20 April 2009


Letting go can't just be releasing the old; that which dissapears, changes, passes by. It's also receiving the new. After all, letting go implies movement. If things around you didn't move, letting go wouldn't be relevant. With continuous movement, the space created by things flowing away can only be filled with something new as a matter of course.

Can we, then, turn this around and make receiving the key to letting go? Can letting go be: embracing the new, in stead of releasing the old? In this flow, dissapearing and appearing can't exist without the other, but maybe this shift of perspective can make it inviting in stead of frightening. 

Could letting go be: taking a deep breath, rooting firmly, lifting your chin, opening your eyes, spreading your arms wide - wide! wide! - and... receiving?

17 April 2009

The excellent upbringing of Impa and her oldest friends

Maz looks at Impa during the concert, takes her fingers from her mouth and shouts: "You can whistle through your fingers really loudly too."
Impa screams in Maz' ear: "My mother taught me how to do that."
Maz shouts back: "Your mother taught me how to do it, too."

The concert was of Bishop Allen, in Paradiso, Amsterdam. We should never have gone, because on 17 April they perform in Ekko, Utrecht again, just like last year. Do go and check them out!

Hip, hip, Impalinea

On 14 April, Impalinea, the original, Dutch version of this blog, celebrated its second anniversary. You got air in Impa's first blog entry ever and love on Impalinea's first anniversary. The story now continues with the images of a whirl - a little dance to celebrate the blog - and water to quench your thirst. Or, even better: a dance to celebrate life and water to go with the flow.  

Dear readers, thank you for coming by to look, read, and nose around. Thank you for all the comments. Thanks to you, blogging has been great, the past two years. Hip, hip!

Green is the new pink

I sat at a long table this past weekend. It stood under a tree full of pink blossom. The blossom is really just too good to be true, it's too poetical. Too convenient in a piece on being touched by beautiful things. And yet there it was, over that table. In the course of the four days I sat at that table, all the flowers came drifting down. And with the blossom conversations fluttered down; laughter, listening, questions, nods, looks, humour and gentleness. On to my bread, into my ears and - whoosh - straight into my heart. I sat at that table with people I hadn't met before, different people each day. We got toghether those four days to work hard, and in between working we sat at the table with bread, juice, strong coffee, bottles of beer, chocolate. With children. Little bubbles of energy and gentle streams of life bubbled up and whirled back down again with the blossom around us. I laughed until my belly ached and my eyes filled with tears for the love stories of others. I heard new music, found new points of view, and got a glimpse into the life of all those people. I saw and felt how easy it is to make a smile and a friendly gesture matter to others. For four days, I worked, ate, talked, laughed, listened and wondered at so much beauty at one table, in one corner of one garden in this beautiful world.

After four days, all the flowers had drifted down from the tree. We put away our tools and paint brushes, shook the garden weed from our hair and cleared the table. We went back to daily life. The tree is no longer pink, but green. And new, new, new. Full of promise. 

7 April 2009

Impa loves them. De Kift.

For more irresistible melancholy, check out the Take-Away Shows of De Kift in Paris at La Blogotheque. Don't skip this. Pour another glass of wine and pull the dog on to your lap. This is wonderful stuff.

Kitchen sink drama

7 PM. Impa receives a text message:
Hi Loretta! The (good) cutlery is in the drawer underneath the fridge. See you, AK.

7.05 PM. Impa receives another text message:
Sorry, wrong number.

AK needs to text Loretta where his fancy cutlery is. Maybe she's at his place while he's stuck in traffic on his way home. I imagine he's going to introduce her to his parents today, hence the good cutlery. Loretta doesn't know where he keeps it yet - after their first loved-up days of feeding each other small bites with their fingers they started using the 'ordinary' cutlery - so he lets her know in a text on his way home.

But why does AK type her entire number by hand when he sends her a message? I suppose he's so bad at working his phone he doesn't know how to enter names into the address book. Or does he even know Loretta at all? Could this be some kind of perverse-blind-date-at-his-place-where-she-has-to-se-the-table-for-him-in-advance? 

Gosh. What way for an unsuspecting Impa to get a glimpse.
Pretty kinky.

Impa's Daewoo 14V1TS

I'd counted my money and made my way to the store. I wanted a silver-coloured television, nice and small. I wanted the speakers not to be to the left and back of it, like with the old one, because then the sound would only dissapear out through the balcony doors and on to the neighbours across the street instead of reaching me on the sofa in front of it. It didn't have to have an in-built video recorder (I know, I know, but we're talking totally 2002, here) and I also asked the guy in the television store a couple of intelligent questions about mono and stereo. 
Eventually, I picked the Daewoo 14V1TS. It was exactly what I wanted for the money I'd put aside for it. I wrote down name and number on a little piece of paper and put it in my diary. I'd Google the set after I'd come home, just to make sure, and buy it later.

I went to see my dad. He said: "We bought a new sofa and got a television set with it."
I looked up. "Did you?"
"We don't need it", he said. "Are you interested?"
I laughed. "You're joking. I actually need a new telly. I've already been out shopping for one ealier this week. Shall I buy it off you?"
My dad dissapeared to the hallway. "That won't be neccesary. After all, we got it for free too."
He came back with a big box. "There you go, this is for you."

My jaw dropped. 
I grabbed my bag and fumbled for the note in my diary.

Someone hand Impa the tissues, please?

First seen on eddiefromohio

2 April 2009

1 April: Sweet Little Boy's Day

Three little friends were standing outside the shops with their bicycles. One of the boys said: "They're separated, aren't they?" A friend asked: "Who?" The boy said: "Your buttocks." All three of them laughed.

The sun was shining and it was the first mild afternoon of the year.

I came home to an e-mail from Friend N. He's a postman. He wrote: 'I saw a little boy standing on the pavement holding an ice lolly. He looked at the world around him the way only little boys can. When I pushed my mail cart past him, he spoke the most beautiful words of this spring: "Yummy ice lolly." My spring isn't going to get any better than this.'

Girlfriend H. had also spotted sweet little boys in their natural environment. She answered his mail: 'My little boys of today were drawing on the pavement with chalk, doing pretty cool things in happy colours. I told them I liked it and they said thank you.' 

This is why I hereby propose to rename 1 April: Sweet Little Boy's Day. It'll also liberate us from the unfortunate custom of April Fool's jokes. Little boys who still try to mislead people will obviously be disqualified immediately. You can't have it all, however sweet you are. 

1 April 2009

Home is where...

There were two barmen behind the bar when I walked into my Lovely Local. Handsome barmen, nice ones. One of them smiled, said hello, and came over to give me three gentle kisses on the cheeks. The other one doesn't know my name but when I couldn't decide what to order, he asked: " You usually drink Westmalle Dubbel, don't you?" He drew a small glass of a new draught beer and let me taste it. 

Outside, on the terrace, my friends started arriving. It was going to be our first afternoon in the sun after a long, dark winter. 

HOW! I ask you. How do you say goodbye to something like that? A new home, new clients, a new education, a new jogging round, new neighbours, new air to breathe and a new distance to everything familiar: my imagination can tackle it. 

But a new Lovely Local, after 15 years in this one?

Traffic lights and rain

Foto © Anita van Vliet

Impa gets a stolen hour

*Phone rings*
"Helloooooo", girlfriend P. coos into my ear. "Are you on summer time or winter time?"
I'm on the platform of a small railway station, early in the morning, on my way to an appointment with 5 other people. On summer time.
"We are all on winter time", girlfriend P. says happily.
"Do you mean..." I pauze to think about the best way to respond. "You're all one hour late?" "Yes!" girlfriend P. calls out cheerfully.

I buy music magazine OOR and make my way to the station buffet. Closed. I check out the time table on the door. Open. I try the door again. Closed. Through the glass shopfront I see a man and a woman at work. When he sees me waiting there, the man unlocks the door and lets me in. Coffee can't be ordered until fifteen minutes later and the point-of-sale terminal isn't online yet. They're busily wiping everything down and arranging the buffet. They tell me to sit down. The woman assures me they'll put their uniforms on later. It looks like the station buffet has been caught unawares by summer time too.

Half an hour later, my coffee arrives. I'ts free. Girlfriend H. has been keeping me company in text messages. She says it could have been worse. Her husband had accidentally set the alarm an hour early the previous night so he was ahead of summer time by two hours that morning.

It's not all bad anyway, being here with a stolen hour of reading OOR. And if someone would still annoy me, I'd simply follow girlfriend H.'s tip of the day and imagine a pancake on their face.

Impa likes

Photographs  © by Jean Arbrue on Woophy