I have to change bus at Schiphol (the airport), and sometimes I miss my connection because of my slow, short-legged sprint, a clumsy tourist with four massive suitcases in tow who happens to stubble into my path, causing me to perform little hurdle jumps, arms in the air, iPod clenched so as not to drop it or an impatient bus driver who leaves before scheduled. Just because they can.

If I make it on the bus a whole new game of roulette plays out – this time it’s seat or no seat. No seat means standing for 45 minutes. Or at least trying to stay in a semi upright position as the bus barrels down the road, taking corners that would make a Formula One racer blush.

And I don’t think the buses are fitted with shock absorbers. Besides the heavy roller coaster turns that make me sway, I bounce around like a ping-pong ball. Also, I think the drivers HATE brakes. They refuse to use them until it is absolutely necessary. When they decide to “take pity on that particular pedestrian’s life”, they pound the brakes so hard you would think they were trying to pulverize them, kick the non-existent life out of them, crush them like they would a cockroach. I can practically feel the aggression as I go flying forward and then jerk back so far my hair is now in my face and my bag is perfectly perched on the shoulder of someone 3 meters farther down the bus.

I’ve been on this route for two months now and day in day out I bless the rides home where I get to sit and stare out the window. And I curse the afternoons (and everyone on the bus) on the days I bounce home in that red hell box, certain I am ruining my knees without even jogging. Often contemplating if I should just jab the smelly man / loud woman / breathy teenager with my elbow so they will move out of my jumbled space.

But I have recently had to revise my opinion. Getting a seat does not mean you win. One fateful afternoon I hopped on, checked in and darted past others to sit down in a nice, wide spot right next to the window and close to the door. Perfect for occasional blasts of fresh air and some semi-scenic distraction.

Then came a fellow passenger. Seemingly normal. Suitcase in tow. He plopped down next to me, moved his suitcase in front of him, and unzipped his backpack to take out a book. Fine, I thought. He seems considerate. He doesn’t smell and he’s not going to talk to me. Perfect. Then I caught a glimpse of what he was reading.

The Ethical Slut: A Guide to Infinite Sexual Possibilities

Don’t get me wrong. People should read anything and everything they want to. Like George Carlin said; “Read, but question everything you read or hear or see or are told.” And truth be told; this doesn’t sound like a bad book. It advocates self-reflection, honest communication and practicing safe sex. It also discusses how to raise children in poly amorous family situations.

But, that title, in the hands of this particular person, who obviously felt no shame (I don’t think shame is the right word) made me uncomfortable. The chapter he was reading was titled; Cruising. How to. Or something along those lines. Was he trying to ‘cruise’ on the bus? What if he decided to use some of his newly learned tricks right then and there? I’ve been hit on before, believe it or not. But I think I enjoy not actually knowing what goes on in that person’s mind at the time. Being privy to this man’s sexual interest and ambitions made me wary.

So how about you all weigh in here. Is there such a thing as inappropriate reading material in public places? Or should I not be so judgmental and just be happy this guy knows how to read?

A friend of mine reading Amor, curiosidad, prozac y dudas by Lucía Etxebarria in Granada, Spain

These are some pictures from that afternoon. Let’s hope tomorrow is just as beautiful. Have a fun day everybody. And wear something Orange. It is the happiest color, after all.

Last Monday there were patterns of light; illuminating everything at the Light & Building fair in Frankfurt. On Tuesday; I had musical patterns to consider at the VPRO filming of the television program Vrije Geluiden or Free Sounds. Especially thanks to the slightly obsessive guitar player at my side. “Did you hear that chord? Did you hear how he repeated it twice, but just at different speeds? Did you? Did you?”

I’ve come to think our world is a quilt patchwork made up of different patterns, creating a wholly new one in turn.

This picture is a good example of that. It was taken at a run down market in Sao Paulo, Brazil. The building was created to suit the needs of different and distinct people who each have their own routine to live by. Each one of their windows fits into a patchwork, visible only when viewed from a large enough distance.

I am not sure it’s art. But I suppose that only depends on how you look at it. The ability to sense, or perceive, to be aware of patterns around you, makes the world a more interesting, and even more beautiful place, even when looking at run-down buildings.

Sir Herbert Edward Read, English poet and critic said;

“Art is pattern informed by sensibility.”

Rabbi Shmuley Boteach; the celebrity Rabbi with political aspirations, argues in his new book, “Kosher Jesus,” that “Jews have much to learn from Jesus – and from Christianity as a whole – without accepting Jesus’ divinity. He wants him back in the clan.

I can still remember my Wednesday evenings spent at the musty, slightly damp B.B.Y.O club house. We would be dropped off by our parents, chat outside for a few quick minutes to catch up on all the latest gossip and see who would be last, then huddle into the small narrow space with its low ceiling, small door and too few windows, and sit where ever we could – floor, box, chair, lap – it didn’t matter.

Some of us were serious. Others, try as we might, had a hard time focusing on whatever ‘task’ was at hand. And at least once every Wednesday, a few of the more spirited boys, always with their backs against a wall as if they knew someone would smack them over the head if they could,  would try to get a laugh from out of us by putting up their fits and yelling; JEWS FOR JESUS!

Needless to say they succeeded in getting a giggle. Laugh out loud, often, actually. I had to think of those Wednesdays when I read the Rabbi’s news.

The Rabbi doesn’t seem to be very nuanced in his writing. (Note; I have not read the book) I am not convinced we should re-appropriate Jesus. He kind of isn’t ours to claim. But when a little girl in the tram on Sunday asked her grandfather, who was explaining Easter to her, how it was possible that ‘Jesus was a Christian if he was Jewish’, to which the grandfather quickly, and with a chuckle, replied that she should look at the pretty buildings outside, I wondered if the Rabbi might be on to something wanting to explain the links.

For now, I will do as my friend Tessa does and wrap is all together for you by wishing you a happy Paas-ach (Pasen is Easter in Dutch. Ach for PesACH)

The picture was taken in a church in Sevilla, Spain.

The shot was taken at a subway station in Sao Paulo, Brazil. The man playing the piano was not hired, asked or otherwise instructed to play. At least not to my knowledge. He looked like a bum. He walked in and put his fingers to the keys. No one paid attention except for some other bums standing in the portico’s. Everyone else just walked by. I am no judge of music but to my untrained ears he sounded good.

“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”
–  Friedrich Nietzsche

Even while suffering through the sniffles and from under my very thick stack of blankets, I could see it was Valentine’s day yesterday. Tons of digital hearts and kisses, flowers and other cute crap cluttered up my Facebook news feed.

I don’t actually know how I feel about Valentine’s day. Sometimes I am one of those annoying people who whines about how it’s such a commercial-just-so-Hallmark-can-sell-cards-holiday. Sometimes I’m mad that I didn’t get any chocolates. Sometimes I feel so loved. Sometimes I feel so lonely. Sometimes I just don’t care. At all. I think the last one is the most accurate description of yesterday. Even though I got very pretty flowers. On the 13th. My boyfriend says he gave me the flowers a day early out of ‘protest’.

Anyway, today seemed like as good a day as any to share this picture with you. It’s two lovebirds kissing underneath the concrete canopy of a the Oscar Niemeyer museum in Curitiba.

Did you know that if you google the word kissing the first search result is a how-to manual quickly followed by (disturbing) step by step YouTube tutorials? And did you know that approximately 10% of engagements happen on Valentine’s day? And that over 2.7 million couples in the U.S get married each and every year?

That’s more than 5 million people saying yes to each other. And they know! They know that it’s like bringing a knife to a gunfight. One in ever two gets slain. But there are some things you can do to improve your chances of survival, supposedly. For guys there is a little math equation you can apply that will help you determine you best sell by date.

And then there is this news. Marriage is good for you. I know, right? Strange. But according to Jenna McCarthy the completely stupid notion of eternal devotion has very serious benefits. Married people earn more money, are physically and emotionally healthier and even live longer! Again; Strange. And uplifting. And maybe also, on a very subconscious level, all reasons why people still put those rings on each others fingers.

But it’s also sad – because all the studies being conducted just show how desperate we are to understand how a happy couple (or any couple for that matter) can survive in this day and age.

Either way, my advice? Just keep kissing. Other studies show it burns calories. And it boosts immunity. And it helps you relax. I should take my own advice.

It’s February. In Curaçao, that means one thing and one thing only.

Carnaval!

First there is the issue of costumes that need to be sewed, fitted, decorated; then there is the Tumba to be determined so as to put it on repeat – to have something to sashay all those feathers and sequins to; then there are jump-up’s, jump-in’s, teener parade, children’s parade, grown up parade, horse show, the burning of the momo.

It’s all a bit excessive and sometimes I wonder where a struggling economy musters up the time and money needed for such indulgence. But it’s fun and it’s important to those who participate – and I might just be of the mindset that a good party is always a good thing.

It’s also cute kids, dressed up and ready to show off. I feel sorry for them sometimes – mile long walks in sweltering heat dressed as dehydrated strawberries or sweaty domino stones. But then, last year, I snapped this little girl. She’s just so proud to take part in all the shenanigans – in a chicken costume. The outfits, colors, creativity, pride and the hard work that goes into Carnaval preparations – these are a few of my favorite things. (Sorry. I just got back from Salzburg)

Usually, unless you are standing on a shore, perched on a hill or otherwise elevated, the true horizon is obscured by trees, buildings, mountains, anything else bigger, more massive and permanent than you. Those things, cluttered within your sight, that intersection of earth and sky is called the visible horizon.

The word horizon derives from the Greek horizōn kyklos, “separating circle”, from the verb horizō, “to divide, to separate”, and that from oros, “boundary, landmark”.

The reason I love this shot is because of the off-screen action, the mystery of whatever is happening beyond my frame. The colors are also some of my favorite. At this point in time the symbolism of the shot seems poignant.

These men are staring at the horizon of the Thar desert trying to spot any oncoming camel activity. I wonder what’s on my true horizon for 2012. My visible horizon right now features an oncoming ski trip, a family reunion and a wedding or two, but other than that most of 2012 actually falls into that unmentioned third category, the invisible one, that direction that does not yet intersect with the world’s surface.

Whats on your horizon this year? Will you try to spot those ‘camels’ before they reach camp or do you prefer to be surprised?