INSTALLATIE

Van 9 mei tot en met 8 juli 1995 verbleef ik in Canada in verband met mijn deelname aan het Nederlands/Canadese culturele uitwisselingsproject BOUNCE>Rotterdam. BOUNCE>Rotterdam kwam tot stand door de samenwerking van stichting Kunst & Complex (Rotterdam) met het Saint Norbert Arts and Cultural Centre, afgekort SNACC (Saint Norbert) en de Open Space Gallery (Victoria). SNACC-staflid Louise Loewen coördineerde het Canadese gedeelte van het project.

Het Saint Norbert Arts and Cultural Centre is gevestigd in het Guest House van het voormalig Trappistenklooster in de gemeente Saint Norbert aan de rand van Winnipeg. De Trappisten bouwden het klooster in 1912 en wijdden het aan 'Our Lady of the Prairies'. De orde woonde en werkte er tot 1978. Toen dwong het steeds verder oprukkende profane Winnipeg de kloosterlingen tot een omzien naar rustiger oorden. Ze namen de wijk naar het dorpje Holland, Manitoba. De strijd om het, nu vogelvrije, terrein brak los. Makelaars en projectontwikkelaars agit-propageerden hun particuliere plannen. Een golfparcours moest er komen, luxe appartementen zouden er verrijzen. Een groepje activisten waaronder Louise Loewen wist het terrein na een zenuwslopend gevecht voor de gemeenschap te behouden. Niet lang daarna werd in het leegstaande centrale kloostergebouw: de kerk en de verblijven van de monniken, brand gesticht. Het hart van het complex werd onherstelbaar beschadigd. In 1990 werd de ruïne tot Nationaal Monument verklaard en het openbare karakter van het terrein officieel bekrachtigd.

Het gespaarde Guest House is gelegen aan de oever van de LaSalle rivier. Voorafgaand aan onze komst en tijdens ons verblijf ondergingen de drie verdiepingen van het gebouw een grondige face-lift. Het herbergt inmiddels het SNACC-kantoor, ateliers, woon-, slaap- en expositieruimte.

Op 9 mei vloog ik als eerste Bouncer naar Winnipeg voor een verkenning van het mij nog onbekende werkterrein en een bezinning op mijn toekomstige werkzaamheden. Achttien dagen later arriveerde de rest van de groep in Winnipeg voor het officiële begin van het project: een werkperiode van één maand. Tien kunstenaars van Kunst & Complex werkten in het kader van BOUNCE>Rotterdam op locaties in St. Norbert en Winnipeg. Zes van hen reisden door naar Victoria voor een tentoonstelling in de Open Space Gallery aldaar.

Rotterdam, 2 augustus 1995

ZONDER TITEL, installatie.

Locatie: SNACC, tussen de ruïnes bij de vijfvingerige iep - een dierbare boom -  terwijl de zon  boven de prairie ondergaat.

Materialen en proces: Tijdens de lange vliegreis over de oceaan leest hij de poëzie van Di Brandt. Aangekomen in Winnipeg koopt hij al haar boeken en leest ze aandachtig, met een Nederlands/Engels woordenboek bij de hand. Hij kiest één gedicht, een liefdesgedicht – nee, geen liefdesgedicht, een gedicht over plaats en ontheemding.

Aantekeningen voor mezelf: Het liefdesgedicht wordt vereeuwigd in een cirkelvormige golfbaan, compleet met vlaggen die worden verwijderd naarmate het putten vordert. Boven, opgehangen aan geconstrueerde davits, hangt een boot met een romp van gaas - dit is een boot voor lucht, wind en vuurvliegjes, niet voor water (behalve misschien voor tranen). Elk materiaal is nauwkeurig gekozen, elke intentie hoog gewaardeerd. Maar dit kan geen ironie zijn. Is een boot die de vallende bladeren opvangt niet een symbool van liefde, een eerbetoon? Maar toch is er het verdriet van het loslaten.

Winnipeg 14.6.95

Beste Di,

de cirkel begint zich te sluiten. Ik heb mijn gedachten verzameld in de la van mijn nachtkastje. Nu is het tijd om mijn conclusies te trekken; tijd om intenties om te zetten in dingen. Ik manoeuvreer de onderdelen van mijn installatie langzaam naar hun definitieve positie. Doe je nog steeds mee, Di?

De eerste hole:

since we cannot meet on father ground 1)
our father's land as sister & brother ever
let's imagine a new place between us

Ik heb wat geld geïnvesteerd in mijn avontuur in Winnipeg. Ik heb een fiets gekocht, waardoor ik niet meer altijd mijn vrienden met een rijbewijs hoef te vragen om me een lift te geven. Dit alternatief met drie versnellingen en een zadel vergroot het bereik van mijn verkenningen met een factor drie. Moeiteloos laat ik het architectonische verweesde centrum van Winnipeg achter me. Ik steek zebrapaden en spoorlijnen over. Plotseling bevind ik me in St. James, op zoek naar tekenen van leven.

De tweede hole:

slightly suspended in air but yet touching
earth an old tree house full of weather
or an ark its ancient hull gleaming

Kevin Waugh, een stagiair van het project, brengt me naar Dan Teichmann. Dan is eigenaar van de Henry Avenue Forge, een goed uitgeruste smederij met uitzicht op het spoorwegemplacement van Winnipeg's CPR. Hij zal de stalen buizen buigen en de davits lassen. Hij rookt een sigaar terwijl hij me foto's van zijn recente werk laat zien. Hij hoeft me niet te overtuigen, ik voelde zijn klasse toen we elkaar voor het eerst de hand schudden. Als ik wegga, laat hij me trots zijn Moto Guzzi 850 ‘Eldorado’ zien. Hij maakt er eens per jaar een rit mee van kust tot kust. Dell'Orto, Veglia, Marzocchi: bezweringen uit een vorig leven.

Buiten stap ik op mijn Raleigh om verder te zoeken naar ontbrekende onderdelen en bruikbare materialen.
Ik kocht hijsmateriaal: schoten, haken en katrollen.
Ik bestelde mahonie en hemlock voor de reling van de reddingsboot.
Ik vond precies het juiste net om de romp van het schip te vervangen.
Houten palen die uit de putting green steken, markeren de plaats van de davits.

De derde hole:

remembering the rains let's gather our
belongings & our children & meet at the
river this will be a new country love

Op het gazon voor de ruïnes trok ik een cirkel met een straal van 7,5 meter. De omtrek raakt de stam van een handvormige iep. Binnen deze grenzen zullen alle elementen van de installatie hun plaats vinden. Zoals de dichter woorden uitzet om de omtrek van haar bedoelingen te schetsen, teken ik een cirkel om het bereik van mijn visuele interpretatie ervan te bepalen. Ik teken een pentagram over de cirkel heen. De vijf punten vallen samen met de omtrek van de cirkel. Deze punten geven de positie van de puttholes aan.

Bij ABAR Industries deed ik een aanbetaling voor vijf witte nylon golfvlaggen van 14“ x 18” met de cijfers 1 tot en met 5 erop in het zwart. De leverancier van golfuitrusting die ik in de Yellow Pages van 1994 vond, is niet meer in business. In een telefooncel voelden de paginas van het telefoonboek klam aan door de regen van gisteren. Bij Consolidated Turf Equipment kocht ik vijf witte plastic puttholes en vijf zwarte glasvezel vlaggenmasten. Met mijn goedgevulde rugzak meng ik me in het dagelijkse gemororiseerde strijdtoernooi op Pembina Heights, waarbij ik de vijf 7' lange vlaggenmasten als een lans droeg. Op de vloer van mijn pas geschilderde gastenkamer in St. Norbert stal ik de opbrengst van mijn zoektochten uit.

de 4e hole

crossing the field to greet you i will lay
my old weapons down & wait if you are
here with me under the harvest moon

De iep rijst als een uitgestrekte hand op uit het glooiende veld. Zijn handpalm geopend naar de nu wolkenloze hemel. Er is geen enkel wolkje om naar te zwaaien. Engelachtig blauw...

Laten we de boom vergelijken met een hand: ik wil een horizontale staalkabel spannen tussen de twee voorste gevorkte takken, en de figuurlijke duim en wisvinger van de boom met elkaar verbinden. Vanuit het midden van die kabel loopt een tweede staalkabel naar de voet van de boom (het polsgewricht). Die onderkant van die kabel wordt verankerd aan een betonnen poer en met behulp van een draadspanner op spanning gehouden, waardoor een licht gekantelde 'T 'ontstaat. Aan beide uiteinden van de verticale kabel worden katrollen bevestigd, zodat een vlag met behulp van een nylon koord kan worden gehesen of gestreken.

Ik bracht weer een bezoek aan ABAR Industries om nog een vlag te laten maken. Dit keer bestelde ik een groene vlag van 66 x 91 cm met witte letters, waarop ‘EXIT’ stond. De vlag van de sterfelijkheid. Ik prefereerde de Europese kleurstelling voor noodsituaties boven de Noord-Amerikaanse: ik verkoos witte letters op een groene achtergrond die een 'relatieve veiligheid daarbuiten' beloven, boven rode letters op een zwarte achtergrond die het 'absoluut gevaar om hier vast te komen zitten' benadrukken.

Ik hoop dat je deze vlag samen met mij wilt hijsen bij de opening. Samen zullen we hem in het gebladerte hijsen terwijl de doedelzak in 2/4 en 6/8 maat jigs en marsen speelt. Zijn soepele lijf zal zich aanpassen aan de heersende wind en zich als een draaideur schikken naar de verschillen in luchtdruk. Verborgen in het groen zal de vlag zijn onopvallende rol spelen tot de herfst aanbreekt.

de vijfde hole

we will look in each other's eyes without
speaking our hands will shake & the great
wooden door will begin creaking open at
last since we cannot meet.

Elke keer als ik dit gedicht lees, voel ik de drang om de woorden ‘on father ground’ te vervangen door 'in mother's tongue'. Een fenomeen dat vergelijkbaar is met een ervaring die jij hebt: Als je naar de oceaan kijkt, associeer je die meteen met de prairie. Dat beeld wordt steeds sterker, totdat het ten slotte de oorspronkelijke ervaring vervangt. Misschien is mijn associatie het gevolg van mijn onbewuste verlangen om betrokken te zijn bij het gedicht, om persoonlijk aangesproken te worden door de dichter. Dat verschijnsel is mogelijk een van de redenen waarom ik dit gedicht koos als leidraad voor mijn installatie in St. Norbert. Mijn neiging om het origineel te 'vervalsen' was zinvol, omdat het me in staat stelde het gedicht te begrijpen, om te vormen en mijn idee ervan uiteindelijk te verbeelden.

Ik besloot het gedicht in vijf fragmenten op te splitsen. Elk fragment wordt met zeefdruk op vijf metalen plaatjes aangebracht. De plaatjes worden met beugels op ooghoogte aan de betreffende golfvlaggenmasten bevestigd. Elke speler die de cirkelvormige golfbaan in de juiste volgorde aflegt, ervaart tegelijkertijd de spanningsboog van het opgesplitste gedicht.

Sinds mijn aankomst in Winnipeg spoken twee versies van een lied door mijn hoofd als wisselstroom: Sinatra's ‘Fly me to the Moon’ en Homerus' ‘Tie me to the Mast’. Beroemde woorden op dezelfde arrangementen van Nelson Riddle die op de een of andere manier de grenzen van mijn spel in dit project definiëren. De tekst begint door mijn hoofd te spoken zodra mijn aandacht verslapt.

‘s Nachts, terwijl de maan wast en de wind huilt, ga ik naar buiten en leun ik tegen een boom. Terwijl ik zachtjes 'Tie me to the Lunar Module’ zing, kijk ik naar dingen die in omloop zijn rond mijn blote oog .

Een maand nadat we elkaar voor het eerst ontmoetten, gaat onze samenwerking over in de laatste aggregatietoestand: die waarin vloeibare materie stolt. Onze gedachten materialiseren in een driedelige plaatsgebonden installatie. Diens simpele gedaante maakt een meervoudig gebruik en een veelvoud aan interpretaties mogelijk. Laten we hopen dat de prairie onze piepkleine interventie in haar ooghoek zal tolereren.

De caddy is klaar, de clubs zijn besteld, de putt holes zijn geplaatst.
Ik kijk uit naar ons potje golf van volgende week.

Liefs van Arnold

1) Uit: ‘Agnes in the sky’ door Di Brandt. Pagina 28, Turnstone Press 1990, Winnipeg.

Winnipeg 24.6.95

beste Arnold, het is te warm om in mijn studeerkamer te schrijven, dus heb ik Wayne's laptop geleend & die op mijn bed gezet, met de lamp over mijn linkerschouder & de ventilator die koele lucht de kamer in blaast, maar toen wist ik niet hoe ik hem aan moest zetten, dus nu schrijf ik dit toch met de hand, in kleermakerszit op mijn bed gezeten, op blauw gelinieerd schoolpapier, zoals ik vroeger deed, zoals we allemaal deden, vóór computers, vóór typemachines.

je zult dit lezen nadat ik het op de computer heb overgetypt, dus je zult de zwarte vlekken & doorstreepte woorden niet zien die ik samen met de woorden aanbracht op het witte vel, maar ik stel me graag voor dat ze nog aanwezig zijn, in de schaduwen, achter de woorden, dansend & glinsterend zoals schaduwen dat doen, soms groot, soms klein, in & uit het licht bewegend.

het is jouw zorgvuldige, zorg-vuldige beschrijving van hoe je de installatie bouwt, die me deed denken aan de uitgebreide voorbereidingen die ik ook maak, wanneer ik ga zitten om woorden samen te stellen, beelden te bouwen, collages, interventies zoals jij zegt - wat een mooi woord, dat ik op de een of andere manier associeer met het ‘goddelijke’. & waarom ook niet, er zijn overal om ons heen wonderen, waarom zou er hier geen zijn, tussen deze rondwarende monnikengeesten aan de rand van de wijdse prairie.

de iep die je hebt gevonden en die als een uitgestrekte hand naar de hemel reikt, raakt me op een manier die je niet kunt weten. de familieboerderij waar ik in het gedicht aan dacht toen ik zei: ‘on father ground, our father's land’, heette Elm Ridge Farm. de boerderij is dit jaar ontmanteld & verkocht aan vreemden. het grootste deel van de boerderij bestond niet uit iepen of heuvelruggen, maar uit rechte, kale velden bezaaid met tarwe, gerst, vlas & suikerbieten. we zagen hoe onze vader de prairie omvormde tot landbouwgrond & later, na zijn dood, voerden we een hevige strijd over van wie het land was. & nu ben ik hier, nog vers in rouw om het verlies ervan, die plek waar ik zo diep geworteld was & waarvan ik dacht dat die er voor ons was, in ons, voor altijd. En deze uitgestrekte hand, reikend naar de open lucht, lijkt zo'n perfecte metafoor voor thuis, zoals ik het nu in mij voel, de dubbele rij essen, suikeresdoorns en iepen die onze boerderij omringden, met hun sierlijke, golvende takken, als fonteinen dacht ik vaak, of als de armen van dansers, & hoe het allemaal in de loop van de tijd is veranderd in pure herinnering, dun & doorlaatbaar, maar sterk genoeg om ons te ondersteunen, ons te bezielen, als lucht.

& jij hier, letterlijke beelden bouwend, van hout & staal, met je handen, uit mijn luchtige woorden, lijkt wel een wonder, mijn oude Nederlandse afkomst van scheepsbouwers & timmerlieden die in mij oprijzen, triomfantelijk, de echtheid van gedichten verkondigend, ja, ze zijn iets, ze bestaan in tijd & ruimte, zie, zie hoe je ze kunt ophangen aan een boom aan de rand van de wijdse prairie. hoe we de woorden uit de fysieke wereld halen & ze er weer aan teruggeven, de ruimte die ze innemen op de pagina, in onze ogen, oren, geest & hier, op wonderbaarlijke wijze transsubstantieerend in een ark, gemaakt van hout & hennep & staal, hangend in de lucht, blootgesteld aan het weer, ons het onmogelijke biedend, de ontmoeting in het gedicht die nooit kan plaatsvinden, plotseling echt gemaakt, weer mogelijk, in het vlees, een liefdesgedicht uiteindelijk, met zijn reiken naar het voorbije, naar -

zo'n passend requiem, & slaapliedje, & liefdeslied, allemaal tegelijk, in realtime, in broeder zuster moedertaal, zo'n mooi geven & nemen op de prairie.

liefs, Di

Tuesday, May 9. Rotterdam Central Station.

It started in the rain. After having missed the 11:34 a.m. train, after having been forced to part with Wanda Koop at Schiphol Airport due to an extra security check at North/West Airlines, after having spent two hours at the airport of the twin cities of Minneapolis & St. Paul due to gearbox problems with the 727, after having been delayed by an immigration officer at Winnipeg Airport who had classification problems with the entry of a Dutchman who had flown in on a cultural exchange program, in short: after a mental vacuum of more than fifteen hours, I embraced Louise Loewen. In the evening heat, we drove to a monumental villa at 5 Eastgate. Together with video artist Erika MacPherson and neighbor Jim, we drank a glass of beer on the porch of the house. I tried to remember the view of this city from the airplane: Winnipeg looked like a well spread sandwich.

Wednesday, May 10. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

Despite all warnings, I left the house around noon for a walk to Saint Norbert along Pembina Highway. Pembina Highway is a so-called strip mall: a noisy six-lane asphalt strip lined on both sides with snack bars, tire- & oil change centers and supermarkets. Interwoven with this, undercover, are countless churches, which only attract attention because their logos are so familiar. No Canadian would voluntarily follow my example.

Eastgate > Grant Avenue: 30 minutes, Grant Ave. > Mc Gillivray Boulevard: 30 min., Mc Gillivray Blvd > University Crescent: 30 min., University Cr. > Killkenny/Kings Drive: 30 min., K/K Dr. > South Perimeter Bridge: 20 min.

I interrupted my walk under the bridge: Louise, together with Louis Ogemah and a group of students from a local college, was putting the finishing touches to a huge mural painted on one of the bridge's pillars. Today was almost a scorcher: the sun was blazing through my sweater. I continued my journey along Pembina Highway and stopped at SNACC's temporary office, where I met executive director Gilles Hébert. He greeted me with a broad smile from behind his computer-, fax-, and telephoneless desk, -less, because there had been a break-in recently. It felt as if we had known each other for years.

Since my arrival in this city, I was amazed how familiar everything felt to me. Winnipeg had been a continuous déjà vu so far. I walked the last stretch to the ruins of the former Trappist monastery together with Louise: When the prairie opened up on my right after a bend in the road – 95% sky and 5?rth – Louise asked me what I saw. “Prairie,” I said. Wrong. Louise revealed her dream: one day this land would be hers and bisons would graze here. And, damn! now she mentioned it, that manure heap in the distance did look a bit like....

The ruins loomed into view. I took a seat on the masonry of the former church. I was two hours and fifty minutes' walk away from my starting point. Everything suddenly took on a human dimension now that the surroundings, the here and now, which fell outside the frame of the slides, entered the field of vision unhindered. Shane Stewart and Louise gave me a guided tour through the Guest House. The renovation was still in full swing. It was unbelievable that we would be moving into these rooms in two weeks.

Shakespeare's ‘Midsummer Night's Dream’ was being rehearsed on the lawn next to the ruins. Raised voices: the law of Thou and Thine.

Downtown, we ate pasta at a fundraising dinner with door prizes for the Winnipeg Summer Theater School. Shane won a thermos and the accompanying thermos bag. In the evening the Eastgate house was bursting at its seams with guests. In the backyard, the night began with the sounds of banjos and guitars. A generous lick from Bucky the dog send me off to bed.


Thursday, May 11. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

The smell of bread baking in the kitchen. I caught up with Louise and handed her the catalogs I had brought with me and set off on an adventure in the city center.
The weather had changed. It was going to be a dreary day. I took a walk of about four and a half hours. Along the way, I tried to convince various Automatic Teller Machines (ATM) of my creditworthiness in vain. It made me feel anxious. I visited the Plug-in Gallery and enjoyed a veggie burrito special at TacoTime. I mainly stayed outside. I got the impression that there was not much more behind the facades than I had already seen from the outside. Fortunately, the library was a pleasant place to stop. And fortunately, in the underground Winnipeg Square Mall, I found an ATM that accepted my bankcard and rewarded me. I returned via Broadway and Langside Street in high spirits.

At home, the table was set: Louise's parents, Bill and Shirley Loewen, were visiting. After washing the dishes, we all went to the Winnipeg Art Gallery for the opening of Aganetha Dyck's exhibition. Aganetha Dyck is a senior artist who lives and works in Winnipeg. She uses everyday objects such as buttons, mason jars, cigarette butts, shoes, and clothing and transforms them into sculptures and installations. She is also a beekeeper. She placed some of the objects in her beehives. The bees transformed the objects by covering them with beeswax. In 1993, she worked for a while in Rotterdam in one of the foundation's guest studios. For the children, there were cookies with honey from Aganetha's very own bees. Aganetha stood bent over in the center of attention, feeding the large number of children.

I met many people, invitations were flying all over the place: things were moving fast here. Among the audience was also Di Brandt: the poet I invited for a collaboration. Louise wanted to introduce us immediately. If it were up to me, I would have preferred to postpone that first physical introduction. Exactly one month ago, I got to know Di by opening her second collection of poetry: on April 11, 1995, I read “Agnes in The Sky” during a walk in the woods near Lich, Germany. Based on that, I formed an image of her. I wanted to postpone the confrontation between the Di I constructed from her work and the real Di a bit longer. I wanted to hang on to my carefully constructed delusion a little longer. It is remarkable when the literary oeuvre you have become familiar with seems to have a voice that speaks for itself. When we shook hands, I failed to understand what I was worried about. The Di I met, was a present. We decided to deepen our acquaintance before the project really started.


Friday, May 12. Saint Norbert.

Happy Birthday Manitoba! The St. Norbert Community Center celebrated the 125th anniversary of the state of Manitoba. People in traditional costumes paraded in chronological order past the podium where the Lieutenant Governor of Manitoba was seated. A local marching band and a youth choir added to the solemnity. The grandson of Luis Riel, a Métis rebel who fought for Manitoba's independence and was finally hanged by the government, addressed the congregation. Halfway through his speech, he became emotional. With a broken voice, he finished his speech. Some of the attendants, mainly natives, were also unable to hold back their tears. The commemoration clearly touched people deeply. The children's choir concluded the gathering with a karaoke version of the theme from Walt Disney's “The Lion King.”

A handful of people gathered under the deck of the South Perimeter Bridge for the official presentation of the mural. And even though the bridge deck offered some protection from the rain, the icy wind blew freely underneath. People dressed too optimistically took a quick look at the artwork and then returned to their cars. They were waiting for the school bus to drop off the students. The obligatory city council member delivered his obligatory speech. For the obligatory handshakes, everyone rolled up their sleeves to briefly expose bare skin to the cold, and that was it. The three boxes of donuts were empty in the blink of an eye.

Louise Loewen took me to the city, because I had an appointment with Louise Jonasson. She is a painter, writer, and contributor to the literary magazine Prairie Fire. She helped compile the dossier for the literary part of my project. She worked in the studio next to Eleanor Bond. After Louise J. had shown me her work, we decided to continue our introductory conversation over a real cup of coffee. A cup of coffee that would push your eyeballs out, as the Canadians would say. We settled down in an Eritrean coffee bar in one of the indoor shopping arcades. Genuine espresso, good value for money. Once again, I was struck by how familiar these people were to me. Louise J. was so nice. She made it very easy for mee to feel at home. I promised to cook Indonesian food for her next week.

The fireplace had been lit at the Eastgate residence. While the rest of the residents were busy writing slogans on banners for tomorrow's ‘SNACC parade’, Louise L. and I sneaked out to see Primus Theatres' 'Alkoremmi'.



Saturday, May 13. Saint Norbert, Community Center.

Today, a parade took place to celebrate the fact that St. Norbert was at the cradle of the state of Manitoba. The parade was an initiative of SNACC. A select group of volunteers gathered in the dressing rooms behind the St. Norbert Community Center. An hour later, the procession lined up in the fierce north wind. It was exotic and did not match the backdrop of this almost wintry day. At the front of the troop, Joe Gaudry, a young bagpiper, would play his razor-sharp version of ‘Amazing Grace’. Directly behind him were Desmond Burke and me. We had hoisted ourselves into two rattan horses and carried the horse's bodies on two straps over our shoulders. Then came the costumed drum band: Louise L., Erika, Kristina, and Mike, followed by a procession of about twenty children and adults to hand out SNACC flyers to the sparse audience. The piper used his last chance to play solo: as soon as the group would cross Pembina Highway, the drums would burst into action. We set off.

The journey lead us to a barn that was not yet completely finished. Inside the tarpaulin covered structure, there was a weird ensemble of a stuffed ox with an ox cart. The ox - now named Napoleon - was the mascot of St. Norbert. In 1970 a resident of the village took the ox (then named Sandy) and cart once a year up and down to Alberta as a tribute to the first settlers. When the ox died, he had the animal stuffed. A contraption was installed in the animal's body so that former Sandy, now Napoleon, could urinate. Hilarious, that two-centimeter long red copper pipe sticking out of the oxes arse just behind the scrotum: Napoleon's Waterloo.

The cold was written all over the faces of the parade. The bagpiper complained that his instrument started to lose its pitch. To make matters worse, Len van Roon (ex-NL) presented his speech on his tree planting project – 'A green guarantee for future generations of Manitobans' – with icy patience. Finally, we were all truly out of words. We took a detour, crossed Pembina again, and blew and drummed Gilles out from behind his empty desk to show him what we were able to. For a moment, he appeared in the doorway in his shirt sleeves and gave us his blessing. The local festival committee treated us to pizza.

Shane and I took Napoleon, cart and all, to Len van Roon's garage, where the ensemble could be stored until the barn, its final resting place, was completed. As we turned onto the highway, people slowed down courteously and kept a respectful distance. For a moment, we felt special, invulnerable and immortal in our pickup truck with its sacred cargo. Unfortunately, it turned out that the ensemble did not to fit under the door of Len's garage. We discussed the options. We could just push through. We could deflate the trailer's tires. We could saw off the wooden loading rack from the cart. All proposals were put forward with appropriate caution because, who knows, Holy Lightning could strike us at any moment. We pushed the ox in as far as possible, but had to accept that its oxtail and part of the wooden cart would remain exposed to the elements for quite some time.

I took the dog leash and went for a walk with Bucky: Langside Street, Portage Avenue. High-rise buildings, wind turbines. In terms of appearance (or lack thereof), Rotterdam and Winnipeg are similar. They both have a rather impersonal city center. Here, everything is just a little more widely spaced.

Winnipeg is struggling with social problems: in certain neighborhoods of the city, you encounter many drunk people, mainly Métis. The Métis population is of Native American-European descent and originated in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries through marriages between French men and Native American women. Many of them are uneducated, unemployed and have taken to drinking. They form an underclass. Only in recent years their rights and their culture, or rather what remains of it, have been officially recognized. The Métis are feverishly trying to preserve the remnants of their cultural identity and, based on incomplete traditions, to reconstruct their traditional culture. That evening, we witnessed such an effort. An evening of Métis rap, Métis ballads and hoop dancing. The latter is a hybrid of traditional dance and acrobatics in which the dancer creates a web of hoops he carries with him while dancing. Tonight's artist managed to create three different geometric constellations from as many as forty hoops. One of the organizers told me that the venue where this was taking place had recently been offered to the organisation for rent at a low price by the local government. Something the Métis would not have dared to dream of ten years ago. That was also the motive for this festive gathering. The sky was clearing up.


Sunday, May 14. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

The sky had cleared. I got up early to work on my report in the basement. Louise L. had lent me her laptop today, which made it easier for me to organize the pile of notes spread out on my tabletop. Judging by the commotion above my head, a large group was gathering in the living room for Mother's Day brunch. I entered the ground floor as quietly as possible to quickly put together my lunch. I hurried to avoid the risk of having to be introduced to a stranger. I put the plate with perogies, Ukrainian pastries, on the sunshine-drenched patchwork of my notes.

Later that afternoon, I briefly participated in the above-ground activities: I attended the open-air concert of the women's quartet ‘Nipples to the Wind’. Louise L. and Erika sang a cappella barbershop repertoire with two other women I didn't know. The concert ended with a performance for vocal quartet, four hand puppets, and (weather permitting) eight bare female breasts. Though the four hand puppets were actually pressed against the women's breasts, today the nipples remained unfortunately concealed under fabric because of the chilly wind.

By the time I finished my report, it had grown dark. Together with Louise L., I tried to force my voluminous message through the intercontinental fax hatch. At 12:30 a.m., our ten fingers started to go numb and the rest of our body agreed to follow that digital example.


Monday, May 15. Winnipeg, downtown.

Monday reading day. At 9:00 a.m., I stood in front of the closed door of the Centennial Library, which would not be unlocked for another hour. Deprived of knowledge, I moved thirty minutes away from the source of the wisdom I was seeking, only to move toward it in the next thirty minutes. Five minutes before opening time, I positioned myself in the drafty porch and joined a handful of shivering bookworms. I claimed a table near the reference books. FOR REFERENCE ONLY, the book spines warned. I extracted unfamiliar words from them, determined their specific weight based on the definitions provided, and tried them out in different contexts. I examined their flexibility. ‘Field, clear, land’. I tried on the words as if they were pairs of shoes. The references kept me mobile: the books with the desired information were located further and further away from my table. I walked along with the city for a while. I dove into the history of Winnipeg. I read about the Trappists of Saint Norbert who dedicated their lives to ‘Our Lady of the Prairie’ and  moved to the town of Holland, Manitoba, a few years ago. I packed a huge stack of notes into my backpack. Dizzy from the knowledge swirling around in my head, I took a walk through Chinatown in search of Indonesian spices.


Tuesday, May 16. Winnipeg, en route.

The map of Winnipeg in my hand guided me across the Maryland Bridge to 932 Jessie Avenue, the home of Di Brandt. The dog on the porch did not bark, but disappeared through a large cat flap into the vestibule, where he bended over his bowl of kibble. Wayne opened the door as Di appeared behind him. They were about to leave. I proposed Di, to take her out for dinner next Friday evening to discuss the project. She consented. Once again, I crossed the Assiniboine River via the Osborne Bridge. I traversed Winnipeg's inconspicuous downtown area and passed the Manitoba Museum of Man and Nature on Main Street. I wanted to visit it on my way back.

There were many drunk people on the street. A man asked me something unintelligible. Before repeating his request for the third time, he took a deep breath and asked me for a quarter. His shirt was smothered with tomato soup. Vermicelli remnants were stuck in his beard. When I handed over some coins he whispered: “God bless you.” Which God did he mean? In this short stretch of Austin Street North, I already passed four different churches. Each tower adorned with a variation of the cross. In this neighborhood, no private homeowner needed to fear being struck by lightning.

I was on my way to Joy Tupper-van Vliet. Joy is an Indonesian woman I met at the opening of Aganetha. She could undoubtedly tell me where to buy the Indonesian spices I was looking for. We spoke Dutch. She marked the supermarket in question on the map.

On Eastgate, Bucky, the dog, pulled nine-year-old Willy along on his rollerblades. They disappeared from view when Louise, Louise's three-year-old daughter Zona and I came out of the garden path. Zona had picked up a pointed object and made it her mission to mark all the trees along East and West Gate with a cross. We made our very slow way walking through Winnipeg's 'Feaubourg de Saint Germain.' Willy and Bucky had meantime swapped the footpath for the Eastgate asphalt to guarantee on a smoother continuation.

On Shane's mountain bike, I followed Kristina on our way to a yet unknown location downtown. That evening, the Junk Yard Club served an open stage with beer priced at $0.70. In contrast to Winnipeg's grid, we took a route that largely consisted of diagonals. We biked across parking lots, through pedestrian areas, over green strips. Once I finally got my shoes into the toe clips, I could keep up with her. In the backlight of the stage stood a figure that uttered unintelligible sounds. Next to him was a guitarist, her face hidden in the drapery of her long blonde hair. The visible change of her fingerings had no significant influence on the sound she produced. During a short intermission, a poet recited poems with a high anal density. There were exactly twenty-one people in the room: the performers, their closest friends, and a few interested parties. We watched the next performance from the adjoining billiard room, where tonight there was free play. The requested quantity of beer was served in two small glasses, for lack of larger ones. On the way back, I was no longer able to get my feet into the toe clips. With every turn, one scraped across the asphalt.


Wednesday, May 17. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

We gathered at the Dodge van for a day of work in the countryside. The gardening tools were gathered and, with steaming coffee cups in the cup holders of the car, we set off for Saint Norbert. School buses emptied their passengers in the parking lot near the ruins. Students gathered on the freshly mowed grass around the monument. In the morning sun, the actors prepared for the try-out of their ‘Midsummer Night's Dream in the Ruins’. I made a wide sweep, descended to the meandering LaSalle River and followed its course. I explored the terrain and followed the route of the locations of the different scenes of the theatre play. It had become hot. As I approached the river to cool off, a huge rat jumped into the water right next to me. Startled, I recoiled. A glance at my surroundings reassured me: tree stumps and gnawed trees, a field of sharpened pencils. I proudly cherished the memory of that first encounter with a beaver. Behind me, the large group of spectators, led by the chanting actors, moved on to the next Midsummer Night's Dream stop. I reached a fence and crossed the field. In the distance lay the ruins of the monastery. Halfway there, I sat down against the concrete foundation of what once was the cowshed. I made notes about the landscape and jotted down my thoughts.

Back at the Guest House, I grabbed a rake and helped Shane collect and dispose of the cut grass. At 2 p.m., I set off on foot via Pembina to Eastgate. As I walked, the project took shape. The evening was devoted to relaxation and began and ended with Tom Hanks as Forrest Gump in the local darkness of a local cinema.


Thursday, May 18. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

Nature loving Linda Fairfield was at the front door at exactly 8:30 a.m. I grabbed my gear: rubber boots, raincoat, packed lunch, and left the house. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day. Linda parked her jeep in front of the Manitoba Museum of Man and Nature. I met Karen, a botanist affiliated with the museum and the University of Manitoba. A little later, Janice, who also works at the museum, arrived. David, a volunteer and speleologist, was the last to join the group. We left Winnipeg heading east on Trans Canada Highway No. 1. At St. Anne, we took the Steinbach exit. We drove along increasingly poorly paved and dusty roads to Whitemouth Lake. Gravel rattled loudly against the four wheel casings. The crack that split the windshield spoke for itself. When we got out at the lake shore, we were attacked by a swarm of blackflies, which fortunately did not yet bite. We unloaded our equipment: botanical drum, marker flags, provisions, preparation materials and life jackets. We waited for supervisor Tony, who would take us to Elm Point Island in his motorboat. Karen disappeared into the marsh with her camera and macro lens for a quick test shoot. Tony drove the trailer backwards into the water until the boat floated. We loaded the equipment and put on our life jackets. The trip across the vast stretch of water took half an hour. We went ashore at a predetermined spot. A tree marked with red tape indicated that this was the starting point.

We had come to do research into the development of a plant that only grows on this small island and nowhere else in Manitoba. The plant is called “Dutchman's Breeches.” Its inflorescence resembles a tiny clothesline with long underpants. Karen and Tony had been watching over this rare plant species for five years now. Every year around this time, they visited the island to count the number of stems and flowers of a hundred carefully marked specimens. Our task was to find the now one-year-old markings and re-mark the location with a new bright red flag. The search was made easier by the fact that the specimens we were looking for were all aligned in an imaginary line. But the gone by year had left its traces: some markings were impossible to find under the thick layer of leaves, and here and there a trunk had made the spot, where a marking should be, inaccessible due to wind or diligent beaver work. We found seventy-six of the hundred markings, which was two more than last year. During lunch, Tony and Karen shared memories of previous expeditions. A few specimens of the plant species were dug up to be planted on a neighboring island. This would show whether they would thrive elsewhere. Before we set sail, David showed me the balls of droppings mixed with mud that beavers use to mark their territory. On the other island, the specimens planted and marked there last year had unfortunately withered away. Finally, Tony took us past several places of interest: beaver lodges and eagle nests. He seemed to know the vastness like the back of his hand. At 5:30 p.m., he drove his trailer under the boat and pulled it ashore. We waved to the cloud of dust in which he disappeared.
On our way back, we made two more stops. With binoculars, we could clearly see the fox (left) and the coyote (right).


Friday, May 19. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

That evening, I had an appointment with Di, so I needed to present her with something to clarify my plan. I had decided to make her a notebook. I had split the poem I selected into five parts and inserted a number of short sketches or commentaries between the parts. I tried to keep my explanation as short and clear as possible. The radical choices I made from the collected material slowly created a clearer outline of my future plans. I had three copies of the notebook made in a copy shop. When I got home, I took a shower and browsed once more through Di's oeuvre.

Johann Sebastian Bach's Violin Concerto BWV 1041 in A minor accompanied me on my walkman to Jessie Avenue. Andante was the passage from Academy Road to Kingsway. Allegro assai, I climbed the steps leading to the porch of number 932. Di was waiting for me. We walked in the direction of Corydon. We no longer needed to introduce ourselves, it felt like I knew her through her poems. We entered a Caribbean restaurant. Di talked about the inescapable hold that the prairie had on everyone who grew up there: the compulsion that the sight of the ocean immediately reminded her of the prairie. About Reinland where she grew up, about her childhood. About the positive aspects of the Mennonite community. About the offensive her father launched against the annoying advance of nature. About his intolerant desire for precision. I handed her the notebook and explained my plans. That it was not my intention to visualize one of her poems. That I considered a poem as a starting point for a train of thought that would necessarily stray from the ideas expressed in the poem. That I saw it as my task to remain as faithful as possible to the atmosphere that the original poem exuded. I managed to convey my intentions. Di granted her permission to include the poem in question in my installation in some form. When I asked her if she would be willing to write something for the opening she had to admit, that she was very busy working on a new book and preparing for readings in Toronto, Montreal, Pennsylvania, and Edmonton, but that she would be available in the short intervals between lectures. We said goodbye on the corner of Corydon Avenue and Stafford Street, and with a new kind of serenity that is so characteristic to the transition from phase one to phase two, I covered the distance to the house on Armstrong Point, where it had become completely silent.


Saturday, May 20. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

In the morning slumber of this grey day, I got an idea for a ritual that could precede the official transfer of my installation to the audience: I could turn the grassy plain that stretches out in front of the future installation into a small golf course. The course would count five holes, one for each text fragment of the poem. The text fragments could be printed on small signs to mark the holes. Di and I could play golf at the opening. I got up and wrote Di a letter to share my plans with her. The few hours i had left before my job at a bingo hall, I used to collect information about the noble game of golf in the Centennial Library.

At 5 p.m., the fourteen of us reported to the coordinator of Bingo Club Regent. We received an apron with the word VOLUNTEER on it and $75 in change: ten $5 bills and a roll of twenty-five $1 coins, also known as looneys. The money we earned would be deposited into the account of the non-profit organization SNACC. We chose a personal number, received a couple of bingo cards, and were sent into the almost empty hall. The design of the hall was executed in a misunderstood Disneyland style, supposed to represent a place for happy people. Its blue ceiling resembling the almost cloudless sky that make people forget the long cold winter days, its straw parasols to protect against virtual sunburn. Seated at the tables were chain-smoking, middle-aged women with huge felt-tip pens at the ready. They tensely surveyed the bingo cards spread out on the table in front of them. The tip of the felt-tip pen was so huge that they could cover the numbered boxes in one go. The numbers of the drawn balls were displayed on a large TV screen, but no one looked up. They focussed on their forms, on the ashtray in which they stubbed out their cigarettes, or on the fourteen idiots in aprons who were wandering around trying to get rid of their cards. I was guilty of collaboration; these were all poor, exploited people. Gradually, more people started to arrive. Some started to snap at me if I didn't provide them with fresh cards quickly enough. Newcomers set up a small altar with photos of grandchildren before trying their luck. You could recognize the real pros by the padded cases in which they protected their arsenal of bingo markers from the harsh reality. When it started to get really busy, our service was over. We checked out and were treated on pizza and beer on SNACC's tab.

We removed all the benches from the Dodge van and loaded blankets and pillows. As dusk set in, we drove out of town on our way to the drive-in cinema. In the distance, the pale projection became visible and the soundtrack of the movie was already audible via the car radio: 'Kiss of Death'. Informative, that millionfold variation of “to fuck,” but high above us: a starry sky like a small garden. I was the last one outside, eating popcorn with warm butterscotch. The car windows fogged up and obscured the view. All around me, cars were being started to warm up the interior. I saw 'Die Hard 3 (with a Vengeance)'’ from the inside the car through the grid of the rear window heater. Louise L. and Kristina had died soft: they fell asleep. The rest followed the series of implausibilities with a glazed look. At half past two, I locked the front door against evil.

Zondag 4 juni, 13:07 uur.
UNITED ARMY SURPLUS SALES, 460 Portage Ave.
Employee Jennifer brengt totaal $ 59,26 in rekening voor een Columbia short en een zwart bedrukte, turquoise zwembroek. (Het oog op de aangekondigde hittegolf).

Dinsdag 6 juni.
BRUNSWICK STEEL.
Ik bestel twee zeven meter lengtes HSS stalen pijp en laat ze bezorgen op de Henry Avenue Forge, waar Dan Teichmann ze verder tot davits zal verwerken.

Dinsdag 6 juni, 13:15 uur.
PRINCESS AUTO LTD., 535 Panet Rd.
Aangeschaft: Zes katrollen in drie zwaarteklassen voor het strijk- en hijswerk van de davits en de vlag.

Dinsdag 6 juni, 18:00 uur.
JACK DESASTRE, Austin St. N 210.
Aankoop van een Raleigh sportfiets om het proces van associatief winkelen te vergemakkelijken.

Dinsdag 6 juni, 18:49 uur.
CANADIAN TIRE, 45 Isabel.
Een afgeprijsd fietsslot gekocht om het wederrechtelijk toe-eigenen te bemoeilijken.

Woensdag 7 juni.
ABAR/INSIGN INDUSTRIES, 450 Brooklyn St.
Rachel achter de balie. Ik geef opdracht voor de vervaardiging van een groen/witte vlag met het opschrift EXIT. Om mijn geloofwaardigheid te bewijzen doe ik een aanbetaling van $ 40.

Donderdag 8 juni, 12:19 uur.
MC DIARMID LUMBER, 600 Pembina Hwy.
Boortjes, schroeven, een schroefbit, watervaste houtlijm. De kassière heet Jeanne.

Donderdag 8 juni, 13:52 uur.
WINNIPEG SUPPLY, 925 Portage Ave.
Shantel rekent vijfenveertig voet staalkabel, kabelklemmen en spanners voor de vlaggenmast af.

Donderdag 8 juni, 15:46 uur.
CONSOLIDATED TURF EQUIPMENT (1965) LTD, 986 Powell Ave.
Niet van echt te onderscheiden, want echt, zijn de zeven witplastic putt holes en de zeven zwarte glasfiber golfvlaggenstokken die ik afrekende en meevoerde naar mijn verre logeerkamer in St. Norbert.

Vrijdag 9 juni.
LAKEFISH NET & TWINE LTD., 547 King Edward St.
Ik verlaat het pand met 4,25 kilo nylon visnet.

Vrijdag 9 juni, 15:23 uur.
MC DIARMID LUMBER, 600 Pembina Hwy.
Twee tien-voets mahonie planken van 1 x 6 inch en één grenen plank van dezelfde afmetingen, alsmede een plaat mahonie triplex van 4 x 8 voet (122 x 244 cm.). Maandag voor de middag te bezorgen aan het absolute uiteinde van de Rue du Monastère in St. Norbert.

Vrijdag 9 juni, 17:09 uur.
CANADIAN TIRE, 45 Isabel.
Steeksleutel 5/16, isolatieband, kabelklemmen en een zijkniptang om het verhaal in te korten.

Maandag 12 juni, 19:06 uur.
CANADIAN TIRE, Pembina Hwy.
Hoekijzer en boortjes.

Maandag 12 juni.
CANADIAN MARKING SYSTEMS, 135 Midland.
Ik overhandig Ruth de bemachtigde laserprints van Di's in vijven geknipte gedicht en geef haar opdracht de fragmenten door middel van zeefdruk op vijf aluminium plaatjes aan te brengen. De zadels voor de bevestiging aan de vlaggenstokken zijn inbegrepen.

Dinsdag 13 juni, 15:00 uur.
MC DIARMID LUMBER, 200 Meadowood.
Spijkers, metaalprimer, witte hoogglanslak voor buiten. See you, Barbara!

Woensdag 14 juni.
MC DIARMID LUMBER, 200 Meadowood.
Heel wat hardware. Leanne klokt af op 10:39 uur.

Vrijdag 16 juni, 8:59 uur.
WINDSOR PLYWOOD, 2634 Pembina Hwy.
Contant betaald aan Jim: twee 38 mm. kwasten, een schrobzaag, twee flacons 'Weather Tite Wood Glue' van 475 ml., een blikje bootlak en een schuurkurk.

Zaterdag 17 juni, 8:49 uur.
DONER PAINT & HARDWARE, 847 Main St.
Elf minuten te vroeg voor mijn afspraak met Joy. Nog even een blokje om om een houtbeitel te kopen. Ted had geen Sandvik meer. Hij verkoopt me een Fuller.

Maandag 19 juni, 16:02 uur.
CANADIAN TIRE, Pembina Hwy.
Golfbal, golfbalmonogrammer, ogen 1/4 x 3 -3/4 inch.

Maandag 19 juni, 15:06 uur.
UNITED ARMY SURPLUS SALES, 460 Portage.
Nelia presenteert mij rekening nr. 83892 van het boekjaar 1995 voor een hangmat en een set batterijen voor mijn walkman.

Maandag 19 juni, 17:35 uur.
HENRY AVENUE FORGE, 811 Henry Av.
Met de pick-up de gebogen en gelaste davits afgehaald bij Dan.
Op de terugweg stoppen we bij een seven/eleven-shop. Ik trakteer Greg op een Slurpie en 'Old Dutch' Salt 'n' Vinegar-chips.

Donderdag 22 juni.
A. ADAMS SUPPLY (1969) LTD, 879 Wall St.
Bouten, moeren en dopmoeren, sluitringen, harpen en gelaste ringen.

Donderdag 22 juni.
ABAR/INSIGN INDUSTRIES, 450 Brooklyn St.
Ik haal de bestelde set van negen 14 x 18 inch genummerde golfvlaggen en de Exit vlag af bij Rachel. Maak een buiging alvorens het kantoor te verlaten.

Donderdag 22 juni, 15:24 uur.
WINNIPEG SUPPLY, 925 Portage Ave.
Served by Eveline. Zes vijfentwintig kilo zakken 'Redicrete' beton-mix.

Vrijdag 23 juni.
CANADIAN MARKING SYSTEMS, 135 Midland St.
Ruth overhandigt de aluminium plaatjes met bevestiging tegen betaling aan Greg, die mij vertegenwoordigt.

Zaterdag 24 juni, 10:13 uur.
CANADIAN TIRE, Pembina Hwy.
Schroefogen, popnagels, boortjes, nylon koord en twee componenten epoxy lijm.

Zondag 25 juni, 14:46 uur.
CANADIAN TIRE, Pembina Hwy.
Popnagels, sluitringen.

Zondag 25 juni, 21:32 uur.
SNACC, 100 Rue du Monastère.
Gage voor bagpiper John Gaudry uit St. Adolphe die dezelfde dag nog gespeeld had op het Scottish Heritage Festival en daar de tweede prijs doedelzakken won en die aansluitend daarop, zonder zich om te kleden, onze performance van geluid voorzag.

DIARY PART II: May 21-31, 1995
Winnipeg and surroundings

Sunday, May 21. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

Slept well. Solitary roll call in the brightly lit bedroom. I shaved and cut myself. I dabbed the cut and prepared my breakfast. I volunteered for work in the SNACC vegetable garden. On the driveway of the monastery, we passed Char, a member of the ‘Green Team’ on her bike. With her eyes squeezed shut because of the dust blowing up, she wobbled along the last few meters. Right through the garden ran the poorly healed scar of the trench for the new water and power supply. I started by loosening the earth trampled by bulldozer wheels so that the planted beans, onions, and flowers would find their way up a little easier later. Louise L. stood indecisively with the garden hose in her hand, surrounded by so much thirst. A languid contentment descended, the view of the prairie disintegrated in the sizzling atmosphere. I surrendered, took off my shirt, and kneeled in the grass next to the vegetable garden. I helped Kristina pick dandelion flowers. We dragged an ever-lengthening green trail behind us, our palms yellow with pollen. The flowers would later be processed into dandelion wine. Desmond came cycling along the raised asphalt path. He carried his head high and shiny under his bicycle helmet. He moved forward agonizingly slowly. Against the clear blue sky, he seemed to be doing a sur-place. He rolled off his bike down the embankment and stretched out in the green. No one moved. We had given up moving for a moment. When everyone had finally arrived under the roof of the summer kitchen under construction, we decided to take a look at the Guest House. The floors on the first and second floors had been sanded and varnished, the walls had been painted, and the doors had been hung. It took little effort to complete the picture in our minds. Slowly but surely, our hearts were pumping with anticipation.

When we arrived at Eastgate, we divided up the tasks: Des and I would take care of preparing dinner. The rest of the group was swallowed up by the shady front garden with shovels, hoes, and pitchforks. I made soup from the nettles picked by Erika. The dandelion leaves harvested by Louise L. in the garden became salad. The gardeners ate quickly to tidy up the flower beds before nightfall.

On the windy roof of the villa, a group wrapped in blankets and plaids took their seats to watch the annual Victoria Day fireworks. They gazed toward Forks, scanning the sky for the first rocket. Opposite the villa, on the other side of the river, were two apartment buildings some distance apart. Centred precisely in the patch of sky visible between them, the first rocket crept upwards into the dark blue and exploded in the perfect presence of this urban passe-partout.


Monday, May 22. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

Canada celebrated Victoria Day, the British version of our Queen's Birthday. It meant an extra day off in all Commonwealth countries. That's why Canadians, who are not particularly royalist, conveniently call V-Day a 'long weekend.' I was writing today. With a spadeful of letters, I fixed the leak on this rainy day.


Tuesday, May 23. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

Today, we planned a visit to a gallery in Grand Forks (U.S.A.). With the imminent border crossing in mind, I shaved. Upstairs, it turned out that the plan had changed: Erika changed her mind. We postponed our trip until tomorrow, Wednesday. I used this Tuesday to introduce myself to the residents of my lodgings through culinary means. I tried to estimate the number of mouths to feed. With an extra shopping bag, I went hunting. I planned a Turkish dinner.

The Dino's Foodstore that Erika recommended to me turned out not to be on Ellice Avenue. I walked most of the length of the street on both sides. No sign of Dino's. I thought a phone book could help me out. Looking for a phone booth, I approached the point where Portage Avenue and Main Street meet. I ended up in the trap of a street corner and let myself be carried away into the underground passageway that connected the sides of Lombard Square. The phone booths I passed were all in use: I tried my luck on the east side. The signage was terrible, but I seemed to be the only one who was lost: orientation is apparently a matter of experience. None of the exits took me where I wanted to go. I washed up on the wrong shores: in bank buildings, in pedestrian-unfriendly parking garages, and finally in the godforsaken shopping mall where I took my first escalator. Risking my life, I crossed the swirling roundabout at street level. On Lombard Avenue, I found a booth with a book. The pages were still damp from yesterday's rain. The keyword was ‘DINO’. I searched, but couldn't find it. The yellow pages offered help. There was a Dino's Foodstore at 460 Notre Dame Avenue. It turned out to be a toko with a selection of Indian spices and fresh vegetables. Not exactly the place to buy ingredients for a Turkish dinner. I stocked up on cumin, coriander, and pepperoni.

The next destination was the Forks Market, located behind Winnipeg Central Station. I saved myself the trouble of a second crossing under Lombard Square and made a detour. At the corner of Broadway and Main, I made a neat U-turn. I also took a detour through the station to get information about the train connections to New York. Inside, I encountered no living soul, no brochures, no timetable, nothing. The ticket offices were: ‘Sorry, We 're closed’.

The frumpy exterior of the Forks Market housed a useful collection of delicatess shops, fruit- and vegetable stalls, and gift shops. This structure was yet another manifestation of the concept found in Winnipeg's most recent architecture, namely, that everything was inward-looking. The harsh winters made this introversion understandable, but it didn't make the streetscape any more attractive. This is where I found most of what I need.

On the way back, I bought what was still missing from the shops along the route. Increasingly out of balance and with an ever-growing number of plastic bags, I approached the kitchen. The meal consisted of red lentil soup, grape leaves and pastries, black olives with feta cheese, green salad, and almond rice. The gorging was drowned out by the recording of Turkish ballads for voice and oud. Afterwards, Greg confided in me that he felt like he gained five kilos. We relaxed by the fireplace.


Wednesday, May 24. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

Today we would be heading to Grand Forks (U.S.A.). I took a shower so as not to arouse suspicion at border control. When I got upstairs, I found out that the trip had been cancelled again. That was fine to me, because I still had a lot of unfinished paperwork to do. Louise L. informed me that, due to unforeseen setbacks, the renovation of the Guest House would probably take until Sunday, June 5. I called Riemke to gauge the reaction to this new revelation. No commotion. I retreated to the basement and wrote to parents and acquaintances.

Although Zona's birthday was not until May 30, we celebrated her fourth birthday today in advance. The floorboards creaked under the galloping children's feet. Zona had made herself extra beautiful and was about to descend the stairs to the backyard majestically. First, she blew out the candles on her cake. A shutter clicked. The “Happy Birthday” song embarrassed her. Shane covered the children's bike with training wheels faster than a child's eye could see.

On the table, the cake, prepared according to the birthday girl's precise instructions, was cut: chocolate brown with cream white and sugar pink in between. Especially a lot of pink on top. A chocolate and lemonade moustache began to appear on the upper lips of the curious. The children moved to the center of the garden where the presents were piled up. One of the packages contained a bright red baseball glove enclosing a white baseball. Zona put it behind her in the grass: a brightly colored oyster in the green. Books and roller skates followed. After Zona unwrapped her bike, Shane pushed her around the garden. In the backyard, two young willow trees were solemnly planted: one for Zona and one for Willy.

Across the street, Jim drove his electric wheelchair over the ramp that Shane had hastily built and joined the party. More and more adults picked up a drum or other percussion instrument. Jim talked about polio, his theology studies, and his knowledge of the Native American languages Cree and Ojibway. Someone pressed a lit sparkler into our hands and, as living fixtures, we contributed to the festivities of the day. The drum band had long gone home when the first silence fell. Erika made a final inspection round through the garden, looking for bottles, glasses, and plates. The burnt-out sparkler in Jim's hand flickered. The unnoticed encroaching cold drove us apart, out of the garden, into the houses. Downstairs, I put addresses and stamps on the next ten postcards, because tomorrow there would be no time, tomorrow the group from Rotterdam would arrive.


Thursday, May 25. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

At 6 p.m., the mid-career artists from Rotterdam would arrive at Winnipeg Airport. Before that, there were still a number of things on the agenda. At 9:30 a.m., there would be a briefing for the interns at Eastgate. The interns would assist the artists in finding materials and help them carry out their work. Louis Ogemah was the first. He sank into one of the upholstered armchairs in the front room. Kevin Waugh, Lori Weidenhammer, Jean LeMaître, and Diana Hart followed. Spread out on the burgundy carpet were e range of catalogs that provided information about the participating guest artists and their working methods. Everyone introduced themselves and listed their skills. They were people from the cultural sector with experience in a variety of fields: theater, installation, sculpture, literature, publicity, graphic design. We would be served at our beck and call. Gilles Hébert was late. He apologized and opened his bag. He was sure that the presentation of the still warm Bounce flyer would be sufficient to restore his credibility. When the meeting was closed, Daniel Phillipot, Gilles's right-hand man, entered. He added his expertise to the impressive range of services. In the office on the first floor, I designed fifty name tags on Louise L.'s Powerbook for the Canadians involved and the Dutch who were flying in. This would ensure that the initial introductions would go smoothly. Outside, Louise L. honked her horn. We had some shopping to do for tonight's party and for tomorrow's picnic.

The first thing the customer notices in the supermarket is a shelves with an impressive range of vitamin and mineral supplements. If one has managed to pass by without scurvy or mouth ulcers, the customer is tempted by fruit and vegetables beckoning from a bed of crepe. The darlings are regularly sprinkled with dew by a concealed sprinkler system. Here, the triple-spun overkill of consumer goods is expressed in acres.

I was tempted to leave the empty cart behind and exit the theater through the emergency exit. Louise had already passed this stage; she started loading. Almost ashamed, I pushed the queen-size shopping cart into position at the checkout. After the confirming beep, the cashier loaded the purchases into a phenomenal number of plastic bags. In the liquor store right across, we stocked up on Canadian beer and Canadian wine.

While Erika and I got ready for the welcome ceremony at the airport, Louise prepared for her television interview with Henk van Lith on the program 'Holland Calling.' A large group had gathered in the arrivals hall of Winnipeg Airport. Everything under the watchful eye of the CBC News cameras. Robert Enright, reporter for CBC-TV and editor of the art magazine ‘Border Crossings’, gauged the enthusiasm among those present for an interview. Aganetha Dyck arrived. Bill Eakin was there, Wanda Koop, Elvira Koop, Christine Singh, Gilles Hébert, Kathy Koop, and Bruce Spielman. We all shared the excitement that preceded the arrival of a group of long-awaited acquaintances.

Marianne, Jeannette, and Rop were greeted first. The fatigue of the journey was evident on their faces. Robert joined the attendees with his cameraman and took a few newcomers aside for interviews. The camera rolled as we left the hall. The group was divided over the cars and dropped off at their various lodgings for a quick refreshment. Gathered in the backyard of Villa Eastgate, the crowd attacked the food and drink supplies intended for tomorrow.

Now that the Rotterdam crew was tucked up for the night, I headed out with Kristina and Louise L. to the Junk Yard Club to hear Blown Sunshine play. John Shustik was doing the lighting. In the twilight before the show, I briefly met ‘Downtown Walter’, who had gathered all the furniture for the Guest House. Briefly, because he was currently busy chasing after the girls.


Friday, May 26. Winnipeg, Eastgate basement.

After midnight, Louise L. and I started preparing the salad for today's picnic.


Friday, May 26. Winnipeg, Eastgate basement.

I got up at 8:30 a.m. and continued preparing the salad. I bought another jar of mayonnaise at Helen Grocery on Langside. We placed the salads in the cooler, because it started to get hot outside.

We had to leave the lawn in front of the ruins in a hurry: a scene from the matinee of Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream had the oldest rights to it. Everyone feasted on the nectar and ambrosia we brought with us. Sunblock was slathered on bare skin. An employee of the play asked us if we could be a little less noisy. Sitting in a circle, the interns and artists introduced themselves to each other.

We took a tour of the grounds. We followed the river. In the tall grass, Louise introduced us to the stinging nettle, poison ivy, and the tick. Via a stone staircase, we descended into the open, former basement of the Trappist monastery. The extreme climate, with temperature differences of eighty degrees Celsius, caused the limestone to flake and the mortar to crack. When most of the construction workers had left the Guest House work site, contractor Rick gave permission to view the building. The second and third floors were almost finished. The heating had been installed and the kitchen was largely in place. On the first floor, we stumbled over the overtime workers. Construction work would continue this weekend.

Dinner was to be provided by the ‘HungerHüt’, an illegal restaurant in an apartment somewhere in the city center. The one-room apartment had completely been made available to the hungry crowds. There were two menus to choose from. The one-person service was very personal. In the small kitchen, through which we entered the ‘Hüt’, the single cook prepared the ordered meals one by one on a standard stove. The open back balcony door served as extractor hood for the heavily smoking barbecue. It was intimate and exclusive, but the meals took a very long time to arrive. We were expected at the welcoming reception in Villa Eastgate. For one of the guests, the name of the restaurant left a very bitter aftertaste: Louis Ogemah had to leave the establishment on an empty stomach to keep an appointment.

Those who had finished their meal were taken to the welcome party. It became a well-attended party. There were a lot of new faces, and the new faces agreed. The ‘Red Dog’ alt beer gradually imposed restrictions on the verbal range of action. The day was closed by theology student John, who was in a state of extreme Holy Unction. His argument about the Trinity got bogged down in fierce nodding. Very late, I blew out the candle and fell asleep.


Saturday, May 27. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

Saturday baking day. Upstairs, Shane let the muffins bake for five more minutes. Louise kneaded an impressive bread doughs stock for our stay at her parents' summer house in Ontario. Inspired by the omnipresent diligence, I made a shopping list consisting of keywords. This alone covered the entire 5“ x  9” sheet of my notebook. I packed my weekend bag and reported upstairs. Erika and Ludo were ready to leave for Niagara Falls. I said goodbye to them before I left. Before we took off for Ontario, I wanted to copy an article about signal flags from the library. The Rotterdam residents were going to visit a garage sale, a kind of flea market. They offered me a lift to the library. In Spencestreet, we would first pick up Ellen and Olaf. We pulled over behind Ludo and Erika's Volkswagen camper. Bill was just saying goodbye to Wanda and was about to get in the car. I got out, said goodbye to Bill, and decided to walk the rest of the way to the library.

Fifteen minutes later than agreed, I met the others in the parking lot of the Safeway supermarket. I discovered that I had forgotten the shopping list I made this morning. Jeannette made a new one and we shopped associatively inside. The stability of the shopping cart decreased disproportionately with the amount of items. The volume of today's groceries easily exceeded that of yesterday 's. We transfered the goods to cardboard boxes that were easier to stack and took them to the bus.

The luggage in both cars was piled up so high that it obstructed the view through the rear window for both driver Louise L. and Louis Ogemah. It was a three-hour drive to Kenora. We merged onto Highway No. 1. A blue sign along the side of the road indicated that we had just passed the longitudinal center of Canada. The flat landscape slowly gave way to rockier, more rugged terrain. Maik needed to pee. We headed into an undiscovered state: 'Yours to discover' is the motto on Ontario's license plates. When we took the Kenora exit, a fox came running towards us on the hard shoulder. The roads were getting worse. The road dipped and rose, the bus bounced. Swamps alternated with forests. The route felt like a ride in a roller coaster. Sometimes, when the road surface became washboard, the vibrations in the car threatened to rattle the enamel off our teeth. We crossed a watershed with a portage, a cable car to transfer boats. In a clearing by a bay, we parked the cars and loaded the luggage into Louise L.‘s parents’ motorboat. The group was taken to the cabin in two shifts.

The Mercury outboard motor wouldn't start. On the first floor of a nearby house, a window was opened. A man gave loud instructions, the meaning of which was lost in the labor of the starter motor. It was Bruce, Make-A-Buck-Bruce, the uncrowned supervisor of Lake of the Woods. When the smoke from the started engine had cleared, Maik, Marieke, Louise L., the toddlers Lola and Zona, the dog Bucky, myself, and some of the luggage were the first to be transferred. Canoeists positioned their craft across the waves we were making. In the distance, half hidden in the forest, lay the cabin. The Colosseum of Loewen.

We moored and climbed the path that lead to the cabin. We passed a barracks that served as accommodation for the construction workers when the cabin was still under construction. The cabin exceeded our wildest expectations. The high interior space allowed all spirits present to unfold undisturbed. The equipment easily matched what was available to us in Winnipeg. Louise L. designed the building, which was constructed almost entirely of cedar wood. It consisted of a spacious central nave with a mezzanine floor. A tree that used to stand there protruded through the floor of the attached mosquito-proof veranda and opened its crown above the balcony. In the center of the hut four locally felled tree trunks supported the roof. Bucky is at home here. She took me for a walk, disappeared rustling into the bushes to reappear with a deer skull in her mouth. At dusk, I settled into my bivouac bag next to the cabin on soft ground. A nylon stocking with camphor balls to ward off bears hung from the cedar tree I was leaning against.


Sunday, May 28. Lake of the Woods.

Every now and then, Bucky poked her snout into the opening of my sleeping bag to see if I'm awake yet. I had originally planned to watch the sunrise, but, still half asleep, I preferered the sweet pre-dawn behind my closed eyelids. The cabin bustled with activity. Louis Ogemah was one of the few Canadians who managed make good coffee. In the grill, a pan of ‘Big Dutch Babies’ was baking: bread dough with egg, cheese, and onions.

I decided to explore the island with Louis and the dog. Louis is originally Ojibway. He is more at home in nature than I am, even though he is, as he calls himself, a city boy. He pointed to a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower with transparent wing beats. He recognized the drumming sound of mating partridges. He demonstrated it by beating his chest. The first clearly distinguishable path became less and less clear. Sometimes we followed a difficult-to-navigate game trail. Sometimes we stood still to speculated about the right path to follow through the undergrowth. Twice, the forest forced us to take a breather: on a cleared plot, Lot 15, we decided to take a short break. We ate fruit and seeds on the jetty of a hut under construction. A passing speedboat noticed us, slowed down, and headed towards us. A man on the starboard side asked who we were, what we were doing on the jetty, why we exist. He was entitled to an honest answer. In this area, fortunes could be made and lost. What the native Canadian or the Dutchman failed to do, was achieved by the dog: the man recognized Bucky and concluded that we were good people. He turned around, greeted, and continued on his way: Bruce. Riemke, Jeannette, and Lori paddled around the corner and came alongside with their canoe. The patrol boat stopped for the second time. Bruce felt obliged to inform us on the port side about the risk of our break: if the owner of the plot found us on his jetty, he might well shoot at us.

On the way back, Louis patted the birch trees. He was looking for birch bark for the installation he was currently working on. One of the components was a photo album with pages made of birch bark. He had just shown me the partly yellowed family pictures on the jetty. He found a suitable tree. I handed him my opened pocket knife. Before starting to remove the bark, he took a pinch of tobacco from a bag. He paused for a moment with the tobacco in his right hand and placed the tobacco at the foot of the tree. This was to compensate the spirit of this tree for the loss of part of its bark. He made a vertical cut in the tree bark, and cut again, deeper this time. When he cut through the third layer, the bark sprung open, detaching itself from the trunk. With horizontal cuts all around, he divided the bark into strips and peeled them off the trunk. We followed a deer trail. Louis found one of the branches of a deer antler. We combed the area to find the second one, but got stuck in the undergrowth. We found the spot where Bucky found her skull: a few square meters of forest floor covered with deer hair. Except for the hip bone, we found no other evidence of the prey.

Maik pushed the swing on which Lola sat. Lola showed that she could also swing standing upright. In the cabin, Louise finished baking cookies and Zona has had a baby. Very carefully, she lifted the blanket to show what was still in her belly this morning.

When I wrote in my diary on the canoe dock, a looney was fishing in the distance: black head and plumage like a test image. Every time the bird surfaced, it turned its head in my direction. Water beaded along its feathers. I took my binoculars. I had to look beyond the limited field of vision to see where it had surfaced. The intervals between diving and surfacing became longer and longer, until I lost sight of the bird/the bird has lost sight of me. The low sun caught dragonflies and mosquitoes, which danced if they had not touched down to feast on my bare arms.

After dinner, Louis made a campfire. Above us, the sky opened up. Mercury kicked things off. Blinded by the flames, the appearances of dimmer stars could not be observed. However, I trusted that all the planets would be present that night. Holes appeared in the bark of the burning wood, allowing smoke to escape, like little chimneys. Large forest ants took flight, left their smoking stoves behind. Stories of personal experiences with the supernatural combined perfectly with the plaintive cries of the looneys. The brightly lit front of the hut hung like a lantern between the trees and lit our way to bed.


Monday, May 29. Lake of the Woods.

We wanted to visit an abandoned gold mine on Sultana Island in two groups, but needed to make a detour to Kenora to refuel first. Louise L. called her parents to ask where the gas station was located. Riemke, Jeannette, Rop, Louise, Bucky, were the first group designated to set foot on this historic ground. I pushed off the boat for what turned out to be a false start: the engine sputtered on what must have been the last of the gas and died. One mere gallon was the fuel ration we had to make do with to get to Kenora. We chose the northwesterly course and skimmed across the lake. Sitting on the foredeck, with nothing in front of me to obstruct my view, I felt like flying. Far below my dangling feet, the water was cut. To the right, a floating pelican rose and spread its wings. It took off with a splash against the yielding runway. The touchdown was increasingly elegant. Pay attention to the perfect fingering after takeoff. At a recommended speed of two kilometers per hour, we entered the harbor of the Marina company. The young pump attendant with the hands of an old man filled the tank and the jerry can. Bucky took a sip of harbor. Coffee was drunk on top of a fence.

We turned onto the lake. An eagle circled above one of the islands. One strait further on was Sultana Island. We followed the shore and sailed into bay after bay in search of signs of abandoned mining. On the sandy beach of the right bay, we ran the boat aground. Pink ribbons around the tree trunk marked a path. We followed it until the markings ended. No matter how strong our will, the path leading to the cave with a black door, which would give us access to one of the mine shafts, remained untraceable. We wandered around, closely observed by an eagle circling above our heads. We abandoned the search and returned to our landing place. We chose the trail leading in the opposite direction. A sign saying ‘Keep out, Danger’ warned us about the terrain beyond. We climbed over the barbed wire fence and found one of the entrances to the mine. The passageway that led into the mine was flooded. Twisted, intertwined ends of steel rails protruded upwards from the shaft. We baked a little in the warm sand. We swam in water that had not yet shaken off the memory of the land ice. The rest of the day was too short for a second excursion.


Tuesday, May 30. Lake of the Woods.

At 6:15 a.m., Louise L. woke me up for one last canoe trip. We had breakfast on board. Zona sat on a blanket in the middle of the canoe. She sang, “Rock the boat...” and rocked back and forth. Her shrill voice echoed across the silent water. “Merry, merry, merry, merry, life is but a dream.” At the front, Louise urged silence. I copied her. Zona turned in the direction I pointed out and looked past Louise's back in the direction of travel. We approached a group of pelicans in conclave. When we got too close, they flew away one by one as if they were connected by strings. They veered to the left, flapped their wings and came back in a line as straight as a ruler. When the front pelican broke formation, the rest reacted slowly, following reluctantly. A new landing spot was sought, but pelicans are picky. The front bird touched the water, changed its mind, rose and pulled the birds, repeating its movements, up behind it three times. Oh, wonderful sinusoid.

The hut residents had awakened. Louis said he found signs that might indicate that the area around the canoe dock was sacred ground. The presence of oak trees on the headland could be an indication of this. Oak trees do not occur naturally in this region. The fact that we found them at ‘Cape Canoe’ could be explained by the presence of a burial ground there. The native Canadians buried their dead with all their possessions. Acorns or other seeds were often used as offerings during the funeral ceremony. Acorns that had now grown into oak trees. Louise said she had already suspected this before she designed the hut: while swimming in the bay, she had often heard the voices of spirits. During the design phase, she was aware of the special status of this place. She bakes Belgian waffles.

The luggage of those returning home and surplus food were carried down the hill and placed on the jetty. Before we left, I took another look at ‘Cape Canoe’. It will never be the same as I was before Louis' story. I located the oak trees. I estimated them to be thirty years old, but because the winters here are so much harsher and longer, they might have been older. Cape Canoe was an excellent location to say goodbye and set sail. Louis ferried us to the car park. He followed us to Kenora. He had to do some shopping and wanted to visit his family. Tonight he would join the islanders who stayed behind. In the breathtaking heat, we drove back to Winnipeg. “Have Breakfast all Day at our Waterfall” advertised the Pinewood restaurant. The waterfall turned out to be turned off. The thermometer at the gas station paused briefly at 34 degrees Celsius. Two dogs attacked Bucky.



Wednesday, May 31. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

With Andrea and Greg Wednesday, May 31. Winnipeg, Eastgate.

I drove with Andrea and Greg to attend the 116th Spring Convocation, the first of three annual graduation ceremonies at the University of Manitoba. Greg was graduating with a gold medal in landscape architecture. The Max Bell Centre sports hall was filled with guests. Andrea and I were guided to reserved seats by a hostess. I took the seat that was intended for Greg's mother. She was too ill to attend. We waited for the professors and students. Outside, the sun began its assault on the walls of the hall. Somewhere out of sight, an organ started playing improvisations that beat around the bush. I felt like sitting in the nave of a packed church that was sinking. I took a deep breath. The organ tones were the result of the airflow passing over the lips in the organ pipes, causing them to vibrate. Someone spoke from within the windchest, sounding like an endless sigh.

Dressed in colorful gowns, the professors took their places on the stage. Then the students entered the hall. The doctors of philosophy in front, behind them the masters, and at the back the bachelors. All were dressed in black gowns. They wore mortarboards, a garment best described as a black square side table top balanced on the head, with a black tassel hanging from it. The most serious doctoral students wore their table tops in an impeccable horizontal position. I believed I could gauge the degree to which the wearer was prepared to relativize the seriousness of this ritual by the angle of tilt. A first-year student with a platinum soprano voice sung the national anthem, “O Canada.” The organist struggled to keep up with her, slowing down her presto. The head of the university, the chancellor, welcomed the gathering. He awarded degrees to professors for proven services. One of them delivered a speech about scarcity, budget deficits, and unemployment. He expressed the hope that the generation now graduating would have the inventiveness to reverse the downward spiral in time.

The students addressed lined up in front of the stage. They came from all directions. One by one, they climbed onto the stage and handed the cards, on which their names were spelled phonetically, to a man. He recited the formula on the cards into the microphone. The called student shook hands with a row of gentlemen, starting with the seated chancellor. One of them forgot to hand over his card. Radiant with happiness, he turned to the audience. His gaze wandered over the crowd, searching for family members. He became aware of his procedural error when the man at the microphone tapped him on the shoulder. An army of videocameras must have captured it all. On a counter in the hall was a stack of order forms for those who wanted to relive the Odyssey on their home screens. At the end of the line, the student was handed over the parchment by his teacher. Sometimes, after a name had been read, there was a faint applause. A modest show of admiration from a proud family. The crowd applauded collectively when the candidate was awarded a gold medal or another high distinction. Greg was sitting fairly close to the front, so it would soon be his turn. After two hours, more than a thousand students received their diplomas. The organ played the intro to ‘God Save the Queen’. Some joined in. In the back left corner a roller shutter was lifted. The convection currents caused the banners hanging from the ceiling to move.

We left the cool gym and waded through the swirling hot outside air into the daylight. Outside, people were being cooked. In line with Andrea, I combed the grounds, looking for Master Greg. I can't estimate how many photos and videos we had appeared in, but with every step we took, we stepped into the frame of another buzzing, clicking, or flashing camera. We found Greg, as Andrea had predicted, at the buffet in the party tent. Greg led us to the hall of his faculty building and showed us the presentation of his project. In Andrea's roasted Mustang, the worn seat upholstery threatened to transcend to a higher state of aggregation. The engine responded sputteringly to the commands of the accelerator pedal. I got dropped off at Eastgate. I set up the computer I' borrowed in my bedroom and installed the software. I baked my story in the Microsoft Word oven. I build a dike of words to ensure that nothing from these days leaks away.

AFTERMATH JOURNAL

Thursday, June 29; Saint Norbert.

Last night, the first knucklehead tried out the hammock in the lifeboat. His body left a dent in the net. But I did not intend my lifeboat to be a parking for the human body. I fear that the construction is not designed to withstand such a load. With the summer holidays approaching and the associated increased risk of vandalism, bets were being placed on the lifespan of my work. K. guessed: one week? S. was more cautious: two weeks. Who offers more? To be on the safe side, I took pictures of the installation, when it was still intact.

Louise L., Zona, Maik, Lola, and I left for a final visit to Loewen's cabin at Lake of the Woods. It was drizzling in Manitoba; in Ontario, it poured.

Rainwater had collected in the hollow of the motorboat's foredeck tarpaulin. Pushing the canvas up from below, we worked the puddle overboard. During the crossing, the cover above the children's heads remained closed. Helmswoman Louise steered the ferry with a steady hand across the unruly lake. Because we couldn't find the windshield wiper switch, the middle of the three front windows had to remain open. Louise L. regularly wiped the splashed water from her glasses. The wind blew the boat, with its engine switched off too early, automatically to the jetty. How different it was to return here. While Maik cooked and Louise baked, I sat at the windless table and took stock of my adventure so far. At dinner, Lola blew dimples in her hot soup.


Sunday, July 16; Schiphol train station.

I had to dig deep into my belongings to find my discount card. The ruminating ticket clerk did not understand my desired destination. I didn't understand what she was saying on her side of the glass, but I deduced the gist from her gestures. I repeated my destination. I carefully tried to suppress my Leiden 'R’, which had revived in Canada. The Rotterdam ‘R’ rolled off my tongue. The trade was successful. The hatch turned for me to take out my ticket and change. In the moving frame of the train window, the following items appeared alternately: lying, ruminating cattle and apartment balconies with rows of parasols.


Friday, June 30; Lake of the Woods.

The mouse that ate from the bowl of shelled peanuts kept Maik awake. It was probably the same animal that bit Rop in the leg here a month ago. None of that mattered to me. I was in my decompression period. After a stay at great depth, I slowly returned to the surface of existence. The rain didn't stop me from going for a walk. In the shed by the jetty, I found a yellow crackled raincoat. I took it and ventured into the forest. The path was no longer the path I walked a month ago. The leaves that brushed against my clothes were wet. The pushed-aside bushes closed again. The density behind me drove me onward, toward the open space. The bay had become a sheltered front garden. Beneath the water's surface, glowing green foliage loomed from the depths. Further away in the stormy open space, groups of looneys bobbed up and down.


Wednesday, June 21; Holland, Manitoba.

It took a while before we find the monastery. It was located outside the village center. According to old custom, a Trappist monastery must always be located near a spring or a river. Since there was no river to be found in the wide surroundings, there must be a spring somewhere. We left the cars in the spacious parking lot. A monk sitting on a tractor with a large spraying device drove onto the grounds: the order was forced to run the farm with modern equipment. A sprinkler system had been installed at the edges of the lush lawns. Flags at regular intervals indicated the location of the sprinklers for the lawn mower. But the monks still adhered to the precepts of Strict Observance, which prescribed seclusion, austerity, total abstinence from meat and a life of manual labor. Watched by the children, squirrels scurried about noisily in the pine forest. The mesh door of the cheese factory opened, and Brother John spoke to Louise. He recognized Zona from a previous visit and pinched her cheek. Smiling, he surveyed the group of pilgrims and gave them permission to enter the monastery courtyard. Here too, the order had a Guest House, a house built for hospitality, and here too, renovations were underway.

We took a moment to sit in the blue-green coolness of the chapel. This building was constructed with materials brought from St. Norbert, where it once formed the cowshed. We were the first to take a seat in the pews to attend one of the seven daily services. A younger brother began the ceremony by ringing the bell. He wore work gloves. Another visitor joined us. He took a psalm book from the pile, opened it on the right page, and pressed it into Louise's hand. On the other side of the stone wall that separated the secular from the monastic life, seven monks took their places in the sea of space and silence. Most of them wore brown habits. The modestly sized organ took the lead. The monks sang in chorus and counter-chorus. Next to me, Ludo softly chanted along.

The interior of the church was tasteful but simple. The emphasis was on natural materials: wood and sandstone. Almost everything here had a cross shape: the pews, the windows, the roof truss and the hearts of the faithful. The crucifix above the altar was represented by the space between four mirror-like surfaces arranged in a square. A thoughtful combination of vanitas and rearview mirror. The celebration followed a schedule of a dignified age. Even though outside time seeps in here, the book of hours remained a beacon in the surf. Unfortunately, we were unable to meet the monks after the ceremony. The service was followed by a period of silence. I would have to buy the cheese I wanted elsewhere.


Saturday, July 8; Winnipeg.

Erika drove me to Winnipeg Central Station. After dropping off my checked luggage at the depot, I took the underpass of the railroad tracks to buy some food. At the Forks Market, I bought sandwiches and a kilo of Trappist Cheese, made by the monks in Holland, Manitoba. 1:35 p.m. After the ticket check, I joined the backpackers and sport fishermen in the station's departure hall. Families with children were the first to board. The heavily laden solo travellers brought up the rear. The train was far from full. Plenty of room to stretch out and spend the night. The train left the empty station to pick up a few more passengers in platform-less Transcona a little later. Outside: lying cattle, as docile as Neil Young's latest on the Walkman. We were constantly being shunted aside to let endless freight trains pass. Wagonloads of grain, cars, pipelines, heavy equipment, and chemicals. Through the narrow gaps between the cars, I could see forest, wood, and trees: Sioux Lookout. The late sunlight skimmed across the treetops. A moose stood frozen in a shallow puddle.

I reached the dining car via three connecting wagons. I looked for a seat under the glass dome of the carriage, offering a panoramic view of the landscape: the setting sun was spectacular. I had to leave my high seat because the tobacco smoke, produced in this only smoking compartment, thickened at the level of my head and took my breath away. I returned to my seat, walking back in the direction of travel, overtaking the train from the inside over that certain distance. To please the child in the seat in front of me, I called the moon a magic ball in a sugar-sweet sky. A little later, I fell into a restless sleep. The train window was cold and my sweater out of reach.


Monday, July 31; Ettingshausen, Germany.

The cows were lying down when I came to milk them. Cleo's neck looked like a lunar landscape. Her skin was covered with numerous bumps, topped with raw, bloody skin. Hornets buzzed around her head. I took the bottle of Franzosen-öl (Oleum Animalis Crudum) from the medicine cabinet and poured the contents over her monumental back and the parts of her body she could not reach with her head or tail. The stuff smelled awful. I felt like I was tarring a cow, but it worked: fewer and fewer flying pests landed on her ravaged body. Cow Jersey had sensed danger and, unwisely, ran off into the pasture.


Sunday, July 9; Hornepayne.

We were one time zone ahead. Here the clock was set forward one hour: 5:00 a.m. The sun rose in Hornepayne. Once again, we were on a side track. The diesel locomotive was refueled, the engineer replaced. Between Hornepayne and Sudbury Junction, many anglers disembarked. With their fishing rods and weekend bags, they were swallowed up by the twilight of the coniferous forest. At 9:00 p.m., we arrived in Toronto. At the Strathcona Hotel, ‘The House That Hospitality Built’, I rented room 405. I turned on the television. ‘The Falls’, a documentary about Niagara Falls, was just being announced. First, I took the shower I had planned. I stepped under the soothing stream of water. Vapor filled the room. Niagara filled the entire screen in the adjoining room. When I turned off the bathroom faucets, I heard a loud noise coming from the TV: the falls had stopped falling, snow was swirling across the screen. The remote control no longer worked to change the channel.


Thursday, July 13; New York City.

The treacherous similarity in sound between fifty-fourth and forty-fifth on the one hand, and the considerable distance separating the streets with those names on the other, was the reason I almost missed the screening of ‘Apollo 13’ at the Ziegfeld Theatre. Last night I sat with Paul van Soest and Sylvia Tuankotta in the Apollo Theater enjoying the talent on Amateur Night, now I was on my way to a cinema seat to attend the next event. Ron Rocco was saving two seats in the third row for Zuzu Estabrook and me. Zuzu was standing in line for tea in the foyer. Thank God for the air conditioning, without which this screening would have been a hellish experience. In the brief darkness before the film started, we made our way to our seats. An overview of the projection screen was only possible with the atlas tilted to the max. The speakers were very close: the soundtrack could be perceived in two ways: audibly and tangibly. It makes an unforgettable impression when a Saturn V three-stage rocket leaves the launch platform right next to your seat. Fortunately, I had postponed to have my ears sprayed out.

Tom Hanks again, this time as an astronaut. The film followed the tried and tested Hollywood formula. The images reminded me of the hours I spent in front of the television during the most spectacular NASA adventures. I could still clearly remember the stages of the flight depicted here: the explosion in the oxygen tank of the service module, the evacuation from the command ship ‘Odyssey’, the anxious time in the lunar module ‘Aquarius’, which served as a lifeboat, and finally: the safe return home.

I believe the film affected me less than the memories it brought back. During the credits, part of the audience rose to give a standing ovation. A logical consequence of, but a naive reaction to the stereotypical American interweaving of ambition, camaraderie and heroism presented in the film. Still, I was moved.


Thursday, July 27; Frankfurt am Main.

While Ludo visited the art exhibition, I took Ludo's children, Sara, Lotte, and Nienke, to the Senckenberg Museum. We passed the giant jaws of the rising Tyrannosaurus unscathed and were not crushed under the giant chest and leg plates of the Stegosaurus. After the ‘Dinosaur Hall’, we turned right to find ourselves in Room 13: ‘Fossilfunde des Menschen’ (Human Fossil Finds). We stand in front of Display Case 15, in which bones were suspended on wires, forming a battered marionette. We were looking at a replica of ‘Lucy’. It is the oldest, almost complete skeleton of a fossil human: the Australopithecus afarensis. It was discovered in 1974 by a French-American expedition in an approximately 3 million-year-old layer of earth in Ethiopia.

Against the back wall of the display case was an even more remarkable object. It was a photograph of the 3.7 million-year-old footprints of two early humans found at Laetoli in Tanzania in the now fossilized volcanic ash. Judging by the arrangement of the footprints, they must have walked side by side. It provided scientific proof that our ancestors already walked upright 3 to 4 million years ago. This image is as breathtaking, revolutionary and timeless as the photo of the first footprint Neil Armstrong left 26 years and 6 days ago on the surface of Mare Tranquilitatis on the front side of the moon. After that, I waded tipsily past the display cases with their neatly arranged and neatly displayed earthlings. For me, this reconstructed Noah's Ark had lost its buoyancy. On the second floor of the museum, we had a drink in the shabby restaurant. On the way out, we decided to take one last look at the panda bear, via the ostrich egg, because Lotte, Sara, and Nienke all agreed that it was their favorite animal.


Saturday, July 15. Brooklyn, N.Y.C.

The backyard of the house on Sackett Street was an oasis of tranquility. I played the Water Game with Ron and Zuzu's one-year-old daughter Madeline. For this we needed: a filled children's paddling pool (check), a toddler (check), an adult (check), a set of plastic flower pots of different shapes and sizes (check) and good weather (check).

We started dry. We first practiced stacking and fitting the pots together. Then we held the conical pots with perforated bottoms before our eyes, like a peepbox. We didn't shy away from an experiment in which a pot served as a hat. At the garden table, we tried to catch a giant ant, which was tugging at the remains of last night's dinner. When the edge of the pot got too close, it let go of the green bean and rose up on its hind legs. With its front legs flailing, it tried to instill fear in us. We gave it a helping hand. We dragged the bean to the crack in the concrete through which other ants were hastily disappearing. To catch the subway? Then Madeline went into the water, still clumsy, falling backwards into the shallow pool. Gasping and with her eyes closed, she surfaced. Now the water games could really begin. We filled the pots with water and held them high. Each pot leaked differently. Each had its own waterfall pattern. When we got tired of one, we took one of the others. There was a ‘shower head’, a ‘column’, a ‘dice five’, a ‘hollow cylinder’, and there were ‘mess pots’. The two hours of scooping and leaking flew by.

At noon, Ron, Zuzu, and Madeline were picked up by a taxi. They were flying to the other end of this continent for vacation: Seattle. In Victoria, they would meet Riemke, Henk, and Niel to continue their vacation together.

I wanted to get out. I crossed Brooklyn Bridge on foot once again. The hardwood crossbeams of the walkway served as a xylophone under my ‘vagabond shoes’. It was 4:09 a.m., 100 F, or 38 C. Through the cracks between the wood, I saw the rippling East River stretching out below me. Broadway was dead quiet. The bad smell I was everywhere on the street. Only in the shops it seemed bearable, but I didn't want to shop.

At the corner of W. Houston and Broadway, a New York Fire Department vehicle blocked the sidewalk. Its ladder was extended to the balcony of a fifth-floor apartment. On it, a half-uniformed firefighter wielded a crowbar. It was unrealistically hot, empty, and quiet. The only sound was the creaking and squeaking of the door above, refusing to give way. I heard the doorframe splinter with a sigh. The firefighter disappeared into the apartment. The plane that appeared above the rooftops of the buildings broke the silence and with it the spell.

A Syrian taxi driver took me to Kennedy Airport. He played a cassette of folk music. I sank deeper than I had expected into the faux leather of his back seat. A blower rattled somewhere underneath the dashboard. All the door windows were open, but the wind did not offer any relief from the heat. If anything, the air flow seemed to warm up the sticky interior. The driver asked if his music bothered me. I shook my head. With his right hand, he changed the cassette for another one with an even more rousing rhythm. With his left hand, he manoeuvered his car into the slipstream of a passing ambulance. He accelerates in the wake of our roaring pacemaker. The Chevrolet's rear suspension had seen better days: when accelerating, the rear end shook violently like the arse of a galloping camel. The driver didn't seem to notice: he pressed the accelerator even deeper and passed the ambulance. Flying home.

When we reach our cruising altitude, I looked down at the cloud cover over New York. The storm inside it resembled a fluorescent light that doesn't want to start. Hopefully, it will bring the eagerly awaited relief below.