Maandelijks archief: april 2010

Marrying Noa

eka darville
“Can you write something special for your student X? She is getting married.”
It took me, “Sanne, the yoga teacher”, one day and a glass of wine to come up with a deep, moving piece on yoga, commitment, and marital bliss. My student would love it. And the universal message also made it a solid contribution to my weekly blog. With still 5 days to go before I had to post it, I spent my week catching up with housekeeping, indulged in decadent two hour yoga sessions, enjoyed sun, friends and the good life. It was the most relaxed blogger week ever.

Feedback from the wedding circle fuelled my excellent mood: “We love your contribution! Maybe you should write a column for Yoga magazine ;-)

It was official: Sanne Harteveld, the successful yoga teacher, was ready to expand her career to writing. Her heartwarming words would touch the souls of many.

“Over my dead body!” a voice in my head shrieked. Lauren Harteveld. The writer in me had no interest in supporting any marriages, or in becoming the new insipid blogger for some vanilla yoga site.
“But I want to inspire people on their path,” Sanne said.
Shanti shanti,” Lauren sneered sarcastically. “Get real! And you hate marriage.”
“Not so!” Sanne objected. “I would sacrifice my whole life for one man you know.”
“Yeaheah! Just to get in on those first years of steamy sex, “ Lauren stood her ground. “That’s not marriage. That’s cutting a deal.”

Sanne wanted a post on marriage.
Lauren wanted to promote her book by writing about Noa.

With one hour to their deadline, Sanne and Lauren sat down together. First they opened Lauren’s manuscript, and reread the chapters on Noa. They also checked his Hyves, and Googled for an actor whose picture they could use. Then they wrote something they both agreed on:

This is Eka Darville (see photo).
Eka is an actor, but not very famous.
He does not have Hyves.
Eka looks very much like Noa.
Noa is in my book.
Noa is a normal person but he has a 1000 friends on Hyves.
Noa and I saw each other twice.
Our hands wanted to touch each other all the time.
I would marry Noa, but not Eka because I never met him.
The end.

Noa :engagement: LS Harteveld is described in the enovel Dutch American Diary. (online next month)

Eka Darville plays Pietros in Spartacus – Blood and Sand episode 3,4, 6 and 7
LS Harteveld opened his social network sites
http://ekadarville.hyves.nl/
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=109332619090819&ref=nf
Let’s give Eka Darville a 1000 fans!!

Cougar Town

"Ashton Kutcher" "Demi Moore" "Cougar"Last year. It’s my first time in New York City. A taxi brings me from JFK to my hotel. Traffic already dense in the morning mist. Sightseeing buses making early stops at every corner of the street, with vehicle-long advertisements on the side:

C o u g a r T o w n. T h e S e x y N e w C o m e d y O n A B C.

Home. I was home.

I was in the city where the word Cougar went without explanation: A woman dating a man at least 7 years younger than she is.

For my 30+? birthday, a considerate friend gave me a book: Cougar. A guide for older women dating younger men by Valerie Gibson. I had just met Benjamin. He was young, bright, sunny, and open to new things in general, and new women in particular.
“You can come up if you like,” Benjamin one day invited me to his apartment. “My girlfriend is not home.” I declined through grinding teeth. A wise choice, as I later learned from Valerie Gibson’s book. Aside from the obvious fact that coming up with a man who is taken is not a smart thing to do, I also made the classic beginners mistake: I was in love with Benjamin and he knew it.

No matter what source you consult, from modern day Cougar guides to the ancient Greeks, they all stress the same thing: when it comes to dating young men, never let them know you love them. Or at least not before you “humble them and draw their sails,” as Socrates so eloquently put it. Winning the heart of a below 25, is a bit like house training a dog: it requires patience, discipline, and strategic timing.

No wonder I sucked at it.

At the sight of Benjamin my knees turned to Jell-o, my eyes forgot to blink, and the stutter of my mouth resembled the words ThankYouLord. If there was anyone severely humbled it was me. And I would testify to these emotions in the present tense, instead of the past tense, but Benjamin doesn’t like that I am still thinking about him. Pretending to be over him is the only favor he still accepts.

So with me flunking my Cougar exam, and several unsuccessful re-examinations later, what should a cougar behave like? Courtney Cox plays a fresh divorcee, who strategically keeps her heart out of the equation when dealing with her toy boy Josh.

C o u g a r T o w n. I e d e r e d i n s d a g 2 1.0 0 o p N E T 5.

Socrates would have been proud of her.

Cougar Town starts, Tuesday March 23 th, 21.05 at Net 5 (Netherlands)
Dutch American Diary, the story of Benjamin (u) LS Harteveld is on this site. Available for free for a limited time.

Dichter

geschreven maart 2007,
na het Boekenfeest Nijmegen

Lijzig rust ik tegen de pilaar. Mijn afwachtende houding blokkeert de signeertafel. De voordrachten die ik wilde zien zijn afgelopen. Andere toehoorders ademen nu dezelfde vochtig warme lucht, luisteren naar dezelfde slecht verlichte spreekstoel waar een andere schrijver vertelt.

Het boek in mijn tas is zo vaak uitgeleend en herlezen dat de lijm protesteert. De felroze verzameling columns ging de afgelopen jaren zegevierend van hand tot hand. Vandaag zal de jonge schrijfster de eerste bladzijde van Lust bekronen met haar handtekening. Een selexyz medewerker met een gewichtig pasje om zijn hals, jaagt een afgezant de catacomben in om het talent op te snorren. “Retrieven” had ik dat willen noemen, omdat ik daar geen Nederlands woord voor ken. Bij toeval slikte ik het in. Later zal hij mij opbiechten dat hij een hekel heeft aan mensen die met engelse termen strooien. Onwetend van mijn taal armoede complimenteert hij mijn woordkeus. “Anarchistisch bolwerk” is een sublieme Nederlandse uitdrukking voor het onafhankelijke literaire gezelschap op één van de kleinere podia.

Naast mij wisselen luxe hardcovers grif van eigenaar. Oudere schrijvers markeren vlot hun meesterwerken. Wit of geverfd haar gooien ze van links naar rechts. Gul trakteren ze op gepolijste glimlachen die een fortuin hebben gekost. Maar geen geld of ingreep kan verhullen dat hun bronsttijd voorbij is.

Over een jaar of twintig moet ook bij mij een felgekleurde bril de aandacht van mijn rimpels afleiden. Opvallende accessoires de blik vangen, weg van stug ouderdomsvet. Hebben zij er op mijn leeftijd ouder uit gezien? Zijn zij gehavend door drank en drugs? Onverbiddelijk stapelen mijn onvriendelijke gedachten zich op.

Ik tel de lentes die zijn geweest en treur om de dertien en een half jaar die ik aan die ander heb gegeven. Rotsvast had ik gedroomd dat hij weer een grote held zou worden, maar hij was gaan houden van het gerieflijke kooitje met vaste voedertijden. Mijn liefde had zijn pit gesmoord en ons erotische sprookje tot lachwekkend fabeltje vervormd. Het zachte mos werd alleen nog gebruikt om problemen te bespreken.

De eerste maanden waren inmiddels onaangeroerd voorbij gegaan. Volgens vrouwenbladen had ik verstandsverbijsterd met lelijke kikkers moeten zoenen. Maar zelfs gekoesterde vrienden waren als altijd platonisch afgescheept met drie kussen en een grapje op de wang. Ondanks mijn onduidelijke marktwaarde bleef ik vastbesloten pas mee te doen met de volgende fase, die met die prinsen. De mannen waarvoor elke prinses gewillig uit haar jurkje glijdt.

In hun zachte maatje 38 rusten mijn heupen tegen de grote pilaar. Van de schrijfster nog geen spoor.

Mijn fantasie strekt zich martelend uit naar later. Zonder schoonheid die nodig moet worden bewonderd. Geen jonge stemmen die bekennen hoe mooi ze elkaar vinden. De tedere kus, voorzichtig verkennende handen. Lippen, vingers, bed gedrenkt in snel ondergaande zon. Wiegende verstrengeling bij iedere fase van de maan.

En dan zie ik hem.

Een jong vanzelfsprekend lichaam in een vrolijke blouse en spijkerbroek. Studenten krullen en een serieus gezicht. Grote ogen knikken stil naar een gesprekspartner. Even raakt zijn blik de mijne.

Ik tel de botten in zijn soepele houding. Ik wil mijn handen om het overhemd leggen, beschermend over zijn ribben. Voorzichtig, zodat hij niet schrikt. Zijn bovenbenen mijn bovenbenen laten raken. Zijn hoge jukbeenderen kussen. Ik wil —

Mijn wensen vloeken bij zijn onschuld. Betrapt poets ik over mijn onderbuik de ongepaste begeerte weg. Ik vind hem heus alleen maar lief, verder niets.

Vijf minuten later zit hij achter een tafel en signeert dunne boekjes. De boekverkopende taalpurist verheldert dat de jongen een beginnende dichter is van het anarchistische bolwerk. “Inmiddels onder contract bij de Geus.“ zegt de man. “Nou, en dat is een grote hoor,” voegt hij er op vertrouwelijke toon aan toe.

In mijn hoofd mengen de eerste impulsen tot aanraking, tot bescherming tegen honger en dorst, zich met zijn succes en status. Vrouwelijke verzorging zal hij gewillig ondergaan, maar het is duidelijk dat hij haar niet nodig heeft. De jongen onder het overhemd, onder mijn handen, onder mijn verlangen, is rijker dan alleen maar lief.

Iemand leent mij de kleine dichtbundel. Ik lees zijn naam en dat hij nog jonger is dan ik hem had gegeven. Ik blader open en lig bij hem in bed. Woorden over een warm meisje, kussens en lakens verwelkomen mij.

Weer ontmoeten onze blikken. Mijn huid zo wit als sneeuw, mijn mond zo rood als bloed, ik heb 14 jaar geslapen en de klok slaat bijna 12.

Jaap Robben werd stadsdichter van Nijmegen.
LS Harteveld kuste nog vele prinsen en een enkele losse kikker.

Hagrid

HagridHe’s waiting on the sideline, yet I spot him from a great distance. 110 kilo’s and 190 cm tall. But it’s most of all his presence that makes him stand out so giant-like. Or maybe I just stared a little too long at his profile photo where he comfortably cuddles a real-life tiger.

“Hey! How come you saw me first?” my internet date asks in shock, when I pull his furred coat, as sort of a welcome.
“How could someone possibly spot you eh? “ I mock him. “Is it okay if I call you Hagrid?”
“Jeeeezzzzzz,” he rolls his eyes up. “Bud Spencer. Big Lebowski. John Travolta’s Michael,” he sums up the other big men from the movie screen who he’s been compared to. “But if we have sex after, you can call me anything.”
“We’re not going to have sex after,” I say.
“Oh women!” he quotes with a smile. “They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent.”
“The Big Lebowski?” I offer.
“Nope. Nietzsche,” he answers. “A very wise man. Just like me.”
And then he gives me three kisses. His beard tickles and there is a hint of alcohol in his breath. Neither surprises nor bothers me.

The evening is cold and quiet, the canals are dark. A few men admire the blonde by his side. Women look at him with a mixture of admiration and fear. The same look as I have on my face.
“You’re my first date in a long time,” I confess.
“Really? Why? You only have sex and never leave the house?”
But I shake my head. “No. And last time I had sex was in the holiday season.”
“That does not count any more,” he agrees. “That was 2009.”
Hagrid describes his love life. Usually one or two relationships, and flings on the side. “I was married and monogamous for a long time, but now I am poly amorous.”
The meaning of the words sink in slowly, like I am sedated. Women. Condoms. I muse on viruses that are common with men who sleep around. Our feet walk the same rhythm, his black boots next to my high boots.
“If only I could stop going to prostitutes, I would be such a rich man,” he dreams.

We have dinner at a rock café, where we can choose between meat, more meat, mixed meat or a vegetarian enchilada.
“And I think I’ll have a bottle of wine,” Hagrid studies the menu.
“I won’t drink more than one glass,” I warn him.
He throws me a big smile from behind his beard. “I had no idea you wanted wine too.”
Dinner is served; tasteful, satisfying, real good food. Hagrid empties his whole plate, including the salad, and for the first time in my life someone beats me to the French fries. Before I can even touch them the bowl is empty.
“Dessert!” he announces. We both choose Death by Chocolate, which he again finishes, whereas I have to leave some in order to avoid instant death.
Hagrid pays the check. The restaurant leaves a lollypop for each.

He walks me back to the station through unknown streets, playing his lolly around in his mouth. Mine is safely tucked away in my purse. I am not trusting him with the sight of me sucking anything.
“You know, there is something I don’t understand,” I ask the million dollar question.
“All those women. Why do they want to have sex with you?”
“Not every woman is into brown 20 year olds,” he answers. “You’re blocking things.”
“You’re not my type,” I defend myself. “My type is smaller. And I don’t feel safe with you.”
He laughs. “That’s okay pumpkin. Maybe next time you’ll feel safer.“

We say our goodbyes. He gives his three kisses. I reach up and throw my arms around him. The small hesitation in his response tells he is surprised.

We hug, and for 10 whole seconds, I feel safe.

Momma knows best

My mother is sitting on the floor, in her pyjamas, with a broken arm and a flu that just cleared up. A nest of children’s drawings, photos and wooden statues surrounds her: souvenirs from our life in Africa, in the 70’s. Large piles of books are stacked in a second circle. They originally occupied the shelf that we cleared, but now they’re cluttering the floor.
We are making an Africa exhibition.
Or at least my mother is. I am reading a Dutch novel with my feet on the table.
We are both drinking wine.

With her functional hand my mother unwraps a red clay figure with a broken-off penis. My little sister had a habit of demasculinizing art. The erections never made it to the Netherlands.

“Mom, I think I made a poem. Want to hear it?” I ask.
“Yes sure,” she says.

Literature
is like low-fat cheese;
it tells on itself.

My mother listens to MyFirstPoem, the way she once supported finger paintings and crayon drawings: with unconditional love and approval.
“That is a nice poem. But maybe people will not understand it. For most people literature is something nice.”
“You mean people read this,” I wave with a highly acclaimed Dutch novel,” and actually like it?”
“Yes, they do,” my mother assures me. “They like to get deeper thoughts.”
I shake my head with a sour mouth, and swallow the wine.
“I thought people read this because it’s good for them,” I insist. “That’s why I read it anyway.”
“I don’t think literature is good for you at all,” my mother says, as she turns back to her photos and memorabilia. “You are different.”

That is true. I am different. Different from other yoga teachers, who practice detachement. From other writers who actually like reading difficult books. From other daughters with a successful career, off-spring and a Significant Other.

To my favour, I do point out I never broke off male genitals.

“You’re cool mum,” I say. “You never bug me that I don’t give you grandchildren.”
“Why would I? You do other things,” my mother holds up a large black and white photo of a 6y.o. me, dancing naked in African monsoon rains.

That weekend she finishes her mini-exposition of Africa. We go for dinner three times, replenish wine and chocolate, design a new look for her clothes, and we book a gallery for a Retrospective of my father’s photographs in 2011.

But on the train on my way home I realize the sheets are still in the washing machine, I forgot to clean the bathroom, and there is no bread left for my mother to make breakfast.

Somehow, I don’t think she’ll mind.

The Joy of men and cats

two brothers both called MoonJoyce has two cats. Brothers, both called Moon, in different languages. Moon 1 and 2 have a different colour, but identical large physiques, friendly faces and those guilt trip almond shaped eyes. Joyce is a professional Tantra teacher and I am her professional yoga teacher. But we’re also friends.

The first time she invited me to her home, we were still discussing the feng-sui effects of her front door sticker “NO unaddressed mailings” (my advice was to replace it with a Yes! sign, a Thank you! sticker, or a pottery plate with Gratitude lives here) when I spotted Moon 1 lying belly up on the couch.
“Oh my God! Look who’s there!” I sneaked to the living room, tripped to the big feline, and kneeled down to introduce myself. The almond shaped eyes of Moon 1 were studying me upside-down.
“Are you relaxing here on the couch?” I made conversation, and mouth watered at the sight of it’s folded front paws, resting in the air close to it’s body.
I wasn’t going to hold this for a lot longer.
“You are so sweet, are you not?” I started caressing it’s belly. The cat did not object so I took the liberty of using both hands. Purring, and cooing I cuddled the furry belly with my fingertips and gently rocked the big cat a little from left to right.
“This is interesting,” Joyce analyzed. “Cat’s really move you, don’t they?”
“Yes, you move me, don’t you,” I cooed. And Moon 1 started to purr. Apparently it was mutual.
“I can imagine this is about the same way you respond to 20 year old guys,” she said.
I smiled.
“You bet!”
And then I went to look for Moon 2, who I found sleeping in the master bed. By the time Moon 2 and I were finished with our love-session, my friend had made tea, cleared the dish washer, and checked her email.

Joyce was right. It is not uncommon for me to think within 5 minutes of meeting a man: “Wouldn’t it be cool, to just take our clothes off and go to bed, and see what happens?” Only to then find out that the object of my affection is unavailable (always), irresponsible (in for a little side dish), or downright evil.

But I loved the men who were like cats.

I can still fantasize about guilt trip eyes, enchanting me.
His nails gently scratching over my skin. His cute belly turning up for me to kiss it.

And a yellow stick up note, next to his front door bell:
“Please use key! Waiting in bed – naked ;-)

Finding boyfriend

I have a thing for dark men. The past 18 months, the men in my life were typically caramel, mocha, or chocolate and barely twenty. Sometimes I adored them from afar. Sometimes we became lovers. But they were always, one way or another, unavailable. I wanted 2010 to be different. And in order to find something mutual, I was ready to move up.

“Dear Universe,
I, Lauren, now welcome into my life, a beautiful boyfriend. Dark, between 27 and 37. He’s an academic, like me. He is successful, ambitious, uncreative, overworked, and suffering from spiritual poverty. I will cure him from the last three, and in return he will inspire me to work hard and make more money. He is crazy in love with me, and I am crazy in love with him. Our relationship is passionate and loving, and we are both very happy.
Thank you.”

Now that the Universe knew who to send, all I needed to do was to find him. And I knew just the girl to help me out: Nathalie. When it comes to meeting guys, she is the one to talk to.

Nathalie likes to go out, but will also invite you for a sleep-over with tea, all the cookies you can eat, a double bed, and breakfast with eggs. I always leave with the feeling of falling short, but I do enjoy her Royal treatment.
Nathalie, on the other hand, loved my change of mind:
“I am sooooo happy that you’re over those young guys!” She welcomed the new task of finding me a coloured successful academic. “We can now finally go to the over-30 bars. Maybe I will meet someone nice as well.”
I turned pale at the word “over-30 bar”, but quickly smothered my feelings with two pieces of confetti cake.  Over 30 bar! Yay!  This was before I knew what such a place looked like.

On Nathalie’s Barbie-pink scooter we went to three bars. The last one had good atmosphere, service and drinks. The first two had all the customers, strong bare light, huge windows, and eighties music. Hundreds of gray mouse outfits offered a direct portal to the early 90’s.  These guys wore sweaters that were tight around the belly; not small t-shirts, covering mocha coloured six packs.  Their teeth were stained by cigarettes or Rioja; no pearly whites, smiling in chocolate dark faces. Dating 30+ was not for the faint at heart.  “Do they have something to eat here?” I weakly suggested. “I don’t feel too well.”

After our three-bar adventure we needed a breather and went to our old hang-outs, two South American inspired lounge bars. Big leather Cuban chairs. Dark corners. Dimmed light. They even had a salsa night.  I immediately ordered two cocktails, because they came with umbrella’s, and feasted on hot snacks ( bitterballen from Dobbe!) even though I am a vegetarian.
“Everything is so nice here,” I sighed, as I sipped my drink and stared over the dance floor. “Do you think I will ever find a boyfriend?”
Nathalie followed my gaze.
“ Oh no! Don’t you dare!” she warned me.
“ What?” I asked between sips.
“ The kid! I bet he’s not even 20 yet!”
She was right. I was staring at a young dark boy.
“Can’t I just go over and see if he’s handsome?” I begged.
But Nathalie wouldn’t have any of it.

We ended our night at a place where girls dance on the bar, and a rock cafe with live music. Neither one held beauty nor brains, but neither did we anymore, so that was okay.  At 2 a.m. she pulled me from the barstool. “Let’s go home. I have sushi for us, in the fridge.” The next morning I went through her eBay wardrobe: all the stuff she wanted to sell. I tried a pair of wide jeans, and asked her how much they were.
“Nothing. Please have them. They look just perfect on you.”

The brand of the jeans was For All Mankind.
And the model The boyfriend.