het verder gaat, zelfs als je weet dat je gaat sterven, zelfs als je gelooft dat daarna alles ophoudt. Van die denkrichting ben ik niet; te veel meegemaakt dat het tegendeel bewijst.

Maar mijn moeder, de vrouw die iedereen altijd de oren van het hoofd kletste, is nu doodstil. Het is niet te bevatten. Het is nog vers. Waar ben je, mam?

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En nu gaan we verder in Italië. Op 20 mei komen we aan in Rome en rijden met de huurauto naar Castel Sant Angelo, een hooggelegen dorpje uit de 12^e eeuw waar onze andere familie woont. We proosten met een glas witte wijn uit de streek. We zijn hier zes dagen. Als de volgende ochtend de familie nog aan de koffie zit, maak ik een wandeling, een fikse klim de berg op, en geniet van het uitzicht: groene bergen en valleien met hier en daar een dorp. De bewolking hangt laag, de luchtvochtigheid is hoog, maar over twee dagen schijnt de zon weer. De eerste dag in Italië is er een om de longen goed vol te zuigen met nieuwe levenslust.

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In time we are separated, in eternity we are one.

Als je mijn blogs leuk vindt, klik dan eens op mijn fictie en non-fictie op deze website.

","value":"

Hoe gaat het nu verder?

$\"\"$ . $\"\"$ .

Hoe gaat het nu verder?

Het was ook de laatste vraag die mijn moeder me stelde in januari, voordat ze voorgoed haar ogen sloot. Ik hield haar hand vast. Daar zat ik aan haar bed met al mijn overtuigingen. Wat kon ik zeggen?

‘Het is goed, mam. Je gaat naar papa,’ antwoordde ik.

Zoals ze erbij lag, na de beroerte, was mensonwaardig. Ze sliep voornamelijk, maar gedurende korte, alerte momenten, was haar geest scherp als altijd.

‘Je bent niet je lichaam, dat weet je, hè?’ vroeg ik haar een dag eerder.

‘Ja,’ antwoordde ze zachtjes. We hadden zo vaak met elkaar over dit soort zaken gediscussieerd.

Maar mijn moeder, de vrouw die iedereen altijd de oren van het hoofd kletste, is nu doodstil. Het is niet te bevatten. Het is nog vers. Waar ben je, mam?

$\"\"$

$\"\"$ $\"\"$ $\"\"$

In time we are separated, in eternity we are one.

Als je mijn blogs leuk vindt, klik dan eens op mijn fictie en non-fictie op deze website.

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-05-22T09:21:56.456Z","editedDate":"2024-06-05T14:23:07.065Z"}},"li_PKsbgdMBXw":{"components":{"ids":["link","heading","date","text","textDutchVersion"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2024-03-29T17:00:00.000Z","value":"2024-03-29T17:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Karma","value":"Karma"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/post/karma"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

“What’s happening now in America is just karma for what we’ve done to the Native Americans.”

I’ve heard this statement going around for a while—when it’s about politics—and it amazes me. We asked for it. A long suppressed national feeling of guilt has found a way out. We will suffer now. One of the biggest genocides in the history of mankind has been swept under the mat and left out of history books for generations. There can be no absolution. Karma, payback time, it’s a bitch. The Great Leader of the United States has risen. It serves us right.

It’s got to be a democrat calling it karma. He does so because he feels totally powerless against today’s abuse of power and he’s desperately looking for a reason why. Karma, then, is always a welcome clincher. The monster is growing bigger and bigger, even threatening world peace. Racism, corruption and bigotry thrive. Little by little, everything Obama built up is being torn down. Every single decision taken by the Great Leader runs counter to my beliefs and to those of the people around me (I live in the Bay Area), so much you would almost be impressed. I prefer to avoid his supporters, but fortunately I don’t meet many around here. If I try really hard, I might forgive them for making the stupid mistake of voting for him in 2016, but I fail to understand anyone sound of mind supporting him nowadays.

But here’s the thing: it isn’t karma.

The genocide was the ethnic cleansing and expulsion of Native Americans from East to West. Ever since the occupiers arrived from Europe it was absolute horror what they made all tribes go through. They never intended to live together; they only pretended. Their greed was ruthless; their racism shameless. Their God told them they were superior to everything. Manifest Destiny; they were destined no matter what to conquer “their” continent.

Much later, after all the bloodshed, Native Americans were neatly accommodated in reservations, acquired tribal sovereignty and that was that. But in reality, tribal sovereignty doesn’t mean a thing if after that the government lets you figure everything out for yourself and you don’t have the means to make something of your life; if they give you infertile soil, while you have nomadic roots; if you never have opportunities, for a job, for a better future, for whatever; if you’ve become numb after generations of dependency.

This and much more I wrote about in my book The Girl in the Web.

So today there’s supposed to be retaliation for this horrible chapter of history in contemporary America? In some ways things haven’t changed that much. Making America great again means going backwards in time. Racism, corruption and bigotry were also thriving during the times of the genocide and slavery. It has always been this way, alternated by periods of recovery. Just when you think eight years of Obama changed the country for good, it comes back like never before. Eight years of bottled up bitterness and frustration caused by nothing but the color of a president’s skin has led to this outburst of hate. Nauseating arrogance, politics based on lies; babies separated from their moms at the Mexican border; guns that matter more than lives. White supremacy is the norm. Evangelical Christians have all the power with their discriminating convictions, and Jesus is crying rivers of tears.

There’s discrimination of skin color, religion, culture and sexual orientation. The minimum wage of a Walmart employee still isn’t enough to get by, while their CEO’s swim in their money like Uncle Scrooge. Meanwhile, tax cuts are making that gap only more extreme. And it’s a matter of time until the Great Leader will decide to have that pipeline run right through Indian land in North Dakota, after first having unscrupulously disrespected all the protests.

We will only have karma when the first Native American president is elected or at least a president with Native American blood, someone like Elizabeth Warren, now senator of Massachusetts. The Great Leader calls her Pocahontas and his supporters are laughing along. But Elizabeth Warren is proud of her ancestry and a politician to be reckoned with. We have a long way to go before the genocide is finally retaliated and the right people are in power, if it will happen at all. The midterm elections in November could be a first step in that direction if everyone will go out and vote.

I can’t vote because I’m not a citizen. Luckily, I arrived under the kinder immigration policies of our former president who was black and understood the principles of America. Would I have been permitted to live in this great country if the government asked me if I would be a critic? In Obama’s time, yes. Of course. That’s democracy. But now, I feel I was fortunate to squeak across the line before the next wall goes up.

For now, I can fantasize about how payback might occur. I can imagine a story in which the current powers-that-be get their asses kicked, like in the book I’m working on now. My job is to wake my readers up.

","value":"

“What’s happening now in America is just karma for what we’ve done to the Native Americans.”

But here’s the thing: it isn’t karma.

This and much more I wrote about in my book The Girl in the Web.

"}}},"textDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Het is opvallend dat ik in mijn omgeving—als het over politiek gaat—al een paar keer de opmerking heb gehoord dat wat er nu gaande is in Amerika niets anders is dan karma voor wat ‘we’ de indianen ooit hebben aangedaan. We hebben erom gevraagd. Een lang weggedrukt nationaal schuldgevoel heeft een uitweg gevonden. We gaan er nu voor bloeden. Een van de grootste genocides in de geschiedenis der mensheid is generaties lang onder de mat geveegd en uit de geschiedenisboekjes weggelaten. Dat kan niet ongestraft voorbijgaan. Karma, payback time, it’s a bitch. De Grote Leider van de Verenigde Staten is opgestaan en het is ons verdiende loon.

Het moet een democraat zijn die het karma noemt. Hij doet dat omdat hij het gevoel heeft totaal machteloos te zijn tegen de huidige vorm van machtsmisbruik en wanhopig zoekt naar het waarom. Dan is karma altijd een welkome dooddoener. Het monster wordt groter en groter, en bedreigt zelfs de wereldvrede. Racisme, corruptie en schijnheiligheid vieren hoogtij. Stukje bij beetje wordt alles wat Obama had opgebouwd weer afgebroken. Elke beslissing die de Grote Leider neemt staat haaks op mijn opvattingen en die van de mensen waar ik mee omga (ik woon in de Bay Area, Californië). Het is bijna knap te noemen. Aanhangers van de Grote Leider mijd ik het liefst, maar ik kom er hier weinig tegen. Als ik echt mijn best doe, zou ik hen misschien kunnen vergeven dat ze in 2016 de domme fout gemaakt hebben om op hem te stemmen, maar voor wie nu nog achter hem staat en ze alle vijf op een rijtje heeft, heb ik geen begrip.

Maar het is geen karma. Het zit zo:

De genocide was de etnische zuivering en de verdrijving van indianen van oost naar west. Het was absolute horror wat alle stammen hebben moeten doorstaan, sinds de komst van de bezetters uit Europa, die nooit de intentie hadden om samen te leven, maar enkel deden alsof. Hun hebzucht was meedogenloos; hun racisme schaamteloos. Hun God zei hen dat ze superieur waren aan alles en iedereen. Manifest Destiny; ze waren sowieso voorbestemd om ‘hun’ continent te veroveren.

Veel later, na al het bloedvergieten, werden de indianen netjes gehuisvest in hun reservaten, kregen hun tribale soevereiniteit en dat was dat. Maar in werkelijkheid stelt tribale soevereiniteit niets voor als de overheid je vervolgens laat stikken in je reservaat en je niet de middelen hebt om iets van je leven te maken; als je onvruchtbare grond krijgt toegewezen, terwijl het nomadenbestaan in je bloed zit; als je nooit mogelijkheden hebt gekregen voor werk, voor een betere toekomst, voor wat dan ook; als je murw bent geslagen na generaties lange afhankelijkheid.

Dit en meer komt voorbij in mijn boek Het Web van Iktomi.

En dan zou er nu vergelding zijn voor dit gruwelijke hoofdstuk uit de geschiedenis in het huidige Amerika? In bepaalde opzichten is er niet zoveel veranderd. Making America great again betekent teruggaan in de tijd. Racisme, corruptie en schijnheiligheid vierden ook hoogtij ten tijde van de genocide en de slavernij. Het is altijd zo geweest, met af en toe een periode van opleving. Net als je denkt dat acht jaar Obama Amerika voorgoed heeft veranderd, komt het terug als nooit tevoren. Acht jaar van opgekropte verbittering en frustratie, veroorzaakt door niets anders dan de huidskleur van de president, heeft geleid tot deze uitbarsting van haat. Misselijkmakende arrogantie, politiek gebaseerd op leugens; babies die worden gescheiden van moeders aan de Mexicaanse grens; wapens zijn belangrijker dan mensenlevens. White supremacy is de norm. Evangelical Christians zijn aan de macht met hun discriminerende overtuigingen en Jezus huilt tranen met tuiten.

Er wordt gediscrimineerd op huidskleur, geloof, cultuur en geaardheid. Het minimum loon voor een medewerker van, bijvoorbeeld, supermarktketen Walmart is niet genoeg om van te kunnen leven, terwijl hun CEO’s zwemmen in hun geld als Dagobert Duck. Tax cuts maken dat verschil ondertussen nog extremer. En het is wachten op de pijpleiding die de Grote Leider dwars door indianenland in North Dakota zal laten aanleggen, na eerst de protesten gewetenloos weggewuifd te hebben.

Er zou pas sprake van karma zijn als de eerste Native American president wordt gekozen of op z’n minst een president met Native American roots, iemand als Elizabeth Warren, nu senator van Massachusetts. De Grote Leider noemt haar Pocahontas en zijn aanhang lacht mee. Maar Elizabeth Warren is trots op haar afkomst en een politica om rekening mee te houden. Er is nog een lange weg te gaan voordat de genocide vergolden wordt en de juiste mensen aan de macht zijn, als het er ooit van komt. De midterm elections in november kunnen een eerste stap zijn, als iedereen gebruik maakt van zijn stemrecht.

Ik mag niet stemmen omdat ik geen citizen ben, maar permanent resident. Toen ik immigreerde was dat onder het vriendelijkere beleid van de vorige president, die zwart was en de beginselen van Amerika wel begreep. Zou ik zijn toegelaten tot dit grote land als de regering me had gevraagd of ik me kritisch zou gaan uiten? In Obama’s tijd, ja. Vanzelfsprekend. Dat is democratie. Maar nu voelt het alsof ik met het nodige geluk net op tijd de grens ben gepasseerd voordat de volgende muur de boel blokkeert.

Wat ik wel kan doen ik fantaseren over hoe die vergelding eruit zou zien. Ik kan een verhaal bedenken waarin de huidige machthebbers er flink van langs krijgen, zoals in het boek dat ik nu aan het schrijven ben. Mijn taak is om mijn lezers wakker te schudden.

","value":"

Maar het is geen karma. Het zit zo:

Dit en meer komt voorbij in mijn boek Het Web van Iktomi.

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-03-31T20:43:05.064Z","editedDate":"2024-03-31T20:45:32.481Z"}},"li_Su2fsx5AWw":{"components":{"ids":["date","heading","link","text"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2024-05-21T10:00:00.000Z","value":"2024-05-21T10:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Guest Blog for Gay Book Promotions","value":"Guest Blog for Gay Book Promotions"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/post/guest-blog-for-gay-book-promotions"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Studying anthropology at the university of Amsterdam, I enjoyed writing essays and received high grades. In his speech at my graduation, my tutor read a part of my thesis, highlighting how much he liked my writing, suggesting that I should seriously think about becoming an author.

That started me thinking. It was, of course, a wonderful thing to hear, but did I really have it in me? After some short stories, I wrote my novel Cajú. I spent much time in Brazil to do research, which eventually led to this book. I sent the first chapter to several publishers in Amsterdam, and one invited me over for an interview—an old publishing house, known for their high literary standards.

It didn’t lead to publication. However, it strengthened my conviction that my writing had quality, and it made me more ambitious to go on. The manuscript of my second novel, Walking Among Us, won a prize in a contest, which attracted the attention of a Belgian publishing house. I signed a contract and was a published author from that day on. They also published Cajú, as well as my third novel The Girl in the Web. All three novels are mysterious and spiritual, and were written after anthropological research.

During Covid, my publisher went bankrupt and I republished my books myself, in Dutch and in English. And I wrote two autobiographical works: a nonfiction narrative, Dog Gone, and a memoir, Boy One, my latest book.

I use many experiences from my own life in my novels. Before I became a writer, I was mainly working as a drummer/percussionist. With my band Outcry, I toured the Pacific Northwest in the 90s. We played grunge, the big hype in those days. My first novel Walking Among Us is a tribute to that band. I was and still am fascinated by Sasquatch, so I created a thrilling, spiritual story in the woods of Oregon.

My second novel, Cajú, plays mainly in Brazil, where I did anthropological research. The protagonist is a girl, but she could just as well be me. Her experiences were based on mine, with much fantasy added. After reading it, you will have learned something about Brazilian temperament and spirituality.

My third novel, The Girl in the Web, again has a female protagonist. I guess I find that easy, being a gay man, who wanted to be a girl when he found out he was a boy at a very young age. I spent time in Pine Ridge, South Dakota, to see Wounded Knee and learned everything about the Lakota and their history. I used my fantasy to create a mysterious and spiritual story that takes you from Austria to Holland to Pine Ridge and back, in which the concept of time is challenged.

Dog Gone, a nonfiction narrative, is about the years I lived in Spain, in a happy relationship that ended with the death of my lover, and meeting my husband in America. My pets play an important role, two cats and a dog. It’s a story filled with human emotions, interspersed with tragicomical scenes of the love among dogs and cats and their owners.

Boy One, a memoir, is my new book. It’s the story I was afraid to write, let alone publish, because it’s so much about me, about a part of my younger life, starting when I was a naïve teenager in the closet; a part of my life that I’ve been ashamed of for all the wrong reasons.

I was the young lover of John Stamford, the eccentric and middle-aged editor/owner of the famous Spartacus Gay Guide, and together we travelled around the world. The memoir covers how we met, the power games he played, and the rise and fall of the guide, as well as the scandals.

In the 80s and 90s, the guide was a travel atlas, the roadmap every gay man on the move had in his back pocket because it opened a world of opportunities to its gay subscribers, not unlike the Green Book for Afro-Americans. No matter where one was around the globe, the gay-friendly bars and clubs were identified. It made travel a glorious funfest.

But the farther I travelled, the deeper I was immersed in a seedy underworld of possibly illegal, certainly immoral activity in which I might be complicit. This memoir details what went on behind the scenes, the power and influence the guide generated, and the attendant misuse of that influence. After appearing on the guide’s cover, I strived to escape the magazine and my lover, but it wasn’t easy. John harbored a manic attraction for me and vice versa.

My husband Geno encouraged me to go ahead and write it. He convinced me it had to be told, because it’s part of gay history and people should know. Looking back, it was good therapy: I’m not ashamed anymore.

If you enjoy my writing, check out my fiction and nonfiction on this website.

","value":"

If you enjoy my writing, check out my fiction and nonfiction on this website.

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-05-21T13:26:27.626Z","editedDate":"2024-06-05T14:23:31.617Z"}},"li_ViLEBgErZ4":{"components":{"ids":["link","textDutchVersion","text","heading","date"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2024-03-28T17:00:00.000Z","value":"2024-03-28T17:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Good Grief","value":"Good Grief"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/post/good-grief"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

“In the Lakota/Sioux tradition, a person who is grieving is considered most wakan, most holy. There's a sense that when someone is struck by the sudden lightning of loss, he or she stands on the threshold of the spirit world. The prayers of those who grieve are considered especially strong, and it is proper to ask them for their help. You might recall what it's like to be with someone who has grieved deeply. The person has no layer of protection, nothing left to defend. The mystery is looking out through that person's eyes. For the time being, he or she has accepted the reality of loss and has stopped clinging to the past or grasping at the future. In the groundless openness of sorrow, there is a wholeness of presence and a deep natural wisdom.”

This quote by Tara Brach holds a lot of truth. I recognize everything she’s saying. I grieved deeply twice in my life. Both times, I lost a partner through cancer. If there’s anything good that can come out of losing a loved one, in my case it’s that I became a sponge for information and had several highly spiritual experiences. It’s like a temporary existence in liminal space.

I’d like to share a piece I wrote on one of those sultry afternoons at the end of May 2013—Mon died on May 22—sitting outside with my laptop, with a sparrow accompanying me on the top of my screen, checking me out. I remember the clarity in my head, being slightly obsessed and the total and obvious conviction of it being the truth. I’ve tried to hold on to that ever since and used it in my novel The Girl in the Web. It’s a concise reproduction of what I saw and read of physicist Tom Campbell’s work, whose masterpiece, My Big Toe, I can recommend to anyone interested in the bigger consciousness system.

Why are we here?

Science can’t generally provide an answer to the question why we are here, what the meaning is of life on this earth. They come up with clever calculations proving the big bang; with the universe coming into existence soon after, and the fact that in that universe there happened to be a small planet with a sun with just the right circumstances for some amino acids to get together and do a little dance that turned them into a cell, which then evolved into who we are today. But why?

The Field

To find a possible answer to the question why we are here and what it’s all about, without things getting too religious or woo woo, we should stop looking at things in the here and now, from the perspective of this earth, the universe. Instead, we should try and see things from the perspective of the only real truth: the bigger consciousness system. Two premises are important in that respect:

Reality, as we know it, is virtual.
Consciousness is at the base of everything.

If this is already too far out for you, reader, it probably means you belong to the people who believe that we are our body, or our brain, the materialized model of evolution; and in that case there’s no point in trying to find the answer. In that case, what science presents us suffices; we are separated from one another, subject to Darwin’s laws, with every individual fighting for his or her survival. In that case, too, we see a world built on fear, as we have today, with armies, hostile nations; with a small, rich elite and masses of people struggling to get by. Eventually, that will lead to the collapse of this planet, instead of evolving farther.

However, if you can get your head around it, please read on. If we assume that our bodies (our brain included), the earth and even the universe are a virtual reality, and that the only real reality is called consciousness, then we’re looking at a whole different picture. It’s the body that comes and goes, not the information going through it, which is immortal. That is part of an all encompassing source of information, which could also be called the invisible energy source from which all things material evolve, or the field. Other names could be the spiritual world or the bigger consciousness system. Whichever you pick, it’s the source of our virtual reality. It’s not outside us, separated. On the contrary, our world is part of it. We wouldn’t exist without that source. We put on this virtual-reality-suit that’s called “body” and are allowed to experience this planet, this universe. We’re walking around in a simulation of the bigger consciousness system. We appear to be separated, but in reality are not.

Entropy

By its very nature, every system wants to evolve in order to survive. Every system needs to reproduce or it will cease to exist. Ever since the big bang, the universe is evolving as well, creating structure out of chaos. It’s growing towards an ever more complex system. It evolves from a system of high entropy (high chaos) to one with low entropy (low chaos). The more complex a system is, the lower its entropy. These are the criteria of our existence. We are here to grow, to improve the quality of our consciousness, by continually collecting better and more useful information. Our bodies help us out, are a complex result of the big bang. If we didn’t have our bodies, we would all be pieces of consciousness (or information) without rules and restrictions. The chaos would be complete. We need the restrictions of the here and now to evolve. There is an infinite number of virtual realities like ours where individual pieces of consciousness go to experience things, with a free will, but within a set of rules and restrictions.

Consciousness can be seen as a digital field of information. We are a three-dimensional simulation of that: a virtual reality. In our source, we are nothing more than information. We receive information and that is what defines us. We are here to experience, and what’s the point in that? To evolve, to lower the entropy of our consciousness. We’re part of the bigger-consciousness-system’s strategy to evolve, as opposed collapse. Our dream-reality is just another virtual reality. Where you wake up when you die here, is again another virtual reality.

Love

What’s the best way to reach the lowest possible entropy, to evolve the best we can? In any case, it’s not fear. Fear only breaks things down, kills and makes sick, leads us to need defense systems to fight one another; leads to suppression and, ultimately, to chaos. Fear is based on the assumption that we’re separated from one another, that we have to anxiously hold on to our possessions and not trust anyone.

The opposite of fear is love. Love is the fuel for evolving consciousness. Love is impersonal, all around, and always constructive anywhere. And without the love energy—known by the mystic, experienced by the enlightened—we couldn’t even exist. Love is the optimum of low entropy-configuration. We communicate, we share, we’re social, separated by our bodies but all connected together. What does a society based on love create in the long term? It optimizes, by relations, by cooperation. That’s the goal.

What did the Buddha mean when he said that this physical reality is an illusion? If you look at it from the wider perspective, as we just did, then that statement is no longer poetry but fact. In fact, love would be the optimal stage you could reach when you evolve. Therefore, a highly evolved consciousness could be called “love”.

Why are we here? The answer to that question is to learn what love is.

","value":"

Why are we here?

The Field

Reality, as we know it, is virtual.
Consciousness is at the base of everything.

Entropy

Love

Why are we here? The answer to that question is to learn what love is.

"}}},"textDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

“Bij de Lakota/Sioux bestaat het geloof dat een persoon in rouw beschouwd kan worden als het meest wakan, het meest heilig. Iemand die, als een bliksem, getroffen wordt door een plotseling verlies staat op de drempel van gene zijde. Hun gebeden worden als uitermate krachtig gezien en het is goed om hen te vragen om hulp. Wellicht herken je hoe het is om samen te zijn met iemand die diep in rouw is. Die persoon heeft niets meer te verdedigen en geen reden om zich te beschermen. Uit zijn of haar ogen straalt het mysterie. Gedurende deze periode heeft hij of zij de werkelijkheid van het verlies geaccepteerd en is gestopt met het vasthouden aan het verleden of het reiken naar de toekomst. Ergens in de onpeilbare openheid van hevig verdriet, ligt een totale aanwezigheid en een diepe, natuurlijke wijsheid.”

Er zit veel waarheid in deze quote van Tara Brach. Ik herken alles wat ze zegt. Twee keer in mijn leven heb ik diep gerouwd. Beide keren verloor ik mijn partner aan kanker. Als er iets goeds is dat voort kan komen uit het verliezen van een dierbare, in mijn geval, is het dat ik als een spons informatie opzoog en een aantal bijzonder spirituele ervaringen heb gehad. Het is als een tijdelijk verblijf in liminaliteit.

Graag deel ik een stuk dat ik schreef op een van de warme middagen, eind mei 2013—Mon overleed 22 mei—buiten met mijn laptop en met een musje dat me in de gaten hield, zittend op de rand van mijn scherm. Ik herinner me de helderheid in mijn hoofd, de lichte obsessie en de totale en vanzelfsprekende overtuiging dat wat ik schreef waar was. Ik heb sindsdien getracht om eraan vast te houden en gebruikte het onder andere in mijn roman Het Web van Iktomi. Het is een beknopte weergave van wat ik zag en las van het werk van natuurkundige Tom Campbell, wiens meesterwerk, My Big Toe, ik aan iedereen kan aanraden die is geïnteresseerd in het grotere bewustzijnssysteem.

Waarom zijn we hier?

De wetenschap heeft in het algemeen geen antwoord op de vraag waarom we hier zijn, wat het doel is van ons leven op aarde. Men kan heel knap berekenen dat er een oerknal is geweest, dat vrij spoedig daarna het universum zich vormde, dat in dat universum toevallig een klein planeetje met een zon ontstond, met toevallig de juiste omstandigheden om een aantal aminozuren bij elkaar te laten komen die een dansje met elkaar deden en in een cel veranderden, die vervolgens evolueerde tot wie we vandaag zijn. Maar waarom?

Het Veld

Om een mogelijk antwoord te kunnen vinden op de vraag waarom we hier zijn en waar het allemaal toe dient, zonder dat het religieus of zweverig wordt, moet men niet werken vanuit het hier en nu, de aarde, het universum. Men zou moeten trachten te kijken vanuit de enige echte werkelijkheid: het grotere bewustzijnssysteem. Twee aannames zijn daarbij van belang:

De werkelijkheid zoals wij die kennen is virtueel.
Bewustzijn is de basis van alles.

Als dit al te zweverig is voor u, lezer, hoort u waarschijnlijk bij de groep die ervan uitgaat dat we ons lichaam zijn, of ons brein, het gematerialiseerde evolutiemodel, en dan is verder zoeken naar het antwoord overbodig. Dan hebben we genoeg aan wat de reguliere wetenschap ons voorschotelt. Dan zijn we van elkaar afgescheiden, gelden de wetten van Darwin en moet ieder individu vechten voor zijn overleving. Dan zien we een wereld opgebouwd uit angst, zoals die van vandaag de dag, met legers, vijandige naties, met een kleine rijke elite en een massa van ieder voor zich. Uiteindelijk leidt dat tot de ondergang van de planeet, in plaats van verdere evolutie.

Maar als u zich er iets bij kunt voorstellen, lees dan vooral verder. Als we ervan uitgaan dat onze lichamen (inclusief ons brein), de aarde en zelfs het universum een virtuele werkelijkheid zijn, en dat de enige echte werkelijkheid bewustzijn heet, dan ziet het plaatje er heel anders uit. Het is het lichaam dat komt en gaat, niet de informatie die er doorheen gaat. Die is onsterfelijk. Die maakt onderdeel uit van een alomvattende informatiebron, ook wel de onzichtbare energiebron van waaruit al het materiële voortkomt genoemd of het veld. Andere omschrijvingen kunnen zijn de spirituele wereld of het grotere bewustzijnssysteem. Hoe het ook genoemd wordt, het is de bron waar onze virtuele werkelijkheid uit voortkomt. Het is niet buiten ons, afgescheiden, nee, onze wereld is daar een product van. We zouden niet zonder die bron kunnen bestaan. We stappen in een virtueel werkelijkheidspak dat ‘lichaam’ wordt genoemd en mogen deze planeet, dit universum ervaren. We lopen rond in een simulatie van het grotere bewustzijnssysteem. We lijken van elkaar afgescheiden, maar zijn dat in werkelijkheid niet.

Entropie

Elk systeem wil van nature evolueren om te overleven. Elk systeem moet zich voortplanten, anders verdwijnt het. Sinds de oerknal is ook het universum aan het evolueren, structuur aan het maken van de chaos. Het groeit naar een steeds complexer systeem. Het evolueert van een systeem met hoge entropie (hoge wanorde) naar een met lage entropie (lage wanorde). Hoe complexer het systeem, hoe lager de entropie. Het zijn de criteria van ons bestaan. We zijn hier om te groeien, om de kwaliteit van ons bewustzijn te vergroten, door steeds betere en nuttigere informatie te vergaren. Onze lichamen geven ons houvast, zijn een complex gevolg van de oerknal. Als we onze lichamen niet hadden, waren we allemaal stukjes bewustzijn (of informatie), zonder beperkingen en regels. Dan zou de wanorde enorm zijn. We hebben de beperkingen van het hier en nu nodig om vooruit te komen. Er bestaan ontelbare virtuele werkelijkheden zoals de onze, waar individuele stukjes bewustzijn heengaan om ervaringen op te doen, met een vrije wil, maar binnen bepaalde regels en beperkingen.

Bewustzijn kan gezien worden als een digitaal informatieveld. Wij zijn een driedimensionale simulatie daarvan: een virtuele werkelijkheid. We zijn in de bron niks anders dan informatie. We krijgen informatie en dat is wat ons definieert. We zijn hier om te ervaren. En wat is het nut daarvan? Dat we evolueren, dat we de entropie van ons bewustzijn omlaag brengen. We zijn onderdeel van de strategie van het grotere bewustzijnssysteem om te evolueren, om niet ten onder te gaan. Onze droomrealiteit is net zo goed een virtuele werkelijkheid. Waar je wakker wordt als je hier gestorven bent, is wederom een andere virtuele werkelijkheid.

Liefde

Wat is het beste middel om tot een zo laag mogelijke entropie te komen, om zo goed mogelijk te evolueren? In ieder geval, niet angst. Angst breekt alleen maar af, maakt ziek en doodt, leidt ertoe dat we defensiesystemen nodig hebben en met elkaar vechten, leidt tot onderdrukking en, uiteindelijk, chaos. Angst is gebaseerd op de notie dat we van elkaar afgescheiden zijn, dat we angstvallig moeten vasthouden aan onze bezittingen en elkaar niet vertrouwen.

Het tegenovergestelde van angst is liefde. Liefde is de brandstof voor de evolutie van het bewustzijn. Liefde is onpersoonlijk, alom aanwezig, overal werkzaam, en zonder de liefdesenergie— die de mysticus kent, die de verlichte ervaart—kan men niet eens bestaan. Liefde is het optimum van lage entropie-configuratie. We communiceren, we delen, we zijn sociaal, afgescheiden door lichamen, maar allemaal met elkaar verbonden. Wat creëert een op liefde gebaseerde samenleving op de lange termijn? Ze optimaliseert, door relaties, door samenwerking. Dat is het streven.

Wat bedoelde Boeddha toen hij zei dat deze fysieke werkelijkheid een illusie is? Als je het bekijkt vanuit het grote perspectief, zoals hierboven, dan is die uitspraak niet langer poëzie, maar een feit. Dan is liefde het optimale stadium dat je bereikt als je evolueert. Dus een in grote mate geëvolueerd bewustzijn zou ‘liefde’ kunnen worden genoemd.

Waarom zijn we hier? Het antwoord op die vraag is om te leren wat liefde is.

","value":"

Waarom zijn we hier?

Het Veld

De werkelijkheid zoals wij die kennen is virtueel.
Bewustzijn is de basis van alles.

Entropie

Liefde

Waarom zijn we hier? Het antwoord op die vraag is om te leren wat liefde is.

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-03-31T20:46:00.825Z","editedDate":"2024-03-31T20:49:25.981Z"}},"li_Xz3cSiXeKZ":{"components":{"ids":["link","heading","image","date","textDutchVersion","text"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2024-03-30T17:00:00.000Z","value":"2024-03-30T17:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Spirit Guide","value":"Spirit Guide"}}},"image":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FSpirit_Guide_pages_1711917489265.jpg?alt=media&token=aa6bcc85-fce7-4632-b57d-5d999f1a1b3b","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FSpirit_Guide_pages_1711917489265.jpg?alt=media&token=aa6bcc85-fce7-4632-b57d-5d999f1a1b3b"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/post/spirit-guide"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Does something like a spirit guide really exist? I had become curious after reading Elephant Songs: The transcendent journey of a reluctant psychic, by Michelle Frost. She tells us how she’s been accompanied by her spirit guide for all of her life, helping her on her way from where she was born in South-Africa to Scotland. She’s been gifted with clairvoyance from childhood and tries to deal with that the best way she can. The spirit guide helping her—and sometimes bothering or pestering her—is an elephant.

To shamans, telepathic contact with animals is self-evident. In fact, everything on this earth is animated and connected, and as such it’s not strange when people are ‘talking’ to trees. You just have to learn how to listen and it’s exactly that which is a step too far for the average white Westerner whose thoughts are separated from the outside world, and not connected to the physical. But everything is telepathically connected to everything; the universe is a pulsating unity to which everyone can open themselves.

In my case, I was forced to leave my beloved pets when I left my house in the mountains in Spain, after a traumatic episode, and went to live in the USA. It was the hardest decision of my life. Looking back, I can say that there’s never been anything I’ve regretted so much. Now, four years later, it still haunts me from time to time. A harsh lesson. The thing I’d underestimated was how animals can perfectly understand what’s going on. Of course, I knew how special the bond between man and pet can be, playful, obedient, sensitive; but I became frightfully aware how much when I sensed the telepathic connection between me and my pets when it was time to say goodbye. It was heartbreaking. What the hell was I doing? The panic in their eyes. The cries of dispair. The tail between the legs. Peeing on the backseat of the car.

They all found beautiful forever homes. The two cats, already aged, crossed the rainbow bridge by now and paid me visits in my dreams. The dog has a wonderful life. He pre-senses whenever I pay him a visit at his new home in Holland. I enjoy these get-togethers immensely and am grateful. It feels a little like forgiveness. People who trivialize the bond between man and animal, and think it’s all so over the top, don’t get it. I don’t care.

After reading Michelle Frost’s book, I also seriously started consulting my spirit guide—nothing more than a term in my eyes. You can call it anything; an animal, Jesus, God, a beloved one who passed on, etc. In my perception it’s an owl. I can’t tell you why, but that’s what springs to mind. Owls frequently appear in my novels without me consciously choosing that bird. In Spain, the trees around my house were full of owls and I used to listen to their hoarse hooting in the dark, sometimes very close by. You have to be in the right frame of mind to get in touch with your spirit guide, and be able to open up. But if you do, there’ll be an answer and that’s awesome.

A good example is what happened to me in March of this year. I was in Flaine, France, on a skiing trip. My partner, Geno, was at home in California. We had our eyes on a house in Palm Springs, in a park where we’d been house hunting many times and would love to live. That time, it was for real. The drawbacks were the asking price and the fact that it was built on Indian land, which meant that the land on which you live is leased for so many years. At the end of that contract, leases are usually extended. Very rarely, they’re not. A minor risk, therefore, but one that half of Palm Springs is dealing with.

Would we go for it or not? Geno asked me to give it some serious thought. It was 7pm. I poured myself a glass of wine and sat outside on the balcony of our apartment to concentrate in private. It was dark and freezing cold. I was on the second floor. Beneath me, was a narrow country lane without any traffic. I consulted my spirit guide and asked for help. I added that I wouldn’t accept a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. In that case, I already knew the answer, because I really wanted it to be ‘yes’. My spirit guide would have to come up with something better than that.

Not long after, a car parked about thirty feet away. At first, I didn’t pay any attention to it and took another sip of wine, staring at the snowy landscape in the distance, waiting for an answer, a sign. I looked at the car again. It was a Renault. The silver letters ‘Scenic’, on the boot, just above the French license plate, shone in the streetlight. It was a Renault Scenic. I gaped at it and my mouth dropped. I shook my head and laughed, because I knew: the street in Palm Springs where our future home was, was called ‘Scenic View’.

My doubts vanished. I knew this was it. I thanked my spirit guide and quickly let Geno know that as far as I was concerned, we had found our new home.

Meanwhile, we moved. We’re very happy at our new spot. That’s how simple it is. Don’t rationalize, don’t analyze. Don’t take it too serious. Sometimes, it’s even playful. Let it come over you and take it for what it is. One thing is for sure, if you ask me: it exists.

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My doubts vanished. I knew this was it. I thanked my spirit guide and quickly let Geno know that as far as I was concerned, we had found our new home.

"}}},"textDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Bestaat er zoiets als een spirit guide? Ik was nieuwsgierig geworden na het lezen van het boek Elephant Songs: The transcendent Journey of a reluctant psychic, van Michelle Frost. Ze vertelt hoe ze haar leven lang vergezelt wordt door een spirit guide, die haar helpt op haar weg van Zuid-Afrika, haar geboortegrond, naar Schotland. Ze heeft van kinds af aan helderziende gaven en probeert daar zo goed mogelijk mee om te gaan. De spirit guide die haar helpt—en soms lastigvalt of pest—is een olifant.

Voor sjamanen is telepathisch contact met dieren vanzelfsprekend. In feite is alles op aarde bezield en verbonden met elkaar, en in dat opzicht is het niet vreemd als mensen met bomen ‘praten’. Je moet slechts leren hoe te luisteren en juist dat is voor de doornee Westerse mens een brug te ver: gedachten zijn afgescheiden van de buitenwereld, zijn niet verbonden met het fysieke. Maar alles is telepathisch verbonden met elkaar; het universum is een pulserende eenheid waaraan iedereen zich kan openstellen.

Zo was ik genoodzaakt mijn geliefde huisdieren achter te laten toen ik mijn huis in de bergen in Spanje verliet, na een traumatische tijd, om in Amerika te gaan wonen. De moeilijkste beslissing van mijn leven. Terugkijkend kan ik concluderen dat ik nog nooit ergens zoveel spijt van heb gehad en dat het me nu, vier jaar later, nog achtervolgt van tijd tot tijd. Een keiharde les. Wat ik onderschatte was hoe perfect de dieren doorhadden wat er aan de hand was. Natuurlijk, ik wist hoe bijzonder de band tussen mens en dier kan zijn, speels, gehoorzaam, aanvoelend; maar ik werd me sterk bewust van de mate waarin toen ik de telepathische band tussen mij en mijn huisdieren voelde bij het definitieve afscheid, dat hartverscheurend was. Hoe kon ik dit doen? De manier waarop ze me aankeken. De paniek in hun ogen. Huilen van verdriet. De staart tussen de poten. Plassen op de achterbank van de auto.

Ik dacht dat ik er alleen voor stond en deze beslissing alleen moest maken. Ik dacht dat ik niet goed voor ze zou kunnen zorgen en ze beter af waren zonder mij, op een andere plek. Ik voelde me afgescheiden, terwijl ik naar mijn dieren had moeten luisteren. Ik begrijp tot op de dag van vandaag niet hoe ik dit heb kunnen doen.

Ze zijn allemaal goed terechtgekomen. De twee poezen, die al ouder waren, zijn inmiddels de regenboogbrug over en hebben me bezocht in mijn dromen. De hond heeft het geweldig. Hij voorvoelt wanneer ik hem weer kom opzoeken op zijn nieuwe plek in Nederland. Ik geniet enorm van deze rendez-voustjes en ben dankbaar. Het voelt een beetje als vergiffenis. Mensen die de band tussen mens en dier bagatelliseren en het allemaal maar overdreven vinden, begrijpen er niets van. Dat kan me niet schelen.

Je staat er nooit alleen voor. Na het lezen van Michelle Frost’s boek ben ik ook serieus begonnen met het raadplegen van mijn spirit guide—in mijn ogen slechts een term. Je kunt het van alles noemen, een dier, Jezus, God, een overleden dierbare, enz. Ik weet niet precies wat het is bij mij. Ik weet alleen dat het er is. Misschien een uil. Dat is wat zich met regelmaat aan me opdringt. Ik kan niet uitleggen waarom. In mijn romans komen steeds uilen voor, zonder dat ik bewust voor die vogel kies. In Spanje zaten de bomen rond mijn huis er vol mee en luisterde ik in het donker naar het hese geroep, soms van heel dichtbij. Het maakt niet uit wat of wie het is, zolang je maar in de juiste gemoedstoestand bent, je verbonden voelt, en je je kunt openstellen om in contact te komen met je spirit guide. En als dat lukt, dan komt er ook antwoord en dat is geweldig.

Een grappig voorbeeld is wat me overkwam in maart van dit jaar. Ik was in Flaine, Frankrijk, op wintersport. Mijn partner, Geno, was thuis in Californië. We hadden een huis op het oog in Palm Springs, op een plek waar we al vaak waren gaan kijken en graag wilden gaan wonen. Deze keer was het menens. De haken en ogen waren de prijs en het feit dat het was gebouwd op indianengrond, wat betekent dat de grond geleased wordt voor dertig jaar of langer. Bij het aflopen van zo’n contract worden leases gewoonlijk verlengd. In zeldzame gevallen gebeurt dit niet. Een klein risico, dus, maar een waar half Palm Springs mee te maken heeft.

Gingen we het doen of niet? Geno vroeg me er serieus over na te denken. Het was zeven uur ’s avonds. Ik pakte een glas wijn en ging buiten zitten op het balkon van ons appartement om privacy te hebben en me te concentreren. Het was donker en het vroor. Ik zat één hoog. Onder me was een smalle landweg zonder verkeer. Ik riep mijn spirit guide aan en vroeg om hulp. Ik zei erbij dat ik geen genoegen nam met een simpel ‘ja’ of ‘nee’. In dat geval wist ik namelijk het antwoord al, omdat ik heel graag ‘ja’ wilde horen. Mijn spirit guide moest met iets beters komen.

Niet lang daarna parkeerde er een auto op zo’n tien meter afstand. In eerste instantie schonk ik er weinig aandacht aan en nipte nog eens aan mijn wijn, starend naar het besneeuwde landschap in de verte, wachtend op een antwoord, een teken. Ik keek nog eens naar de auto. Het was een Renault. De zilveren letters ‘Scenic’ op de achterklep boven het Franse nummerbord glinsterden in het licht van de straatlantaarn. Het was een Renault Scenic. Ik staarde ernaar en mijn mond viel open. Ik schudde mijn hoofd en lachte in mezelf, want ik wist: de straatnaam in Palm Springs waar ons toekomstige huis stond was ‘Scenic View’.

Mijn twijfel was weg. Ik voelde dat dit het was. Ik dankte mijn spirit guide en liet Geno snel weten dat we wat mij betreft ons nieuwe huis hadden gevonden.

Inmiddels zijn we verhuisd en gelukkig op onze nieuwe stek. Zo simpel is het dus. Ga niet rationaliseren of analyseren. Lach erom. Maak het niet zwaar. Soms is het zelfs speels. Laat het je overkomen en neem het voor wat het is. Geloof het of niet. Eén ding is zeker wat mij betreft: het bestaat.

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Mijn twijfel was weg. Ik voelde dat dit het was. Ik dankte mijn spirit guide en liet Geno snel weten dat we wat mij betreft ons nieuwe huis hadden gevonden.

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-03-31T20:35:33.317Z","editedDate":"2024-03-31T20:42:33.997Z"}},"li_bCBNjijizx":{"components":{"ids":["date","heading","image","link","text","textDutchVersion"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2024-04-26T19:00:00.000Z","value":"2024-04-26T19:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"La Nostra Avventura Italiana, #1","value":"La Nostra Avventura Italiana, #1"}}},"image":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"","value":""}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/post/la-nostra-avventura-italiana-1"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

\"Doors Closing\"

The alarm goes off at 4:30am, we rise in the dark and deflate the air mattress. Our house has been uncomfortably bare for days. All life has been drained from it. It's sold. What we want to keep in terms of belongings is in storage in Palm Springs until we know where it needs to be shipped. It's really happening: we bid farewell to our lovely home in Palm Springs. No turning back. The adventure can begin.

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\"Doors closing,\" said the woman's voice from the speaker in the elevator of the apartment complex where my mother lived, in Holland. They closed for the last time at the end of January, after we had emptied her apartment following her passing. Now, 3 months later, I've emptied another house, our house, and closed the doors definitively once again. It's too soon, I must be out of my mind, but I let it happen. It has to happen now. When the suffocating desert heat hits in May, the housing market freezes. Moreover, we had already started this process before my mother's short illness. And Geno is very determined, which reassures me. The fact that we're making a hefty profit weighs in on that decision. In the meantime, I oscillate between homesickness and what's to come, between sadness and hope. I would return to Europe to be closer to my mother.

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Neighbor Jim, an 87-year-old pianist, insists on bidding us farewell and has also set his alarm clock. He is the last, but not the least, in a long line of friends and acquaintances we had to say goodbye to. We embrace once again and say we love each other. I think of the piano lessons I had with him, the dinners I prepared for him, and the movie nights at our home. I hear myself saying that we will definitely come back to see each other. Wishful thinking, although it's a serious intention. After all, for the past 10 years, I've made an effort to keep seeing my friends in the Netherlands, so why couldn't it be the other way around?

And then we just drive away from Parkview, our neighborhood, as if we're going on vacation. Only this time there's no way back home. It feels like my American adventure ends here. I keep my green card, though, because you never know, and we're not leaving the United States immediately. We drive north to San Francisco to spend a few weeks with our friends in the Bay Area and then sell our car before boarding the plane to Amsterdam with Italy as our final destination.

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America, there's a lot to criticize about it, and in Europe, they're ready to emphasize the negative stereotypes. For me, the overriding feeling is leaving behind many good friends who don’t like us leaving but are also excited about our new adventure. I've had a great time in California, I’m grateful for the unforgettable experiences, and I've enjoyed the beautiful nature and culture.

But now we're going to try our luck in Italy. Geno's grandparents, from both sides, emigrated from Italy to America. We're returning to his roots. In the late summer of 2023, we took a trip and visited the villages of his grandparents, along with nephew Chris and his wife Robin, who had already made the move from America to Italy and settled in beautiful Rieti. That sealed the deal. We are nomads indefinitely, with a mailing address in the US. We will travel south from Rome, in a campervan, spend time in Sicily and Puglia and everywhere in between, to then travel back north along the Adriatic. New doors are sure to open for us. You can follow along via my blogs.

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If you enjoy my writing, check out my fiction and nonfiction on this website.

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\"Doors Closing\"

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If you enjoy my writing, check out my fiction and nonfiction on this website.

"}}},"textDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

\"Deuren Sluiten\"

De wekker gaat om half 5, we staan op in het donker en laten het luchtbed leeglopen. Ons huis is al dagenlang ongezellig kaal. Al het leven is eruit. Het is verkocht. Wat we willen behouden aan spullen ligt in opslag in Palm Springs, totdat we weten waarnaartoe het verscheept moet worden. Het gebeurt werkelijk: we zeggen ons heerlijke huis in Palm Springs vaarwel. Geen weg meer terug. Het avontuur kan beginnen.

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“Deuren sluiten,” zei de vrouwenstem uit de speaker in de lift van het appartementencomplex waar mijn moeder woonde, in Dordrecht. Ze sloten voor het laatst eind januari, nadat we haar appartement hadden leeggehaald na haar overlijden. Nu, een maand of 3 later, heb ik weer een huis leeggehaald, ons huis, en de deuren opnieuw definitief gesloten. Het is te snel, ik lijk wel gek, maar ik laat het gebeuren. Het moet nu. Wanneer in mei de verstikkende woestijnhitte toeslaat, ligt de huizenmarkt stil. We hadden dit proces bovendien al voor mijn moeders korte ziekbed in gang gezet. En Geno is enorm vastberaden, wat mij geruststelt. Het feit dat we dikke winst maken weegt daarin mee. Ondertussen beweeg ik tussen heimwee en wat komen gaat, tussen verdriet en hoop. Ik zou terugkeren naar Europa om dichterbij mijn moeder te zijn.

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Buurman Jim, een 87-jarige pianist, wil ons persé uitzwaaien en heeft ook de wekker gezet. Hij is de laatste, maar niet de minste, in een lange rij vrienden en kennissen van wie we afscheid moesten nemen. We omhelzen elkaar nog maar eens en zeggen dat we van elkaar houden. Ik denk aan de pianolessen die ik van hem heb gehad, aan de diners die ik voor hem bereidde en de filmavonden bij ons thuis. Ik hoor mezelf zeggen dat we zeker weten terug zullen komen om elkaar weer te zien. Wishful thinking, al is het een serieus voornemen. Ik heb de afgelopen 10 jaar immers ook mijn best gedaan om mijn vrienden in Nederland te blijven zien, dus waarom zou het niet andersom kunnen?

En dan rijden we gewoon weg uit Parkview, ons buurtje, alsof we op vakantie gaan. Alleen is er dit keer geen weg terug naar huis. Het voelt alsof mijn Amerikaanse avontuur hier eindigt. Ik bewaar wel mijn green card, je weet maar nooit, en we verlaten niet meteen de Verenigde Staten. We rijden noordwaarts naar San Francisco om een paar weken door te brengen met onze vrienden in de Bay Area en dan onze auto te verkopen, alvorens op het vliegtuig naar Amsterdam te stappen met als eindbestemming Italië.

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Amerika, er is veel op aan te merken en in Europa staat men klaar om de negatieve stereotypen te benadrukken. Bij mij overheerst dat ik veel goede vrienden achterlaat die het allemaal waardeloos vinden dat wij vertrekken, maar ons ook het avontuur gunnen. Ik heb het geweldig gehad in Californië, ben dankbaar voor de onvergetelijke ervaringen en heb genoten van de prachtige natuur en de cultuur.

Maar nu gaan we ons geluk beproeven in Italië. Geno’s grootouders, van beide kanten, emigreerden van Italië naar Amerika. We keren terug naar zijn roots. In de nazomer van 2023 maakten we een rondreis en deden de dorpen van zijn grootouders aan, samen met neef Chris en zijn vrouw Robin die de stap van Amerika naar Italië al eerder maakten en neerstreken in het mooie Rieti. Dat gaf de doorslag. We zullen voor onbepaalde tijd nomaden zijn, met een postadres in de VS. We gaan met een camper vanuit Rome naar het zuiden en zullen tijd doorbrengen in Sicilië, Puglia en alles wat ertussen ligt, om langs de Adriatische kust weer noordwaarts te gaan. Nieuwe deuren gaan zich vast en zeker voor ons openen. Via mijn blogs kun je meegenieten.

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Als je mijn blogs leuk vindt, klik dan eens op mijn fictie en non-fictie op deze website.

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\"Deuren Sluiten\"

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Als je mijn blogs leuk vindt, klik dan eens op mijn fictie en non-fictie op deze website.

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-04-26T16:47:12.358Z","editedDate":"2024-06-05T14:24:06.232Z"}},"li_bsQaBgbxB6":{"components":{"ids":["link"],"items":{"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-05-21T20:15:02.210Z","editedDate":"2024-05-21T20:15:02.210Z"}},"li_gXaXcW2txm":{"components":{"ids":["date","heading","link","text","textDutchVersion"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2024-03-31T17:00:00.000Z","value":"2024-03-31T17:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"What is my genre?","value":"What is my genre?"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/post/what-is-my-genre"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Often I get the question in which genre I write. In America, it’s easy. There’s a genre that’s not very well known but gaining popularity: Visionary Fiction. Most people take that answer for granted. Sometimes they ask what it is.

It can be difficult as a writer to determine which genre you belong to. Just stick a label on it and that's it. But my stories are not thrilling enough to be a thriller, not fantastic enough to be a fantasy novel, not romantic enough for romance and not Young Adult enough for YA. Besides, YA is different in that it only says something about the age category for which the book is intended.

And so there are many genres and sub-genres that my stories do not belong to. A bit of this and a bit of that. I could even call it literature and get away with it. When your manuscript is picked up from the slush pile by the traditionally very literary Amsterdam-based publisher Van Oorschot—as happened a long time ago with my manuscript that eventually was published as Cajú—you may infer that it has some literary content.

The collaboration with Van Oorschot was of great value for my self-confidence, but unfortunately did not lead to a contract in Old Amsterdam. There was a ghost in my novel. There were passages with paranormal events. They had to be removed and I listened well. However, it didn’t make the story any better. Sometime later, I concluded, supported by feedback from readers, that those passages were strong and uniquely mine.

It is what comes out of my pen. I read Alice in Wonderland or watch Pan's Labyrinth and I’m in dreamland. There will always be a good dose of spirituality in my stories. It is the greatest common denominator of my work and an inexhaustible source of inspiration in daily life. I am searching because I don’t pretend to know the answers. The fact that I examine different cultures, as an anthropologist would, only makes it more exotic. My stories rarely happen in one time and in the same place. There is always traveling going on, which is not surprising for a writing globetrotter.

The downside of all this is that you can wave the big publishers goodbye. Spirituality, paranormal matters: they won’t dare; it is not literary and furthermore not intellectual. If you write spiritual non-fiction, there is a large range of publishing houses that you can go to. Yoga books, self-help books, reincarnation, spirituality; they’re all over. If you write Visionary Fiction, a publisher won’t waste his time. I got lucky with my Dutch titles; they were picked up by publishing house Kramat, Belgium. I decided I had to self-publish my English work.

Visionary fiction is a fiction genre with New Age or mind, body, spirit themes and perspectives, including consciousness expansion, spirituality, mysticism, and parapsychology (Wikipedia). I’m a member of the Visionary Fiction Alliance on the Internet and of a Facebook group. It is also increasingly common in social media.

Dreamlike, spiritual journeys in different realities - as in my latest book The Girl in the Web - can also be found in famous books, by a celebrity like Paolo Coelho in The Alchemist; or author William P. Young in The Shack; or James Redfield in The Celestine Promise. These books, like The Girl in the Web, question reality as we know it and also show the power of synchronicity.

My novel focuses on the spirituality of the Lakota Indians, a vision quest. It shows that if we leave our body temporarily - as my main character Iris does - we notice that consciousness is immortal and, more importantly, the only reality. We come to new insights and ideas, and also adjust to the collective consciousness. As such, Visionary Fiction can yield a beautiful, exciting plot in a new reality. Like the body of the little girl is found in The Shack; like the shepherd boy Santiago finds his destiny in The Alchemist; so Iris finds evidence of her life purpose in The Girl in the Web.

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"}}},"textDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Vaak krijg ik de vraag in welk genre ik schrijf. Mijn antwoord is dan ‘spannende, spirituele fictie’. Meestal wordt dat klakkeloos aangenomen, terwijl het een genre is dat helemaal niet bestaat. Soms vraagt men wat het is.

Het kan lastig zijn als schrijver om te bepalen bij welk genre je hoort. Plak er maar een label op en dat is het dan. Maar mijn verhalen zijn niet thriller genoeg om een thriller te zijn, niet fantasy genoeg om een fantasy novel te zijn, niet romantisch genoeg voor romance en niet Young Adult genoeg voor YA. Dat laatste genre is overigens apart, omdat het alleen iets zegt over de leeftijdscategorie waarvoor het boek bestemd is.

En zo bestaan er nog vele genres en sub-genres waar mijn verhalen allemaal niet bij horen. Een beetje van dit en een beetje van dat. Ik zou het zelfs literatuur kunnen noemen en ermee wegkomen. Als je manuscript opgepikt wordt uit de grote stapel door de van oudsher zeer literaire uitgeverij Van Oorschot—zoals dat lang geleden gebeurde bij het manuscript van wat uiteindelijk mijn boek Sterven als Monroe werd—mag je wel aannemen dat het enig literair gehalte heeft.

De samenwerking met Van Oorschot was van grote waarde voor mijn zelfvertrouwen, maar leidde helaas niet tot een contract aan de Amsterdamse grachtengordel. Er kwam een geest voor in mijn verhaal. Er waren passages met paranormale gebeurtenissen. Die moesten geschrapt worden en ik luisterde braaf. Mijn verhaal werd er echter niet beter op. Later kwam ik tot de conclusie, mede gesteund door reacties van lezers, dat die passages juist sterk waren en bij mij hoorden.

Het is wat er uit mijn pen komt. Ik lees Alice in Wonderland of kijk naar Pan’s Labyrinth en ik ben in droomland. Er zal altijd een flinke dosis spiritualiteit in mijn verhalen zitten. Het is de grootste gemene deler van mijn werk en een onuitputtelijke inspiratiebron in het dagelijks leven. Vooral ook een zoektocht, want niemand heeft de wijsheid in pacht. Dat ik daarbij als antropoloog op bezoek ga bij verschillende culturen maakt het alleen maar exotischer. Al kies ik net zo makkelijk een Dordtse scheepswerf als scenario, zoals in het boek dat ik nu aan het schrijven ben. Maar mijn verhalen spelen zich zelden af op dezelfde plek of in dezelfde tijd. Er wordt altijd wel gereisd, wat niet vreemd is voor een schrijvende globetrotter.

Het nadeel van dit alles is dat je de grote, literaire uitgeverijen kan vergeten. Spiritualiteit, paranormale zaken; men durft het niet aan, het is niet literair en bovendien niet intellectueel. Schrijf je spirituele non-fictie, dan is er een scala aan uitgeverijen waar je terecht kunt. Yogaboeken, zelfhulpboeken, reïncarnatie, spiritualiteit; het stikt ervan. Schrijf je fictie, dan heb je pech, tenzij uitgever Kramat in België je boeken mooi vindt, zoals in mijn geval.

Spirituele fictie, dus. Bij deze geïntroduceerd. In mijn geval nog spannend ook. Ik hoop dat er meer schrijvers zijn in Nederland en België die zich hierin herkennen, dan wordt het wellicht een officieel genre. In Amerika is het dat al. Daar heet het ‘visionary fiction’. De Engelse versies van mijn boeken vallen onder dat genre. Visionary fiction is a fiction genre with New Age or mind, body, spirit themes and perspectives, including consciousness expansion, spirituality, mysticism, and parapsychology (Wikipedia). In mijn woonplaats Santa Rosa (Californië) vond ik redelijk snel aansluiting. Ook in de sociale media komt het steeds vaker voor.

Droomachtige, spirituele reizen in andere werkelijkheden—zoals in mijn nieuwste boek Het Web van Iktomi—zie je ook terug in beroemde boeken van een grootheid als Paolo Coelho in De Alchemist; van William P. Young in The Shack; of van James Redfield in De Celestijnse Belofte. Deze boeken trekken, net als Het Web van Iktomi, de werkelijkheid zoals wij die kennen in twijfel en laten ook de kracht van synchroniciteit zien.

Mijn boek focust op de spiritualiteit van de Lakota-indianen, een vision quest. Het laat zien dat als we ons lichaam tijdelijk verlaten—zoals mijn hoofdpersonage Iris dat doet—we merken dat het bewustzijn onsterfelijk is en, belangrijker, de enige werkelijkheid. We komen tot nieuwe inzichten, ideeën en stemmen ons ook af op het collectief bewustzijn. In een fictief verhaal kan dat een mooi, spannend plot opleveren. Zoals het lichaam van het kleine meisje wordt gevonden in The Shack; zoals de herdersjongen Santiago zijn lotsbestemming vindt in De Alchemist; zo vindt Iris bewijs omtrent de dood van haar overgrootvader en haar levensdoel in Het Web van Iktomi.

","value":"

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-03-31T20:32:32.964Z","editedDate":"2024-03-31T21:19:41.379Z"}},"li_tMiu6QhV7E":{"components":{"ids":["date","heading","link","text","textDutchVersion"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2024-06-22T10:00:00.000Z","value":"2024-06-22T10:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"La Nostra Avventura Italiana, #4","value":"La Nostra Avventura Italiana, #4"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/post/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/post/la-nostra-avventura-italiana-4"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Sicily

It's our last evening on this wonderful island. We're parked with our little mobile home near the beach in Agrigento, on the southern coast. On Saturday night, the campsite is filled with Italians celebrating their weekend with barbecues and heated conversations. Children are running around, fireworks are being set off somewhere in the distance, and dogs start barking. After the heat of the day—it has been hot for days—it's lovely to be outside in the dark. I remember my own childhood and recognize the excitement in the children; playing outside and being allowed to stay up late. So nice.

$\"\"$
Geno is already in bed and has fallen asleep with his Italian lesson still playing on his cell. Perhaps he’ll absorb some of it unconsciously. We're leaving the back doors open tonight so we can sleep with the sound of the surf. The full moon is reflecting on the sea. I take a sip of my wine. Three euros per plastic liter bottle. I bought six from the campsite owner because the first one tasted surprisingly good, even though I don't really know what I'm drinking. So what?

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After nearly three weeks of touring, we've taken stock, having processed all the impressions, and there were quite a few. There's little point in comparing. Every city and town has its own overwhelming splendor of cathedrals, squares, and antiquity. A staggering amount. So you go with your feelings. Which city feels the best? For us, it was Trapani, Noto, and Syracuse. But then you immediately shortchange Palermo, with its perfect chaos of markets, people, and buildings. Or the old town of Ragusa in the southeast, which is wonderful to wander through. And what about Corleone, which besides the connection to The Godfather is also worth a visit? Tourist-heavy Taormina? Mount Etna? All fantastic. And of course, we missed a lot too, but that's not a problem, only if you make it so.

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Chaos. That certainly describes the traffic in Sicily. I'm an experienced driver, but I had to pull out all the stops. Naples was a pretty good test of courage; Sicily is next level. Extreme impatience, everyone for themselves, right of way doesn't exist. The trick is not to get annoyed and just push that campervan in everywhere. Chaos also in the street trash that you encounter everywhere, just dumped on the side of the road, mountains of stinking garbage, somewhere in a suburb or on the corner of a street.

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All in all, we have to conclude that Sicily is not the place where we will live. It is not the promised island, as I ironically called it before. I would have loved to be blown away, but unfortunately I wasn’t. To live on this island, the vibe has to be perfect, but it was mainly a vacation vibe. We didn't feel the need to look at houses. Too bad, because I love islands. Terschelling, one of the Dutch islands, would be an option for me, but it's too cold for Geno. We both enjoyed the tour, but that's what it was, a tour. And now we move on. Nowhere did we feel like we would want to settle here.

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Traveling through Italy, one place after another gets crossed off the list. Oh dear, what does this mean? Should we start worrying? I write this with a smile on my face. Of course not. Our hope is now pinned on Puglia, the heel of Italy, where we're heading tomorrow and where we will definitely view some houses. We consciously don't want to put pressure on it. Expect nothing, and maybe it will be a pleasant surprise. Difficult, because secretly I expect a lot...

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If you enjoy my writing, check out my fiction and nonfiction on this website.

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If you enjoy my writing, check out my fiction and nonfiction on this website.

"}}},"textDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Sicilië

Het is onze laatste avond op dit wonderbaarlijke eiland. We staan met ons rijdend huisje aan het strand in de buurt van Agrigento, aan de zuidkust. Op zaterdagavond staat de camping vol met Italianen die hun weekend vieren met barbecue en verhitte conversaties. Kinderen rennen rond, vuurwerk wordt ergens in de verte afgestoken, honden beginnen te blaffen. Na de hitte van de dag—het is al dagen heet—is het nu, in het donker, heerlijk om buiten te zijn. Ik herinner me mijn eigen jeugd en herken de opwinding bij de kinderen; het buitenspelen en laat mogen opblijven. Zo fijn.

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Geno ligt in bed en is in slaap gevallen, terwijl zijn Italiaanse les nog afspeelt op zijn mobiel. Wellicht neemt hij onbewust nog wat op. We laten de achterdeuren open vannacht, zodat we kunnen slapen met het geluid van de branding. De volle maan weerspiegelt op de zee. Ik neem een slok van mijn wijn. Drie euro per plastic literfles. Ik heb er zes gekocht bij de campingbaas, want de eerste smaakte verrassend goed, al weet ik niet echt wat ik drink. So what?

$\"\"$

Na bijna drie weken rondtoeren hebben we de balans opgemaakt, nadat we alle indrukken verwerkten en dat waren er nogal wat. Het heeft weinig zin om te gaan vergelijken. Elke stad of plaats heeft haar eigen overweldigende pracht en praal van kathedralen, pleinen en oudheid. Een verbijsterende hoeveelheid. Dus ga je af op je gevoel. Welke stad voelt het best? Voor ons waren dat Trapani, Noto en Siracusa. Maar dan doe je meteen Palermo tekort, want dat is een perfecte chaos aan markten, mensen en gebouwen. Of de oude stad van Ragusa, in het zuidoosten, want wat is het heerlijk om daar doorheen te wandelen. En wat te denken van Corleone, dat behalve de link met The Godfather ook nog eens de moeite waard is? Toeristisch Taormina? De Etna vulkaan? Allemaal geweldig. En uiteraard hebben we ook heel veel gemist, maar dat is helemaal niet erg, volgens Martin Bril.

$\"\"$ . $\"\"$ $\"\"$

Chaos. Dat is zeker een woord dat past bij het verkeer in Sicilië. Ik ben een ervaren chauffeur, maar moest alle zeilen bijzetten. Napels was al een aardige vuurdoop; Sicilië is de overtreffende trap. Extreem ongeduld, ieder voor zich, voorrang bestaat niet. Het is de kunst om je er niet aan te ergeren en die camper gewoon overal tussen te douwen. Chaos ook in het straatvuil, dat je overal tegenkomt, zomaar, aan de kant van de weg, bergen stinkend afval, ergens in een buitenwijk of op de hoek van de straat.

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Al met al moeten we concluderen dat ook Sicilië niet de plek is waar we zullen gaan wonen. Het is niet het beloofde eiland, zoals ik het eerder ironisch noemde. Het liefst was ik omvergeblazen, maar helaas. Om op dit eiland te wonen, moet het gevoel perfect zijn, maar het was vooral een vakantiegevoel. We hadden geen behoefte om huizen te gaan bekijken. Jammer, want ik hou van eilanden. Terschelling zou voor mij in aanmerking komen, maar dat is te koud voor Geno. Beiden hebben we genoten van de rondreis, maar dat is wat het was, een rondreis. En nu gaan we weer verder. Nergens dachten we van hier zouden we ons willen vestigen.

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Al reizende door Italië valt dus het een na het ander af. O jee, wat betekent dit? Moeten we ons zorgen gaan maken? Ik schrijf het met een lach op mijn gezicht. Natuurlijk niet. De hoop is nu gevestigd op Puglia, de hak van Italië, waarheen we morgen vertrekken en waar we sowieso wat huizen zullen bezichtigen. We willen er bewust geen druk opleggen. Verwacht niets, dan kan het alleen maar meevallen. Moeilijk, want stiekem verwacht ik veel…

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Als je mijn blogs leuk vindt, klik dan eens op mijn fictie en non-fictie op deze website.

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Sicilië

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Als je mijn blogs leuk vindt, klik dan eens op mijn fictie en non-fictie op deze website.

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-06-24T05:49:59.707Z","editedDate":"2024-06-25T17:30:35.533Z"}}}}},"bookCategory":{"items":{"ids":["li_XRiNYUNYHy"],"items":{"li_XRiNYUNYHy":{"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-04-03T18:18:13.888Z","editedDate":"2024-04-03T18:18:13.888Z"}}}}},"books":{"items":{"ids":["li_eNgSf9zwQH"],"items":{"li_eNgSf9zwQH":{"components":{"ids":["link"],"items":{"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/book/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-04-03T18:18:13.864Z","editedDate":"2024-04-03T18:18:13.864Z"}}}}},"fiction":{"ids":["ids","items"],"items":{"ids":["li_Cd6FNYMWFJ","li_mciz4Dd7YL","li_mymdvEd9LR"],"items":{"li_Cd6FNYMWFJ":{"components":{"ids":["date","heading","headingBuyDutchVersion","headingBuyEnglishVersion","headingDutchTitle","headingEnglishTitle","headingPraise","imageEnglish","imageEnglishTitle","link","linkAmazonEnglish","linkBol","linkBravenewbooks","text","textDutchDescription","textEnglishDescription","textPraise"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2019-01-11T17:00:00.000Z","value":"2019-01-11T17:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Cajú","value":"Cajú"}}},"headingBuyDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Buy Dutch Version","value":"Buy Dutch Version"}}},"headingBuyEnglishVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Buy English Version","value":"Buy English Version"}}},"headingDutchTitle":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"CAJÚ","value":"CAJÚ"}}},"headingEnglishTitle":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"CAJÚ","value":"CAJÚ"}}},"headingPraise":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Praise for the Book:","value":"Praise for the Book:"}}},"imageEnglish":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FCaju%CC%81%20front%202x3%20inch_1711915198181.jpg?alt=media&token=066ce7cf-be97-4905-82c6-d5523165d8b4","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FCaju%CC%81%20front%202x3%20inch_1711915198181.jpg?alt=media&token=066ce7cf-be97-4905-82c6-d5523165d8b4"}}},"imageEnglishTitle":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FCaju%CC%81%20front%202x3%20inch_1711913918791.jpg?alt=media&token=731ddd40-488b-44b2-833a-5f8da5a2b4db","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FCaju%CC%81%20front%202x3%20inch_1711913918791.jpg?alt=media&token=731ddd40-488b-44b2-833a-5f8da5a2b4db"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/book/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/book/caj"}}},"linkAmazonEnglish":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.amazon.com/Caj%C3%BA-Jaap-Cov%C3%A9-ebook/dp/B07MG888T7","value":"https://www.amazon.com/Caj%C3%BA-Jaap-Cov%C3%A9-ebook/dp/B07MG888T7"}}},"linkBol":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.bol.com/nl/nl/p/caju/9300000117168199/","value":"https://www.bol.com/nl/nl/p/caju/9300000117168199/"}}},"linkBravenewbooks":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.bravenewbooks.nl/shop/index.php/catalog/product/view/id/666458/","value":"https://www.bravenewbooks.nl/shop/index.php/catalog/product/view/id/666458/"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

When Anna Bloem, a young woman from Amsterdam, discovers she has a half-brother living in Brazil, she immediately departs on a quest. Her search leads her to the dunes of Ceará, where she loses her heart to Orois, and comes under the influence of a she-male shaman and medium, Marcela. Anna gets entangled in the dark world of the Candomblé cult, and her spiritual convictions begin to crumble. When her father’s illness calls her back to Amsterdam, her relationship with Orois is severely tested. Upon returning to Brazil, she finds the world she had known has disintegrated. Anna must risk her life, and use all her strength of will to undo the evil that has worked against them and shrouded her love for Orois. Cajú is a gripping, spiritual novel, in which Jaap Cové shows how a strong love—crossing borders beyond life itself—can conquer the evil enchantments of a powerful and dangerous sorcerer.

","value":"

"}}},"textDutchDescription":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Het Brazilië van Jaap Cové komt in deze exotische roman beeldend tot leven in spiritualiteit en romantiek, in bezetenheid en droombeelden. Laat je meevoeren op een zwoele samba. Voel de bezweringen van Candomblé. Proef het sap van de cajú.

Beschrijving:

Als Anna Bloem, een jonge vrouw uit Amsterdam, hoort dat ze een halfbroer heeft in Brazilië, gaat ze op reis. Haar zoektocht voert haar naar het duingebied van Ceará, waar ze haar hart verliest aan Orois en onder invloed komt van she-male en medium Marcela. Anna raakt verstrikt in de duistere geesteswereld van de Candomblé-cultus en haar geluk brokkelt af. Ze moet onverhoeds terugkeren naar Amsterdam omdat haar vader ziek is. Haar relatie met Orois is verdoemd. Als ze na jaren weer voet zet op Braziliaanse bodem, treft ze een andere wereld aan. Ze zal al haar gaven aanwenden om voorgoed af te rekenen met de leugens uit het verleden en de waarheid te achterhalen, met gevaar voor eigen leven.

","value":"

Beschrijving:

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When Anna Bloem, a young woman from Amsterdam, discovers she has a half-brother living in Brazil, she immediately departs on a quest. Her search leads her to the dunes of Ceará, where she loses her heart to Orois, and comes under the influence of a she-male shaman and medium, Marcela. Anna gets entangled in the dark world of the Candomblé cult, and her spiritual convictions begin to crumble. When her father’s illness calls her back to Amsterdam, her relationship with Orois is severely tested. Upon returning to Brazil, she finds the world she had known has disintegrated. Anna must risk her life, and use all her strength of will to undo the evil that has worked against them and shrouded her love for Orois.Cajú is a gripping, spiritual novel, in which Jaap Cové shows how a strong love—crossing borders beyond life itself—can conquer the evil enchantments of a powerful and dangerous sorcerer.

","value":"

When Anna Bloem, a young woman from Amsterdam, discovers she has a half-brother living in Brazil, she immediately departs on a quest. Her search leads her to the dunes of Ceará, where she loses her heart to Orois, and comes under the influence of a she-male shaman and medium, Marcela. Anna gets entangled in the dark world of the Candomblé cult, and her spiritual convictions begin to crumble. When her father’s illness calls her back to Amsterdam, her relationship with Orois is severely tested. Upon returning to Brazil, she finds the world she had known has disintegrated. Anna must risk her life, and use all her strength of will to undo the evil that has worked against them and shrouded her love for Orois.Cajú is a gripping, spiritual novel, in which Jaap Cové shows how a strong love—crossing borders beyond life itself—can conquer the evil enchantments of a powerful and dangerous sorcerer.

"}}},"textPraise":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

\"Just finished reading this amazing & wild 'whale of a tale', would make a GREAT movie!\"
— Marilyn K P

","value":"

\"Just finished reading this amazing & wild 'whale of a tale', would make a GREAT movie!\"
— Marilyn K P

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-03-31T19:32:33.995Z","editedDate":"2024-04-03T18:22:53.826Z"}},"li_mciz4Dd7YL":{"components":{"ids":["date","heading","headingBuyDutchVersion","headingBuyEnglishVersion","headingDutch","headingDutchTitle","headingDutchVersion","headingEnglish","headingEnglishTitle","headingEnglishVersion","headingPraise","imageDutch","imageDutchTitle","imageEnglish","imageEnglishTitle","link","linkAmazon","linkAmazonEnglish","linkBarnesandnoble","linkBol","linkBravenewbooks","text","textDutchDescription","textEnglishDescription","textPraise"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2018-07-31T17:00:00.000Z","value":"2018-07-31T17:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"The Girl in the Web","value":"The Girl in the Web"}}},"headingBuyDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Buy Dutch Version","value":"Buy Dutch Version"}}},"headingBuyEnglishVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Buy English Version","value":"Buy English Version"}}},"headingDutch":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"HET WEB VAN IKTOMI","value":"HET WEB VAN IKTOMI"}}},"headingDutchTitle":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Het web van Iktomi","value":"Het web van Iktomi"}}},"headingDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Buy the Book (Dutch Version)","value":"Buy the Book (Dutch Version)"}}},"headingEnglish":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"THE GIRL IN THE WEB","value":"THE GIRL IN THE WEB"}}},"headingEnglishTitle":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"THE GIRL IN THE WEB","value":"THE GIRL IN THE WEB"}}},"headingEnglishVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Buy the Book (English Version)","value":"Buy the Book (English Version)"}}},"headingPraise":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Praise for the Book:","value":"Praise for the Book:"}}},"imageDutch":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2Fcover%20iktomi%202_1711915169941.jpg?alt=media&token=0c11e117-7f68-4b40-871f-9da09ff1683b","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2Fcover%20iktomi%202_1711915169941.jpg?alt=media&token=0c11e117-7f68-4b40-871f-9da09ff1683b"}}},"imageDutchTitle":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2Fcover%20iktomi%202_1711911716231.jpg?alt=media&token=fe82c98e-9dbb-44e4-93b2-eec42ce961e8","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2Fcover%20iktomi%202_1711911716231.jpg?alt=media&token=fe82c98e-9dbb-44e4-93b2-eec42ce961e8"}}},"imageEnglish":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FGIRL%20WEB_1711915177553.jpg?alt=media&token=679e1f07-22ec-46e6-b347-512e3850d57c","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FGIRL%20WEB_1711915177553.jpg?alt=media&token=679e1f07-22ec-46e6-b347-512e3850d57c"}}},"imageEnglishTitle":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FGIRL%20WEB_1711911709399.jpg?alt=media&token=7da0df97-36e5-4d38-a761-2ac6bf9a2142","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FGIRL%20WEB_1711911709399.jpg?alt=media&token=7da0df97-36e5-4d38-a761-2ac6bf9a2142"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/book/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/book/the-girl-in-the-web"}}},"linkAmazon":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.amazon.com/Girl-Web-Jaap-Cov%C3%A9/dp/1717995128","value":"https://www.amazon.com/Girl-Web-Jaap-Cov%C3%A9/dp/1717995128"}}},"linkAmazonEnglish":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.amazon.com/Girl-Web-Jaap-Cov%C3%A9/dp/1717995128","value":"https://www.amazon.com/Girl-Web-Jaap-Cov%C3%A9/dp/1717995128"}}},"linkBarnesandnoble":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-girl-in-the-web-jaap-cov/1144312993","value":"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-girl-in-the-web-jaap-cov/1144312993"}}},"linkBol":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.bol.com/nl/nl/p/het-web-van-iktomi/9300000102240966/","value":"https://www.bol.com/nl/nl/p/het-web-van-iktomi/9300000102240966/"}}},"linkBravenewbooks":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.bravenewbooks.nl/shop/index.php/catalog/product/view/id/651956/","value":"https://www.bravenewbooks.nl/shop/index.php/catalog/product/view/id/651956/"}}},"text":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

‘Now’ is an indication of time, like ‘back then’ and ‘later’. It’s part of a continuum of past, present and future, designed for life on Earth. But since time is essentially an illusion, one cannot be ‘in the now’. Freedom can only be found outside space/time reality, one with consciousness. There, déjà vu's are commonplace.  

Iris, an eighteen-year-old Dutch girl with Native-American blood, goes into a deep trance when she has to fight for her survival in a snow cave. She leaves her body and meets a shaman, a wolf and Bokke, the little man. Iris learns the language of the Lakota-indians, experiences the hardships of her ancestors and discovers how her great-grandfather, an Oglala Lakota, died in the Second World War. Gradually, it becomes clear that her life is predestined. Her out-of-body experiences show her the way for the rest of her life.

____________________

Het Web Van Iktomi is een spiritueel verhaal dat diep ingaat op de cultuur van de Lakota indianen in South Dakota, inclusief een 'vision quest' die een verband legt met Oostenrijk en WWII; alles in het hoofd van Iris, een achttienjarig Nederlands meisje.

Beschrijving:

Nu is een tijdsaanduiding, zoals toen en later. Je kan niet 'in het nu' zijn, want de tijd gaat door en is bovendien een illusie. Vrijheid vind je buiten de werkelijkheid van tijd en ruimte, één met je bewustzijn. Déjà vu's zijn dan heel gewoon.

Iris, een dromerig meisje van achttien met indiaans bloed, raakt in diepe trance als ze moet zien te overleven in een sneeuwgrot. Ze verlaat haar lichaam en ontmoet een sjamaan, een wolf en Bokke, het kleine mannetje. Ze leert de taal van de Lakota-indianen, ervaart de ontberingen van haar voorouders en ontdekt hoe haar overgrootvader, een Oglala Lakota, is gesneuveld in de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Gaandeweg blijkt hoe haar leven is voorbestemd. Haar buitenlichamelijke ervaringen wijzen haar de weg voor de rest van haar leven.

","value":"

____________________

Beschrijving:

"}}},"textDutchDescription":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Beschrijving:

","value":"

Beschrijving:

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","value":"

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\"....brilliant in so many ways. The story of a young girl who amidst losing her father is finding her native American ancestry, is so beautifully told and had me on the edge the entire time. I had a hard time to interrupt my read as I found myself literally engrossed in the story, feeling all of Iris' emotions and her spiritual journey became mine. Cove is one of the few writers that shines attention onto the horrific plight of the Native tribes in the United States...\"
— Thomas

\"I thoroughly fell into The Girl in the Web from start to finish. The time tripping that Mr. Cové employed delighted me. He seems to have both a deep sensitivity for and an honest love of indigenous contexts as revealed in the research he had done to bring us into this world.\"
— Bazil Dean

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"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-03-31T18:46:19.602Z","editedDate":"2024-04-03T18:23:16.400Z"}},"li_mymdvEd9LR":{"components":{"ids":["date","heading","headingBuyDutchVersion","headingBuyEnglishVersion","headingDutchTitle","headingPraise","imageDutch","imageEnglish","link","linkAmazonEnglish","linkBol","linkBravenewbooks","textDutchDescription","textEnglishDescription","textPraise"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2019-01-10T17:00:00.000Z","value":"2019-01-10T17:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Walking Among Us","value":"Walking Among Us"}}},"headingBuyDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Buy Dutch Version","value":"Buy Dutch Version"}}},"headingBuyEnglishVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Buy English Version","value":"Buy English Version"}}},"headingDutchTitle":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Verloren Goden","value":"Verloren Goden"}}},"headingPraise":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Praise for the Book:","value":"Praise for the Book:"}}},"imageDutch":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FVerloren%20goden%20cover_1711921067227.jpg?alt=media&token=029de547-93bb-4505-8630-cd765f1e7ceb","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FVerloren%20goden%20cover_1711921067227.jpg?alt=media&token=029de547-93bb-4505-8630-cd765f1e7ceb"}}},"imageEnglish":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FD7AE0822-795D-4DC1-B234-FD8B5826D4D0_1_201_a_1711921072882.jpeg?alt=media&token=a3376000-131c-43a5-b6aa-194358438bb7","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FD7AE0822-795D-4DC1-B234-FD8B5826D4D0_1_201_a_1711921072882.jpeg?alt=media&token=a3376000-131c-43a5-b6aa-194358438bb7"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/book/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/book/walking-among-us"}}},"linkAmazonEnglish":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.amazon.com/Walking-Among-Us-Jaap-Cov%C3%A9-ebook/dp/B07M7Y22RQ","value":"https://www.amazon.com/Walking-Among-Us-Jaap-Cov%C3%A9-ebook/dp/B07M7Y22RQ"}}},"linkBol":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.bol.com/nl/nl/p/verloren-goden/9300000128917336/","value":"https://www.bol.com/nl/nl/p/verloren-goden/9300000128917336/"}}},"linkBravenewbooks":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.bravenewbooks.nl/shop/index.php/catalog/product/view/id/688236/","value":"https://www.bravenewbooks.nl/shop/index.php/catalog/product/view/id/688236/"}}},"textDutchDescription":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Soms ligt de waarheid ver buiten je eigen, veilige wereld. Dillen Lomans wordt geconfronteerd met de beperkingen van zijn vijf zintuigen als hij een confrontatie heeft met de mythische Bigfoot in de wildernis van Oregon, Verenigde Staten.

Beschrijving:

Drummer Dillen Lomans kan niet zonder ritme. Als hij last heeft van stress, trommelt hij paradiddles op zijn dijen totdat hij weer rustig kan nadenken. Als hij tot inzichten wil komen, drumt hij zijn hoofd leeg om ze de ruimte te bieden. Hij trommelt zichzelf in the zone, een dimensiesprong waarin van alles mogelijk is.

Met zijn band Manic Mola beproeft hij zijn geluk in Amerika, maar zijn leven verandert drastisch als hij zijn beste vriend verliest door een mysterieus ongeval, tijdens een weekend in een blokhut in de bossen van Oregon. Dillens zoektocht brengt hem in contact met Ralph Miller, een Yurok- indiaan, die zich openstelt voor The Great Spirit en de natuurgoden, die zich manifesteren als de wereld in onbalans is. Ralph weet welke natuurgod verantwoordelijk is voor de dood van Dillens vriend. De bewijzen zijn te vinden in de buurt van de blokhut, op dezelfde plek waar Dillen een ijzingwekkende ervaring had in de nacht voor het ongeval.

Er openbaart zich een ongelooflijk wereldbeeld aan Dillen. Zijn onderzoek leidt hem steeds verder weg van het ‘gezond verstand’, maar dichter bij de waarheid, die zich schuilhoudt in de wildernis van Oregon.

","value":"

Beschrijving:

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Dillen Lomans can’t live without rhythm. When he’s stressed he drums paradiddles on his thighs until he’s able to think straight again. When he wants to gain insights, he drums his head clear to make space for them. He drums himself ‘into the zone’—a skipping of dimensions in which anything is possible.With his Dutch band, Manic Mola, Dillen tries his luck in America. On the eve of their first U.S. album release, their lead singer, Freek, dies in a mysterious accident. Devastated, Dillen tries to discover what happened to his best friend. His investigation leads to Ralph Miller, a Yurok Indian who uses sweat lodges to open his mind to the great spirits that manifest when the world is out of balance. Ralph believes he knows which god of Nature is responsible for Freek’s death. The proof lies in the Oregon woods, in the same spot where Dillen had a terrifying experience the night of the accident. Dillen is driven farther away from common-sense solutions as he peels back the layers covering the truth that awaits deep in the wilderness.

","value":"

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\"...engaging, delightful and suspenseful...\"
— Marilyn K P

\"A captivating story that can only be written by an author who has his roots in the music industry and with an interest in Native American culture. Lean back in your arm chair in front of the fireplace or on your porch and forget about where you are to be lulled into a world of the mystique and intrigue. “Walking Among Us” is well written and will make you want to look out for a sequel.\"
— Bert

","value":"

\"...engaging, delightful and suspenseful...\"
— Marilyn K P

"}}}}},"meta":{"createdDate":"2024-03-31T21:32:03.625Z","editedDate":"2024-04-03T18:23:04.709Z"}}}}},"nonfiction":{"ids":["ids","items"],"items":{"ids":["li_5Zh2gCH38X","li_wzeU5BLSTh"],"items":{"li_5Zh2gCH38X":{"components":{"ids":["date","heading","headingBuyDutchVersion","headingBuyEnglishVersion","headingDutchTitle","headingPraise","imageDutch","imageEnglish","link","linkAmazonEnglish","linkBol","linkBravenewbooks","textDutchDescription","textEnglishDescription","textPraise"],"items":{"date":{"date":{"data":{"expression":"2023-11-15T17:00:00.000Z","value":"2023-11-15T17:00:00.000Z"}}},"heading":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Dog Gone","value":"Dog Gone"}}},"headingBuyDutchVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Buy Dutch Version","value":"Buy Dutch Version"}}},"headingBuyEnglishVersion":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Buy English Version","value":"Buy English Version"}}},"headingDutchTitle":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Panda & Andere Schatten","value":"Panda & Andere Schatten"}}},"headingPraise":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"Praise for the Book:","value":"Praise for the Book:"}}},"imageDutch":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FPanda%20cover%202_1711921783308.jpg?alt=media&token=77aa8a1b-a8b7-4057-94b8-45a84b71f862","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FPanda%20cover%202_1711921783308.jpg?alt=media&token=77aa8a1b-a8b7-4057-94b8-45a84b71f862"}}},"imageEnglish":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FFront%20cover%20Dog%20Gone_1711921767260.jpg?alt=media&token=c07fefe3-eaee-4274-87ca-2cca10665c25","value":"https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/wild-ink-pages-prod.appspot.com/o/user-content%2Fsite_ZitggAhe8b%2FFront%20cover%20Dog%20Gone_1711921767260.jpg?alt=media&token=c07fefe3-eaee-4274-87ca-2cca10665c25"}}},"link":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"/book/{{slugify(current_item.components.items.heading.content.data.value)}}","value":"/book/dog-gone"}}},"linkAmazonEnglish":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.amazon.com/DOG-GONE-Jaap-Cov%C3%A9/dp/B0CNDC5789/","value":"https://www.amazon.com/DOG-GONE-Jaap-Cov%C3%A9/dp/B0CNDC5789/"}}},"linkBol":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.bol.com/nl/nl/p/panda-andere-schatten/9300000084658901/","value":"https://www.bol.com/nl/nl/p/panda-andere-schatten/9300000084658901/"}}},"linkBravenewbooks":{"url":{"data":{"expression":"https://www.bravenewbooks.nl/shop/index.php/catalog/product/view/id/699723/","value":"https://www.bravenewbooks.nl/shop/index.php/catalog/product/view/id/699723/"}}},"textDutchDescription":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

Panda & andere schatten is een verhaal voor een ieder die houdt van honden en katten; geen probleem heeft met LGBT-content (soms licht erotisch); wil weten hoe het is om te emigreren; kan omgaan met kanker en rouw; openstaat voor spiritualiteit.

Beschrijving:

Ramon verhuist met zijn grote liefde Panda en de huisdieren naar hun droomvilla in de bergen van Spanje. Het huis is jarenlang een zoete inval voor familie en vrienden. Tussendoor knappen de gastheren het op tot het naar hun zin is. Dan wordt Panda ziek en als hij overlijdt, blijft Ramon achter met de huisdieren. Het is de tweede keer dat Ramon een partner verliest. Heeft hij wat geleerd? Lukt het hem het Spaanse paradijsje nieuw leven in te blazen?

Tegen deze achtergrond schrijft Jaap Cové zijn verhaal, waarin passages vol van menselijke emoties en spiritualiteit afgewisseld worden met tragikomische scènes over de honden en katten.

","value":"

Beschrijving:

Tegen deze achtergrond schrijft Jaap Cové zijn verhaal, waarin passages vol van menselijke emoties en spiritualiteit afgewisseld worden met tragikomische scènes over de honden en katten.

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DOG GONE is for anyone who loves cats and dogs; is okay with gay/MM content and May-December relationships; wants to know what it’s like to live in Spain; can handle cancer and grief; is not afraid of spirituality.

Jort and his lover Panda, and all their pets, move to their dream house on a Spanish mountaintop. For many years, the two men welcome sweet invasions, a coming and going of family and friends. Then, Panda falls ill and dies. It’s the second time that Jort has lost a partner. Left alone with their pets, can he learn to breathe life, once again, into their Spanish paradise?

Against this background, Jaap Cové writes a story filled with human emotions interspersed with tragicomical scenes of the love among dogs and cats and their owners.

","value":"

Against this background, Jaap Cové writes a story filled with human emotions interspersed with tragicomical scenes of the love among dogs and cats and their owners.

"}}},"textPraise":{"content":{"data":{"expression":"

\"Very authentic, honest and written with emotion. I read the book in one sitting, which is very special for me.
Beautiful book and definitely recommended!!\"
— Antoinette

","value":"

\"Very authentic, honest and written with emotion. I read the book in one sitting, which is very special for me.
Beautiful book and definitely recommended!!\"
— Antoinette

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Het is 1981. Jaap, een tiener uit Dordrecht, zet zijn eerste stappen op weg van jongen naar man. Hij is teruggetrokken, een muurbloempje met een aantrekkelijk uiterlijk en blonde krullen. Hij is bezeten van tennis en speelt drums voor een studentenrockband.

Jaap voelt zich aangetrokken tot mannen en is bang om zijn verlangens in de praktijk te brengen. Door een bijzonder toeval ontmoet hij de Brit John D. Stamford en zijn leven verandert. Stamford, excentriek en van middelbare leeftijd, is de eigenaar/redacteur van de Spartacus International Gay Guide, het cruciale boek voor mannelijke, homoseksuele reizigers. Het vermeldde zowel gastvrije bestemmingen als landen waar strenge straffen golden voor homoseksualiteit.

Jaap houdt van volwassen mannen; John geeft de voorkeur aan jongeren. BOY ONE is het verslag van hun relatie, de luxe wereldreizen die ze maakten voor Johns werk, de onthullende ervaringen van een beschermde tiener en de obsessief seksuele relatie die zich ontwikkelde.

Te midden van de glamour van vijfsterrenhotels en restaurants ontstaan er conflicten. Jaap heeft nog het gevoel dat hij biseksueel zou kunnen zijn en ooit een vriendin vindt. John probeert zijn jonge geliefde te pushen tot iets waar hij nog niet klaar voor is: overal en altijd openlijk homo zijn. Jaap ontdekt bovendien dat de Spartacus gids mogelijkheden adverteert voor seks met minderjarige jongeren in onder meer Thailand. Hij vermoedt dat dit verkeerd is. Dat geldt ook voor de politie, die een onderzoek naar John begint.

Ondanks de opwinding en erotiek van hun relatie verergeren de morele kwesties totdat de twee op gespannen voet met elkaar staan.

In BOY ONE vertelt Jaap Cové het eerlijke en aangrijpende verhaal van een opmerkelijk deel van zijn leven. Eye-opening en openhartig, een uniek, kleurrijk en meeslepend coming-of-age-verhaal. Het geeft een beeld van het opwindende, internationale homoleven van begin jaren 80, maar het is ook een verontrustende sage over moraliteit en intergenerationele relaties.

","value":"

Ondanks de opwinding en erotiek van hun relatie verergeren de morele kwesties totdat de twee op gespannen voet met elkaar staan.

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It is 1981. Jaap, a Dutch teenager, is a boy taking his first steps towards becoming a man. He’s reclusive, a wallflower with a handsome face and curly blond hair. He loves playing tennis and plays drums for a student rock band.

He is attracted to men and afraid of desires that he has not acted upon. By fortuitous accident, the Dutch teen meets Briton John D. Stamford, and his life changes. Stamford is the excentric middle-aged editor of Spartacus International Gay Guide, the crucial book for gay male travelers. It listed both welcoming destinations and countries that carried strict penalties for homosexuality.

Jaap likes mature men; John prefers youths. BOY ONE is the record of their relationship, the deluxe global travel they did for John’s work, the eye-opening experiences of a sheltered teen, and the obsessive sexual relationship that developed.

Amid the glamor of five-star hotels and restaurants, conflicts arise. Jaap still thinks about having a girlfriend and wonders if he is bisexual. John is trying to push his young lover into something he’s not ready for—being openly gay all the time. Moreover, Jaap notices the Spartacus Guide lists opportunities for sex with underaged youths in places like Thailand. He suspects this is wrong. So do the police, who begin investigating John.

Despite the excitement and eroticism of their relationship, the moral issues grow until the two are at odds.

In BOY ONE, Jaap Cové tells the honest and gripping story of a remarkable part of his life. Revealing and outspoken, it is a unique, colorful and compelling coming-of-age story. It captures the excitement of international gay life in the early 80s, but it is also a troubling saga about morality and intergenerational relationships.

","value":"

Despite the excitement and eroticism of their relationship, the moral issues grow until the two are at odds.

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Jaap Cové is an anthropologist, a drummer, a flautist, a globetrotter, and an author of fiction and nonfiction. His novels are filled with mystery, spirituality, symbolism and music. His nonfiction is a reflection of his eventful life.

Jaap Cové is antropoloog, drummer, fluitist, globetrotter en schrijver van fictie en non-fictie. Zijn romans zitten vol met mysterie, spiritualiteit, symbolisme en muziek. Zijn non-fictie is een reflectie van zijn bewogen leven.

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