Why I do, what I do.

With the world feeling dystopian as it is, I’ve been feeling very small. When I was first uprooted, from what felt like a fairly nicely moulded life in London, I was hurt. The tears in the life that I had built felt raw, the saltiness of the unapologetic speed and magnitude of change that lay in-between the cracks were uncomfortable, and I felt heavy.

The only thing I could do was be still, and be grateful for the things that were in my life. It was privilege, and the kindness of family that gave me that space to reflect, and I am ever grateful for that. 

After distancing myself from my camera’s for a little while, whilst I licked my wounds, and used my eyes to take photographs, I came back to my original driving force to do what I do. I reflected on life, the world and the universe. It is estimated there are around 100 Billion stars in one Galaxy and around 100 billion galaxies in our universe. Contemplating those sizes, makes everything so irrelevant, and made me question (as many do) why? What the fuck is the point of us being here. What is the point of consciousness, where are we going, where did we come from. Why, why, why?

It was at this point that I stopped myself, and reminded myself that I was a human being, doing the human thing of thinking incredibly humanly centric. Thinking that we are the absolute bee’s bullocks of this entire existence. That we are powerful, larger than life beings, that have won at life because we have words and our version of consciousness that makes us special little twinkly unicorns better than other beings.

Removing that aspect of my thinking, I continued contemplating, jumping from conclusion to conclusions, until at some-point realising I was jumping up and down, but always landing on this grounding notion; There is no reason. Life is incomprehensibly random and unpredictable. The fact that earth is in this spot of the universe is random, the fact that I was born with this sense of self is random. There is no reason - so I might as well enjoy it. 

This tied in with my love for the creative and photographic world. Ever since I can remember I’ve been in awe of the visual world. I remember the blue of the moonlight spilling into my cot, and looking at my leg and my arm, curious by these things that were connected to me and the way they looked in this light. I remember, lying on the tiles in our garden watching the Ants, squinting my eyes to see the patterns they were making, looking through balloons to see how they distorted the world around me. Looking at trees, and patterns, buildings, people, water, wheels, anything and everything. Looking looking looking. 

It’s incomprehensible that we’re alive, not to mention conscious. I’m so grateful that I can look and see. That I can feel a sense of beauty for this world that I inhabit. I’m grateful to be able to feel such a wide range of emotions, to see such a wide range of colours and shapes, to hear such a wide range of sounds, to taste such a wide range of tastes and to feel such a wide range of feelings. And all along be able to process them and attach my own sense of self onto that is a true delight.

So when people (and myself) ask me why I photograph. I think it’s my way of expressing my joy, love and curiosity for life and consciousness. Dedicating myself to being a grateful observer of the world and souls around me.

My Anxiety brings all the adrenaline to the yard.

My Anxiety brings all the adrenaline to the yard.

| 16.06.2018

Yes, the title has the word Anxiety in it. Yes, this post is probably going to be about mental health. Yes, this is happening. Now let’s all scream into space for a minute, and then continue on with life.

---

The first time I ever had a proper Anxiety attack (not one of those petty social-anxiety episodes which has been pretty much a constant state for me throughout the past 12 years of my life.

No. A proper “holy-fuck I might actually legitimately die” attacks, happened at the start of a 5-6 week long holiday, which included a lot of flying, adventuring, car rides, walking, restaurants…essentially all the things that your anxiety feeds off to make your life hell. If my anxiety were a personified character, he’d be one happy smirking fuck.

I went to bed, peacefully nestled in between the Icelandic mountains in a cosy wooden b&b, sharing a room with my family - you couldn’t set up a safer environment - and yet my body thought this was the prime time to illustrate all the bells and whistles it could pull out to show what would happen in case of an emergency. 

My heart was doing it’s best to get to a state of vibration as opposed to its usual mellow beat, my muscles were cramping, my chest tightening and all the blood in my body was replaced with sparkling water (tingling…lots and lots of tingling.) I thought I was going to have a heart attack, be sick, faint or explode. I must have sat on the bathroom floor attempting to google my symptoms for about half an hour with not much luck as touch screens don't react to well to sweat drenched fingers. 

In a desperate whim, I shook my dad awake; shivering and sweating I yelped “help me”. Of course, there isn’t much you can do, I didn’t even know what was going on. He comforted me and got me back to bed, where I remained, motionless, while my whole body was screaming and yelling, my heart beating so hard that you could imagine it was a wholly separate entity jamming out to some hardcore techno music in a hip Berlin club.

I lay there as my body slowly transitioned into shock - every muscle in my body contracting to release the semi-overdose of adrenaline that was rushing through it. 

Confused, terrified, and most importantly not wanting to make a fuss or disturb anyone - I went through the motions of experiencing and recovering from my first ever full-on anxiety attack. My brain and body were working together. Adrenaline being flushed out, while I slowly calmed myself down over the next 2-3 hours. Convincing myself that my heartbeat wasn’t in my chest, but rather in my arm, which seemed much less panic-inducing, forcing myself to breath ‘normally’ - all the while having no clue that this was ‘simply’ a panic/anxiety attack.

This form of panic became a constant throughout the entire holiday. I blamed the way I was feeling on a potential stubborn stomach bug, and brushed it off as a 'silly body thing'. I hardly ate anything; the hunger was causing even worse anxiety (I have since learned that hunger triggers bad anxiety) and the feeling of food in my stomach wasn't much better. The plane rides were torture, car rides were too long, sleeping was terrifying and eating at a restaurant near impossible. Overall I’d give myself a solid 1 out of 5-star rating as a travel companion.

I pushed through and forced myself to join in on activities despite my heart rocking out at a million beats a second, or the shortness of breath. It was debilitating. Mostly because I didn’t know what was going on.

What I thought would be ‘just’ a holiday ‘illness’ went on to take months. I found it hard to go to college, I couldn’t really sit at the dinner table, or on a train. I often would get bad anxiety in cars, in confined spaces, even on my own, when I was ‘resting’, my body would be boogying to the rock and roll jam that is anxiety. It. Just. Did. Not. Stop. 

Worst of all is that I had no clue. I didn’t know that what I was experiencing was anxiety. Retrospectively I’m sure it would have been a lot different if someone had told me. But then again, how could they have possibly known. I brushed it off, as a nasty stomach bug that just went on and on and on. 

It eased off slightly, allowing me to power through it, as it slowly became a familiar norm. However the intensity of it grew slowly but surely. Months and months passed, until at some point, even the feeling of being in my own body was too claustrophobic. I can’t fully explain it, but the feeling of being confined to my own skin and blood made me want to implode - here I was, faced with this un-fixable conundrum, stuck within my own body.

At this point I was lucky enough to go to a spiritual retreat school for a week or two, mainly to see family and friends. The mindful and yet simultaneously mindless tasks, of washing 200 salad leaves individually; braiding 100 plus onions; weeding flower beds; chopping vegetables; washing millions of dishes. All whilst surrounded by open, genuine nature and kind-hearted and loving people fixed me right up - everything that was wrong, hectic and mad in my brain relaxed. Nothing quite like accidently mindful meditation as a bit of a cure-all. 

The aha-moment came much much later. I started to learn more about anxiety through the internet. Talking about mental illness began to take a rise, and I remember reading an article title that mentioned all the symptoms that I experienced during the months of the unknown anxiety. 

It was more than a lightbulb moment, it was a firework display spelling out “Thank fuck” in the sky. 

I had already been diagnosed with social anxiety when I was just a wee thing - constant bullying tends to have that effect on you - but for some reason, I just never made the connection between the two anxieties. There wasn’t one second during my whole ‘heart and body ambush’ period where I thought it might actually be a mental illness. 

Since then I’ve learned the ins and outs of anxiety attacks, panic attacks, etc. I’ve re-taught myself how to travel, I can survive sitting in the cinema, or at a dinner table. I still get it, sometimes worse than others, but now it has a name. When, for some reason, I turn into a tingling sweaty mess, however uncomfortable it may feel, I know what’s going on, and I can deal with it. 

I got more heavily into meditation, realised that exercising helped release any extra adrenaline, and that eating well and having a full stomach actually combated a lot of my anxiety. 

Of course, I would be amiss to not talk about the 'obvious' help as well - I lived in Holland and was an art student at the time…obviously, I was going to start realising the life-changing benefits of walking in clogs…duh! Oh wait no, that’s what mad Dutch farmers do to…self torture? (I have no clue why anybody would do that to their feet.)  

CBD oil and herbs were an excellent way to magically calm your brain (And THC was just an added bonus really…) Weed was like the powerhouse team of soothing softness that would alleviate any and all anxiety to a certain extent.

All though I don’t think I’ll ever live entirely anxiety free, I’m learning how to cope with it - experimenting with self prescribed exposure therapy, but also learning what sets these bad boys off has been an enormous help. 

Anxiety is - from what I can tell - a very individualistic thing, everybody deals with it in their own way, everyone experiences it in their own way. As with most mental health issues, it’s down to who you are, what combination of ingredients has made you into the special sauce version of 'you' you are today.  I dealt with it very introspectively, another may broadcast it to the whole world. Everyone has a different tango to dance with their brain, so whichever way you choose to dance is probably the right way. But fuck knows, what do I know.

Cyclone on a bumpy castle | 07.04.2018

Cyclone on a bumpy castle

07.04.2018

London is a foray of experience, people, squirrels and dogs. Cars zipping by left, right and centre. Millions of people walking, talking and working on the go. Police and ambulances passing by every second minute. Lights, reflections and pigeons. Lots and lots of pigeons.

There’s never a dull moment, never not something to be happy about, never not something to be sad about. The constance of chaos is like a cyclone on a bumpy castle, unimaginable until you see it.

It’s what you make of it. On one day you might feel totally overwhelmed, paralysed stumbling through the commotion. And the next you find yourself fitting right into the groove, making every right move, dancing between the million miles per hour commuters, catching every green light and effortlessly daydreaming through the cyclonic flow of city living.

There's a bluntness to it as well. It’s the reflective mirror that doesn’t sugar coat. It churns you, stretches you, and tells it as it is. And just when it gets a little too much, there’s a smile or an unexpected moment of kindness or a kid dancing like no ones watching or just a simple leaf blowing through the air, catching a ray of sunshine here and there, and it brings you back, back to where you are, back to the now, and breath, pause, relax. 

Ultimately London is not a big bad scary wolf, filled with mean people I thought it would be. It’s just another place, filled with individual human beings, all stumbling there way around…walking, talking and working on the go…

100: Metaphorical Free Falling

100: Metaphorical Free Falling

05.04.2018

Okay. This is the situation. I’m doing 100 things that are out of my comfort zone, because… honestly? I believe in the power of making yourself uncomfortable. There. That’s a thing now.

I’m doing this because I noticed that over the past 2-3 years I’ve gotten very stuck in my own head, causing for all kinds of delightful side effects. I feel like chucking myself into 100 metaphorical ice baths will shock my brain/myself into either; a state of slight madness, or a more ‘well balanced me’ juggling introspection and actually just living in an equal way.

For the first of a hundred, I’ve kind of cheated, because this is something I did a while back…but you know what, you didn’t write the rules…I did, so deal with it I guess…

---

Number 100: Metaphorical free falling

It feels a bit like free-falling. I can’t quite describe it. There’s an occasional second where I feel in control, and then, I realise that what felt like a parachute of control, actually was a dodgy Tesco’s bag, flinging around in the sheer velocity of life’s flow...

So I recently did the thing that all early aged characters do in the incredibly cheesy movies you pretend to not watch and love - but actually, end up being your go to’s for those Saturday nights you were ‘supposed’ to be meeting up with ‘friends’ but they all cancelled on you…too specific?

Anyway, what I’m obviously referring to is; living in the middle of nowhere for so long, that I went a bit wonky, had a tidbit of a breakdown (I won't go into the finery’s), got a bit tipsy, cut my own hair with tiny, but sharp, scissors and then radically decided I should move to ‘the big city’, because that will solve all my issues. You know…the usual.

And so here I am. I did that thing; got on that train; stumbled with those poorly packed bags; stayed with those friends; got that part-time job; cried in that train station; thought of cowering back home; kept on going; got that full-time job; got that place to stay; left that part-time job….and here I am, shocked by the stillness of stability.  

It's like when you're in that yoga class, and you're doing whatever the name is for the one-legged pose…your wobbling and wobbling, you nearly fall on your neighbour and then do that polite eye-roll that’s meant to say “Duuuh look at me being a flimsy so and so” after which you hesitantly get back into position and suddenly your doing it… you feel still and grounded, it almost feels effortless - with the gentle humming of your straining muscles carefully reminding you that there is a lot of work going into keeping you there. It feels like if I were to lose focus the wobbling would overwhelmingly come back, which in a way is slightly scary, but in so many other ways is the whole reason why I love this state of being. It’s the adrenaline and work that makes me want to do it, again and again, no matter how wobbly, or awkward I look. I guess that's just a 'young person' thing.

I think one thing that I learned from just chucking myself into life a few months back was that it’s incredibly okay to be wobbly, and also incredibly okay to be still. I got taught the power of focus and how powerful a tool it truly is - it seems to function a lot like an anchor to a boat on a rough sea (or calm), no matter how much your clash-banging about clumsily, your anchor (focus) seems to always keep you vaguely where you need to be.

Anyway, enough of me banging on about jumping into life, I still don't know how to end these posts, so I'm just going to run away from the keyboard and continue semi-stably flinging around life.

The Meditation - Retreat in the woods | 23.11.2017

Woah! This is a chronological set of short-stories, so if you haven't read the story before this then click right here, and give it a read before reading this!

The following short story is inspired by a retreat course that I have taken part in 3 times (once as a student, once to train to 'become a supervisor', and once co-supervising). This is a great Retreat in The Woods, called the Foundations of Natural Intelligence. It's held in the Chisholme Insitute, located in the Scottish Borders.

To find out more about the course click here

MEDITATION | RETREAT

Short-Story | 23.11.2017

(Photo by Johnny Dupré)

The heat of the fire is making its way through my thick coat, I can feel the heat penetrating my skin and heating my whole body. Taking a step away from the fire pit, I immediately notice a drop in temperature. Enjoying the residual heat, I can hear the leaves crunching underneath the feet of the chaffinches that are happily jumping about, looking for insects, luckily there’s no shortage… 

I spot a chaffinch that has taken residence on one of the branches in front of me. It seems to be contently observing the other birds, occasionally joining in with the fruitful conversational chatter. I pause my thoughts and think about the life that bird must have lead to get to that point, it didn’t look that young, an elder in the group of chaffinches perhaps.

Looking around, I check that no-one can see me. There are some movements of my fellow students, sleepily going about their ways to prepare for meditation. Nobody seems motivated to climb up to the kitchen area. Good…

The gun, still resting in my hand, feels warm against my cold skin. I close one eye, I’ve seen people do that in movies and I presume that helps with accuracy. Aiming for the little bird's chest, that should be the best spot. The bird is so small, that it seems that I’ll miss no matter what, but I can try.

The chaffinch is innocently chirping away, greeting the fellow birds, telling stories of his bird adventures that he’d had in the past, mentoring the young ones. I could only imagine that he must be the ‘big’ grandfather, that all the little young chaffinches look up to for comfort or wisdom.

I clear my mind from such little stories and readjust my aim. I can feel my blood pumping through the finger that lays on the trigger. Everything seems to go quiet. Starting at three, I countdown quietly. 
Three, two…I breath in and on the out breath, one. I pull the trigger.

Quick as a sparrow, a red dot shoots across landing on the chaffinch. I can see my hands trembling as the laser wobbles all over the chaffinches chest. And then. A faint beeping sound.

I relax my arm and look at the digital display. 12 degrees, not as warm as I’d imagined. 
Swivelling towards the kettles on the still roaring fire I lazily aim the temperature gun at the kettles, 82 degrees, good enough, they’ll boil during meditation, and be quick to reheat for breakfast. 
I indulge in doing some more shooting around with the laser gun, taking the temperatures the trees, feeling a bit like Jame Bond.

4 minutes till meditation, I put the gun back down. Looking back a the chaffinch that is still perched on the branch, happy as ever, I toddle down to the meditation yurt.

Walking up to the door of the yurt I grab the handle, it’s stiff and makes a small but loud squealing sounds as you turn it to open the doors. I turn my back to the entrance, using the ledge in the doorway to wiggle off my wellies. I try to be as quiet as possible, but end up making more of a clumsy fuss than I’d care to discuss. 

The warmth of the fire is delightful, a few students are already perched on meditation stools, all surrounding the fire. Some closer than others, but all already beginning to enter a state of meditation. I grab a stool and a blanket. Trying to find the Goldilocks zone of; not too hot, and not too cold. I settle for, what I can only imagine is ‘the perfect spot’ (I was wrong, it was very very hot). With a blanket protecting my knees from the hard floor, I settle into a comfortable upright position. I soften my gaze and indulge my brain in the hectic thoughts for just a few more moments.

The last students trickle in, finding their own Goldilocks places. Everything becomes blissfully still, with only the sounds of the gently wind making its way through the tree branches, and the birds singing as they hunt for there food. 

I hardly hear the gong, my gaze transfixed on the chimney pipe from the fireplace. My mind still buzzing and blubbering. My eyes play tricks on me, trying to distract me. I let it happen, I relax into the 30 minutes of stillness, broken only by an occasional readjustment. My mind is like a little kid throwing a massive tantrum, begging for something fun or distracting, I give it nothing but acceptance and my breath. It’s not happy, but with a bit of inner negotiation I get to a happy medium; I get to imagine a flower opening and closing at the rhythm of my breath, or a wave coming into the shore and leaving again. And so I tame my mind, keeping it occupied with some visuals, whilst still doing what I suspect is meditating.

The Morning - Retreat in the woods | 14.11.2017

The following short story is inspired by a retreat course that I have taken part in 3 times (once as a student, once to train to 'become a supervisor', and once co-supervising). This is a great Retreat in The Woods, called the Foundations of Natural Intelligence. It's held in the Chisholme Insitute, located in the Scottish Borders.

To find out more about the course click here

Morning | Retreat 

Short-story | 14.11.2017

I hear the pitter patter of the gentle morning dew, dripping off of the tree branches and landing on the canvas of my yurt. The sun has been up for a few hours, softly encouraging me to get up. I can hear the birds happily chirping away, probably greeting each other and conspiring how they’re going to steal our food. 

I groggily lift my head from my pillow and shiver, as the cold damp air caresses my neck. I bury my face back into the pillow, trying to find any residual heat. No luck, the cool morning air took it’s chance as soon as my head left that pillow. 

I lie there, staring at the design of the yurt roof. I can see the silhouette of the leafs that have landed on the canvas, and I ponder, just for a second, what it would be like to be a leaf on a canvas, what a simple life that must be. 

I huff and puff, and swivel myself upright, my jaw tightens, and my limbs shiver, I scramble to find a pair of trousers, and layer on two jumpers and a coat. I look at my ‘yurt mates’, still sound asleep. They must be so warm. Soon they’ll be waking.

I grab my, now damp, towel and slide on my welly boots. I open the doors and sigh in relief; It’s warmer outside. I step into a ray of sunshine, and pause, absorbing the sunny, much needed heat. Closing the Yurt doors behind me, I walk down to the shower block.

The shower fire was up in flames roaring, cracking and snapping away all night long. This should be a good shower. I go into the first stall out of three, it doesn’t have the benefit of a view, but it is larger, and not having a view means not having a cool draft to accompany you in your showering endeavours. Once nearly undressed I switch on the shower so I can immediately seek refuge under the hot stream of water when I’m ready. I proceed, doing the ‘outside shower dance’ AKA constantly rotating around, so your whole body benefits from the heat. I ablute (clean) myself, and start considering my ‘plan of action’ as soon as I turn off the water. The prospect of standing around in the cold for even a second longer than necessary is unbearable.

I can hear the movements of my fellow students, sleepily making their ways into the shower blocks. My body now warm, and my mind slightly more awake, I leave the shower behind and trudge up to my yurt. 

I don’t even bother entering my yurt because that would mean taking off my wellies, and in my somewhat lazy state, that just seems like too much of a bother.
I semi-gracefully throw my, now wet, towel onto my bed. Ignoring the consequences of that action completely. I once again close the yurt doors and quite happily trot up to the outdoor kitchen. 

I lean down and scan the pile of wood next to the elevated fire pit on which we cook. First grabbing some small wood, then medium and finally one large. I place them delicately on the fire pits' rim as I stick my arm into the big bag of kindling, I’m not even sure if I need any kindling, but in this cold, I don’t want to run the risk of having a fire burnout…

Like a woody-firey architect, I go to work to construct my carefully considered pile of wood. I imagine how the air is going to flow through the wood, visualising it feeding the fire. And then. I pause…Laugh, and realise that the reality is, is that I have no actual clue what I’m doing…I strike the match, set the ‘fire-starter’ a flame, and hope for the best.

After emptying my lungs of all oxygen and replacing it with fiery smoke multiple times to get the fire to actually burn, “all proper like”, and such, I pick up the filled kettles and pop them on the grill , then I grab the biggest heaviest pan we have and fill it with porridge oats, I pour the oats in from a distance so I can see the beams of light that are reflected into the woods make their way through the oats. I find myself mesmerized by the beauty, and suddenly realise how much I miss technology. 

Not being able to capture such a beautiful image hurt in that moment. I breath, and realise I should just appreciate it for what it is. I add the water to the pot and hang a tea towel over it, so no bugs or birds can get to it during the morning meditation session. I look up to the clock, 10 minutes till meditation, I stand there waiting, with a semi-elegant spin, I now face away from the fire, feeling the heat penetrate my coat, and filling me up with so much comforting warmth that it makes me want to never leave that position. I stand there, waiting, quite content, with the gun in hand, shouldn’t be long now…

The Sending | Short Story | 02.10.2017

The sending

Short story | 02.10.2017

I put my head down in shame, my thumb hesitantly lingering above the ‘send’ button. 
There I am, sitting on my couch, for lack of a desk to work at. It’s 3 in the afternoon, and I just created a generic message to send to a bunch of friends. The thought of sending it to the wrong person sends shivers down my spine…the thought of sending to anyone makes my heart race.

What will people think? Will they judge me? Will they read the message, scoff, head directly to the unfriend button, and then never talk to me again, ever?! Will the next time I see them be filled with the familiar sound of awkward silence. I mean, I’m probably overthinking it, but you know…

I sit there, balanced in the middle of the couch, with my cat to the left of me sleeping peacefully. She doesn’t have to deal with these things, the only judgment she’ll ever receive is from the mice gods after they tally up how many of the killings were hers.

I happily drift off into a daydream about mice gods, and then mice police, and then a mouse army, but a bang outside brings me back. What was that? Probably nothing…and then it hits me, I still haven’t sent this message, and I need to do it now, if I don’t, I’ll probably never do it. 

I pick up my, now sleeping, phone. I wake it, and unlock it, failing on the first try, I never quite know how to place my thumb so it can read my fingerprint. And there it is, the message, that frightfully generic message that I can easily copy paste. 

Before I even realise my thumb has taken to the natural instinct, and it’s heading to the send button at a frightful speed. Everything went in slow motion. Is this it? Is this the end of friendship as I know it, are people going to prosecute me and cast me out of society? 

It’s too late to stop it, my thumb hit’s the trusty digital button, and the text that was so safe, hidden in my little editable box get’s swiped into the conversation. Forever out of reach, left out on its own, only ‘friends’ can judge it now.

I sit there, staring at the screen, re-reading the text, reading:

“Hi there, Hope you’re well! As you know, I have a blog, but have been struggling to actually post anything…I’m finding it hard to figure out what I should blog about…have you got any suggestions? Thank you! X Sanne”

I suppose I’ll probably survive…

At the edge of the beginning | 30.07.2017

At the Edge

30.07.2017

Suddenly this moment has come. The edge of possibility.  A wash of strings, a mirage of life lines, just sitting there eagerly waiting. Waiting for me to take my step, to leap...jolt into life. Am I scared shitless? Of course! But life is a lovely adventure and will always go the way it goes. No matter what. That 'knowledge' brings me comfort, helps me sleep at night…so to speak.

There’s a flow of life that will relentlessly take you where it’s taking you, the best thing to do is to let go, relax, and swim along. (Not saying you can just sit back and ‘good’ stuff will happen to you…you do need to swim…so to speak)

This doesn't mean that it’s always easy. God no. There are rough patches, moments where you keep getting bashed into rocks. Bruises, cuts and scars will form. Leaving you begging for just one break…but as I say, life goes on. The only thing you can count on is that it won’t go on like that forever, and soon enough you’ll float back into a calm, washy stream, you just have to ride it out.

I digress. The point is that I’m at the edge of the beginning. I’m a the top of the page, switching from an old chapter to a new. Or having thought about it…it’s more like closing a novella and starting a novel.

When people hear that I recently closed a chapter in my life, they immediately want to know the synopsis of the next one. It’s only human, a burning curiosity, or perhaps just a simple kindling on the fire that is small talk…I don’t blame them; I’m the same. I find myself trying to peek ahead, brainstorming what could happen next. 

It’s tough to stay at the moment, to take life as it comes, and just fully flow with it at the moment. But I still have some time to practice…and in the mean time, I’ll continue just showing up in the places where things happen (About 5000 miles away from the comfort zone) 

…And you know, work on being a more consistent writer…

So I met a man...not in that way... | 14.05.2017

So I met a man…not in that way…

14.05.2017

I have a job, a semi-controversial job. I’m the person you avoid at all costs on the street. I’m the reason why you pay attention to where you’re going so that you can spot me and swerve, and not make eye contact…do NOT make eye contact…ooh nooo, you made the lethal mistake, now you’re mine, and yes, yes I’m absolutely going to try and sell you something.

Street sales is fun, different people do it for different reasons. I do it because I get to meet hundreds of interesting different characters every day. I get to talk to them, look at their body language, observe their small quirks, their little idiosyncrasies. It helps with the creativity, adding to an ever-growing amount of ‘material’ to my ‘character library’…and pays well…

Today, was a day like any other, filled with pestering people, laughing with them, with the occasional sale. After a few hours, I was getting tired. I reenergized myself..with pizza and red bull…and took off ready to ‘rock’. I saw a man walking, approached him, asked him if he could spare a moment, to which he responded: “I’m Scottish!” (Side note: I live in holland, so to a dutch sales person this would be a no go) Me being Scottish myself, I immediately responded: “Me too!”. He kept walking, so I asked him where he was from, which stopped him and struck up a conversation with him. 

I found out he lived in holland and did the very subtle “Do you have a dutch bank account?” line, to find out if I could sell him stuff. The usual response is “yes”, and then I’ll proceed to talk and sell. His response was slightly different, he indeed had a bank account but only had 42 cents on it, he admitted to me. I don’t quite remember how the exact conversation proceeded, but I remember convincing him to let me give him money but also convincing him to grab a coffee. He was obviously not in a good place, and I wanted to talk to him. 

I’m not going to talk about what he told me in the cafe, but I can say I was tearing up, as was he. I’ve heard many a story, of sorrow, depression, loss. But this one really hit me. Maybe because he’s Scottish, I don’t know, it just did. It boggles my mind that humanity sees itself so amazing, and yet can allow such grievance to a fellow being.

We sat there for, probably, a good 40 minutes, I was not counting. Eventually, my ‘boss’ came to check up, and get me back to work. I just remember thinking “Screw work, I’m staying here till I know that this man will continue his day with more hope than he started it with.” He had considered suicide the night before. He was well and truly at rock bottom. 

Once he’d finished his coffee we found a cash machine, where I got him some money for food. He told me a bit about his talents in singing and acting. (Sidenote: later on the phone I discovered he does a smashingly good impression of Billy O’connelly, and also is good at comedy, and has written an unpublished book. This guy is a hidden gem.) 

Now. I’ve always wanted to make a documentary about a person quite like the man I met today. I scurried up the courage, and asked: “Can I perhaps, maybe, sort of, make a documentary about you?”. I was expecting him to retreat, or just get a bit awkward. Instead, I was met with enthusiasm, a willingness that one could only dream of. 

This is not a story of “ooh look how great I am”, this is a story of how I ‘bumped’ into an incredible human being. I want to make a documentary about him, and I want it to not suck. If you have any advice my ears are all yours! 

I’m glad to say that he is not suicidal anymore, and is now actually allot more hopeful about the future. It’s incredible what a conversation, a simple coffee, a listen, can do for someone. Please keep that in mind the next time you pass someone on the street, or pass a homeless person. Spare a moment, sit down with them, listen to their story, their not easy to hear, fuck their hard to listen to, but it’s necessary. It’s so fucking important to know what the realities of someone else life can be. In fact, I challenge you, the person reading this, I mean, you read to here, so you listened to me..listen to someone you wouldn’t necessarily listen to normally. Or, go out, find someone living rough, and sit down with them (bring some lunch, that’s always nice). 

I don’t care if you’re a fellow student, a teacher, a nurse, an artist, an entrepreneur, a CEO, or whatever. You remain human, capable of listening, understanding, giving someone your attention. Do it. Do it now, do it tomorrow, do it as often as you can, you can easily brighten up someone's day, it’s not hard, it just means lightning yourself of your perceived status and levelling with someone less fortunate. Easy peasy (;

2. The Production | Creative Process | 10.05.2017

The Production

10.05.2017

I wrote a post about concepts a while back (you can find that here). To follow that up, I wanted to make a post about production.

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I can only write about what my personal experience is, and I am painfully aware that my knowledge is limited. I wanted to write this prerequisite to the actual post as a proof of acknowledgement of this fact.

So, after days, weeks, months of chewing over the idea, letting it simmer down to its bare essentials, grinding it, questioning it’s every move and making itself as itself as it can be, you come to a point where you need to do the scary task of production.

Production will never be easy; I don’t think. To me, it’s one of the more exciting and yet terrifying parts of the creative process. Up to this point, it has been you and your concept, all alone, no one to judge or hurt it but you. It feels warm and safe, but you just can’t stay like that forever.

At some point, you have to let the birds leave the nest, let the concept, the script the…whatever, be seen. It’s immensely vulnerable. After all, that is a bit of you that you are showcasing to the world.  

After being that close to a concept for so long, it can be incredibly hard to look at it with sober eyes. That’s why it’s so immensely crucial to get different perspectives on it. They weave out its flaws, make you see it’s imperfections and give you a more dimensional look on your work.

You have to put your brave face on, let other people touch the concept and sculpt it into what it was ultimately meant to be. Your idea will change, it will look different from what it did in your head. It’ll never be able to uphold the standard that you have. 

That’s the curse of creation; it’ll never be good enough.