zondag 3 januari 2010

Love lives on my street

Living at the Merulana is sometimes like living on the street. Today another huge protest mars came thru the street. ‘What do the communist’s want this time’ I asked my housemate when he came in. Thru his laugh a replayed that they were protesting for free mariuna. They sure had they’re reaggey music jamming from a serous stereo.. As the house was filles by the sweet smell of protestors adding the dead to the word, I held up my sholders and went back to my room. I had some typing to do. (Mei, 9th.)
After a while thou, I diceded to take look after all. As I came down, the image was quite clear: A (pool van verderf) was tracking thru my street like you woeld not belive! The music played by the curendly passing trucks, piling up wall’s of proffecional speaker systems, was more techno-hardcore like. Actulay, some of it quite good. The trash walking around, drunk, high, walking over the parked cars.. Half naked girls dancing on the street, people pissing everyware, grafitty put on wals and doors a plane public. This was more like pretty ruff festival, attended bij recalcitrante youth and those who refused to leave that phase behind. It was incredible.
Non the less Italy proved to be what we call ‘een hokjes land’ in the neatherlands (uitleggen). For the trained eay there were distinct groeps with specific icon’s (like the Che shirt, of the cap on a bold head, or the purple an bright green punk dress) And of course, like with all protests here, the carrabineri was right behind it, shortely followed by the almoste neurotically bruching street cleaner vihacels. The almoste symbolic ‘cleaning’ after each prostest was never as vigurus as this time.
A little lost were those few non’s that got trapt in the crowd. They are divided in to clear groeps and subgroups as well. We have non’s with gray skirts in our streets, and with black, Francicans, *** and what not. But this time theyr internal distinctions appeared irrelevant. Like so often to me the distinctions between the communists here. There are, I woeld geuss’ aboud five prominent commuist groups here, and many more small one’s. But don’t you think a Roman Stalinist is on the same side as, shall we say a Roman Maoist. They have separate flag’s separate organizations ans diferenat ideas, as they woeld tell you. I think Italy a ‘een hokjesland’ like the Netherlads, at best, might have been only for a few years
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The homeliness of line 'B

Roma, as it is, has to make do with two metro lines*[1] The ‘A line is clearly the A line. It features newer, cleaner trains with newer, cleaner people in it; mostly tourists. The ‘B line is lead and rust. The old, noisy graffiti covered trains ramp and squeeze thru the concrete-dusty tubes. A ride without a beggar passing thru is a rarity. Most of them make music of some kind, often Balkan-gypsy like, or give a dramatic oration on their struggles, with the kids walking behind, collecting the money. They are the proof that comes with the story.

The first few moths I was mainly appalled by this sweat-damping piece of public transport, or just plainly fascinated. By now thou, there seems to be a weird kind of familiarity to it, a certain coziness. Standing on the platform waiting for the train there is nothing much to see, beside maybe a nice girl waiting on the platform across. But when the doors of the train fly open, you walk in to a little world that has a similarity to the average brown café, a cozy semi-public community. The music fly’s your way and the everyday talk of relax thou reluctant commuters fills the carbine. Soon enough you know the little rules that’ll guide your moves and attitudes in this little world, and there seems to be a certain acceptance of your presence there (even thou empty space would probably be preferred). Well, it’s lead and rust still the same. Often people don’t smell so fine in the metro, and it will always be a bumpy, noisy train.
Non the les line ‘B has this kind of real life romanticism to it; a somewhat indifferent embrace to all the blebs that can’t get from A to B on it’s own steam. There is always something to see, from freak show elements to the musicians and beggars, whom you all know quite well after a while. From the average small Roman to the sensual stare of those who like to play. There is a cozy familiarity when you get in, as much as there is a relief when you get out. The metro is ideal for short rides.
[1]* line ‘C is ordered a little while ago. Even thou work on it has started, nobody older then 10 years believes to witness it’s opening. Perhaps that has to do with the common knowledge that when you start digging in Rome, you will hit ancient monuments for sure. This means it becomes a cite, by UNESCO rule, and you can dig no farther. Or perhaps the skepticism comes form experience; Italy is not a place of strict schedules. The lines ‘A an ‘B were ordered by Mussolini in the thirty’s. The fist part of line ‘B was finished no earlier then 1955 thou, and line ‘A so much as recently opened it’s first part in 1980, the second part was finished in 2000. See Wiki for details
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What makes a home?

I am between homes. No, I’m not on a journey, and I’m not lost. I sit behind my desk in my own room, for which I pay a monthly rent. I stay here for an undetermined period of time; I live in Rome now. Yes, downtown ancient Rome, the Mediterranean metropolis, the hart of what western civilization is the legacy of. It’s been three months now, since I left the Netherlands (not to be confused with Holland) where I was born and raised. ‘A home’ is in part a place were you live, in part the people that you know, and in part a culture.

The home 'place' consists of a house and a daily living area; a city, a region, or just a few streets. I suppose for some people the house is more important, for others the surrounding area. And some may perceive only a few streets, buildings and public places to be part of the home place, as ware wider, even unexplored areas nearby may be regarded ‘home’ to someone else. For me ‘the house’ has always been mainly a practical facility, and a place to find privacy. The surrounding area, the habitat, the places I frequently pass or stay at, are of considerable importance. And it must be a city, it must be a city! My migration to Rome therefore, must in part be seen as a tribute to ‘the city’ for it was Rome who made the concept of the city. Of course nuancation is in place here, Rome was not the first city and would never have been anything like this if it wasn’t for the influence of ancient Greek culture. Non the less, the Roman empire made the city ‘work’ and distributed the concept throughout Europe and beyond. The Roman empire laid the foundations for modernity and a way of living not conservable in traditional society. It is this way of living, the late (or post) modern city life, that is the only way for me. It is the only way to feel free. I love the city! And therefore my migration to Rome must, in part, be seen as a tribute to the concept of ‘the city’. It is in this that the second part of a home comes in to view: culture.
Cultures differ over country’s and regions, but just as much between man and woman, laborers and elite, youth and the elderly, oil drillers and art painters and a countless number of other groups, crossing and clustering throughout time and place. Culture is a set of habits and story’s or narratives, to tie them together. Culture is what we do, and what we believe in. It can be as small as a relationship and as big as human nature. Perhaps you might even speak of a personal culture. The cultural part of home then, is a mix over several cultures at different scales, overlapping, complimenting and contesting each other. Non the less, some facets of your ‘home culture’ are more important then others. More prominent in society or simply more instructive in daily life. I myself had the opportunely to ‘live’ in different sub-cultures for a while. I spend two years in a completely feminine culture for instance, followed by one year of 100% masculine culture. Both of the ‘little worlds’ facilitating these cultures were grounded in what I would call higher, provincial labor cultures thou. A place were ‘normal’ is a good thing, stability as much a goal as a standard and big dreams don’t generate much resonance. A safe but somewhat dull and even confining place. Admittedly, these are typical trademarks of Dutch culture as well, though not to the same extend in all circles. Uncomfortable with this environment I elbowed my way in to student life, a semi-elite world of the great dreams. This is were I found a home. A culture that emphasizes intellectual splendor, bears a youthful recalcitrance yet aims at constructiveness (in the end) and where big dreams resonate so loud it might hurt even the ears of the speaker himself. Inside this world I found a niche with people I felt were more open-minded, more down to earth and more interesting characters than I ever met before, manifesting in a social environment that was as embracing as open and dynamic. Cinderella was warned though, there is a time limit to the indulgence of this world. So I left it, before ‘twelve. Non the less even the memory’s and the incidental communiqué’s stemming from that time, still constitute a cultural home to me. Memory’s, in my view, are part of culture; the building blocs of many narratives. Needles to say the people I found in this cultural circle are surely as important as the structure, the story’s and the habits themselves.
It’s hard to shed a light on the third part of what I would call home: the people in your direct surrounding. As obvious as it might seem that you would feel alienated when not in tune with them, it’s hard to conceive how exactly people constitute a home. Perhaps that even includes the people you don’t like, or feel ambivalent towards. For one thing it is the people, that contribute to the shape of the culture and the physical place you call home. But the ‘hominess’ or belonging that people offer can not be reduced to that. Talking to someone who knows who you are, knowing who that person is.. A home, as much as I hate to admit it, must be a safe place. If not physical then at least socially. One who is haunted by the fear of not being accepted, will hardly feel at home. Beyond that you would have to feel a certain closeness, a connection with people around you. Feeling understood, being heard and recognized can make a crappy room any ware on the world in to a home. The home you can find in people, in a group, also consists of their traits. The characters of people can be so familiar, and so distinctively part of what you know, of what is your world, that they in them selves become a home. Loneliness is probably the best antonym for feeling at home. As for me, I found several ‘homes’ in people throughout the years. The four years between my high school and my university study were the lonely ones. My old friends did not only leave the city, they entered a new life, abandoning the old one and therefore pretty much forgot about me. I can’t blame them, as I did the same when I went to high school en thereafter, but it did hurt me. I had no substitute you see. I had friends at these new places, but I could not find a home there. Apparently being accepted and having contact is not enough. It was only when I went studying that I found a new, social home. I grew close with people to a point where communicating hardly requires speaking or explication; you just know. There was a ‘we’ with ‘our ideas’ and ‘our actions’ and even ‘our memory’s’, resulting in ‘our narratives’.
When people speak of ‘at home’ they usually refer to the place. When they speak of ‘like at home’ it’s often about cultural facets. But when they speak of ‘feeling at home’ I assure you, there is always the people part of ‘hominess’ involved.