Road to the sun

Seven thirty and I am out the gate, cross the road and cut through the village. Eight, may be nine houses and then I'm among the fields. A red sun rising in the mist. And the road. It's a small road, two and a half meters wide, no more. It goes up the hill, in an unwavering line, straight into the sun. Just up ahead.
I know that beyond the top of the hill the road curves to the right and misses the sun by, oh ... miles. Easily. But from where I am standing it is the vision, not the knowledge, that grabs me. A hundred meters, that's all it is.
So quiet.
So big.

She runs

I sit on the grass and slap my hands on the ground. Dog looks at me, all attention. I slap the ground again and she jumps at me. I push her away and slap the ground with both hands. She cocks her head and comes at me again. We wrestle and I push her away. She rolls over and jumps up. She is happy beyond her own comprehension. I slap the ground again and her enjoyment takes over. She jumps up and she runs. At full tilt, she runs away from me, around a small shrub, and comes barrelling down at me, as fast as she can. She races past me and continues to the other end of the garden, still going all out. There she turns again and heads back for me, thundering down the lawn.
I slap the ground with both my hands and she zips past me as close as she can, brushing against me as she runs. She runs and runs and runs, pouring out her energy to fulfill this joy she cannot understand and cannot contain.

Like dew

They come unannounced, sometimes more than once a day. Lost thoughts. They move into my head, have good shake, like a wet dog, leaving traces all over the place - don't ask me where - and disappear. Just as easily as they came. Thoughts. Good thoughts. But lost from the moment I have them. For some reason they don't seem to find their way into my memory. They simply slide in, shake themselves up, and slip out.
And for days afterwards I scan my brain to see if I can locate one of those traces. There has to be something there, somewhere. A shining droplet, like dew on my synapses.
There ...

Patriotism ...

... is the marketing of hate and fear.

Hunt

September 5 and gunshots surround the house. The French are shooting their way into a state of primeval satisfaction. Even in the dark, they start at five thirty in the morning and continue until well after sundown. They must be using lights. No so much primeval, but primevil.

Biting the bullet

Yesterday, CEL made the shortlist for the Diamond Bullet, the Flemish annual award for Crime Fiction in the Dutch language. GREAT! September 18, I will be in Antwerp, together with five other nominees - Escober, Aad van den Heuvel, Felix Thijssen, Simon de Waal and Patrica van Mierlo - to bite that bullet and to find out who gets to take home the trophy.

Away

I am away, in France. Since yesterday without many of the French. They have ended their summer break and have gone back to work. This last weekend they drove back to the cities, leaving 'la campagne' to those who stay behind.
Like me.
Sun is gone, too, which is a shame, but when it comes back I will still be here, just as away as before. Away is the best place to be for writing. More away equals more words. It's that simple.
But after a while you start thinking: I have been away for so many months, is this still away? Or has this away become here and has back home become away? How can away be here?
I don't know, but it is.
I must have wandered into a wormhole.
Excellent.
I can recommend it.