De Candystop, aflevering 14. Tough tough dolls

When life serves you lemons, wear sunglasses.De Candystop
Eerste druk
© 2017
alle rechten voorbehouden

Om de privacy te waarborgen zijn namen, data, gebeurtenissen en plaatsen gewijzigd. Dit boek bevat fictie en is niet bedoeld voor waarheidsvinding.

Tuesday November 26, 2013
almost midnight, cold, trembling. Even after a whole pot of tea.

My sister tells me I am “going by the light”, being lured from story to story, losing hours, appointments, sleep, because a blogpost slash diary entry just needs to be written. But after two weeks of adventures and writing, I have reached the end of this. I can’t go on anymore. Jacqueline has been waiting for a week to review new chapters of Dutch American Diary; my graphic designer awaits my feedback on the covers; a once in a lifetime offer to move my yoga studio needs to be accepted. And tomorrow morning I have to teach.
No way that I can afford to lose another night’s sleep.
Sinterklaas. My family has sent me their wish lists and they’re waiting for mine. Tomorrow morning 7 a.m. I’ll be on it first thing. And JESUS how am I going to pull off that thirty-or-so presents and accompanying rhymes trick again?
At least with the blog, there was a light to follow in the first place.

Wednesday November 27
Midnight, feel just as chilly as yesterday, even after one pot of tea and an extra cup of hot chai.

I still have to write about the cold turkey drawback from novelist Sam; about Valentino my student, and something (or someone) that may explain my self-loathing for falling for my student. And I have kept Valentino from my diaries because I couldn’t face this. But I think the time has come. Tomorrow.

Thursday November 28

It all started with an article last week, on teacher-student ethics. I hooked up on chat with the writer, and right after complimenting him on the subtlety of his writing I told him to cover his ears and yelled BECAUSE MALE TEACHERS CAN BE SUCH PIGS!
This was only half a joke, and the other half had a name.
One that I have effectively kept from my journals, because it brings back too many unhappy memories. Let’s call him John. For the hard core yogis among us: is this a reference to John Friend?
Yes, of course.
Although my John was halfway thirty and didn’t carry that paunch that seems to be so characteristic for all fallen gurus and cursed yoga stars. What do they carry around in there? Corn?
For my own sake, I’ll keep this report as brief and painless as possible.  *breathe*
It was somewhere at the beginning of the millennium. My long term relationship had dried up, and my boyfriend knew I considered myself sexually available to other men. I was attending different yoga classes around the country, and ran into an overseas teacher. He was touring Europe and although we spoke just briefly we kept in touch.
A few months before his return to Europe, his emails became flirtatious. It became the most tantalizing, anticipation rich, months of my life. That is, until he actually arrived.
Just like I can fall in love at first glance, I can feel someone’s dark and filthy mood. He had just spent the night with a student who attended his workshop. He must have sensed she was going to “be trouble”. After weeks of trying to brush it off lighthearted, he would crush her with a Dear John.
But I didn’t know all that until years later.
At that moment all I felt was the bitterness of his foul mood, and my own disappointment.
More later. Still have to do the stuff for graphic designer and editor. And fuck I need a break from telling this.

Same day         
Midnight, now officially ill.

Throat is aching. After this I’ll get two days of sneezing, then two days of snot and then two weeks of coughing. With a little luck I can squeeze all the snot into the weekend and limit nuisance in class to a minimum. The soul searching writer idol infested lifestyle is taking its toll. Just when I am digging up some real gems.
The author of the yogic article wrote me and came up with an explanation why I think male teachers are pigs. He said I probably sacrificed being with someone, in order to be a “good and clean” yoga teacher. And that is the reason I am so resentful towards male teachers who just stick it into anything with a pulse. Although his choice of words was more neutral.
And he was spot on. I had tried to be good.
But in hindsight I made the wrong decision. Because the most harmful to my student, Valentino, was never if I had sex with him or not. But the uncontrollable downpour of love and emotions that I burdened him with. Maybe he felt it. Maybe he read it. And I gave him plenty of clues, the time we were together.
All he probably wanted was a blowjob in the sauna and a good story to tell his friends. The one thing I refused to give.
The first hours in bed after the debate with Sam, all I felt was my heart. It was like it was being sucked vacuum, like drawing poison from a wound. And it felt good, because it was the physical residue of Valentino, an echo of his presence.
Until the pain became stronger and my mouth turned dry. Breathing became harder. And then suddenly, it was gone. My cats were still sound asleep, one curled up in my neck, and one on my belly. I was gazing at the stars. I always keep the blinds up.
And then the tears came. Quiet but sad, like you’re mourning some past event. And I almost smiled, because this was familiar. It was the same solemn grief that I used to have when thinking about Valentino. But this was not Valentino. This was after meeting Sam. The same young age, the same beauty, and I’m sure he had the same immature expectations of cool promiscuous sex.
But with one big difference.
Sam was a famous writer, not a yoga student trusted to my care. With Sam, me suffering from projection, high sensitivity, or some fucked up mixture of wanting to mother and to mistress him, was alright. I had no responsibilities.
At 6 a.m. and without any sleep, I rose to volunteer at an archeological site, a medieval basement. I spent the whole day digging, and carrying debris to the surface, and I laughed with the archeologists who were making jokes about all the treasures they hoped to find. But nothing of value came up. But when we were finished, the walls were clear. As were the arches of the doorways, and the niche that was intended to hold a candle. You could walk around freely.
I haven’t cried anymore since.

LS Harteveld Facebook

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