Fragment Dagboek

It’s almost unimaginable that we are really moving through the world, really doing things: through filming, everything we do and say seems to become fictional. I find this very bizarre. We end up in an abstract space, made from our houses, Hielke’s house. It could be something strong, this focus on us, this isolation; the universe created by us, where only our voices exist, where there is not much more than Hielke and us – our questions, our eyes, our memories. And we just keep talking and talking, regarding ourselves and each other, looking back at ourselves and each other. I think we should not be afraid to go deeply into it, because that’s what it’s about. That is what drugs are: crawling away from the world, going back to yourself, being isolated in your own experience of the world. It is then not about who is around you, but about what happens in your own body and mind. Maybe that is part of the attraction of it – that for the world, you disappear.
 Our story is that of wanting to appear, to do something, grasp something. We went to look for “disappeared” people to see and fathom their stories, filter something out of those, that we could work with. But all we got from it was the given of this disappearing, the ideas that belong with that, the image of that hole in the world. And now we are trying to make something that places us in the world, so that we don’t have to fall in this hole. Because we do want things mean something, and we want to mean something ourselves. We also walk a line; between, on one side, experiencing how emotional we are, how human we are, how strong our presence can be: with our thoughts and eyes and stories. The same goes for Hielke, how heavily expressive he is and can be, how much emotion we take over when we are with him, and on the other side seeing how we ourselves do not really understand where we want to go with all that is in us, that we do not grasp why precisely we do not want to fall in this hole. In that matter, the questions we ask are also a little bit dangerous. What if there is no answer to them? What do we do then? Will we go mad? Our quest for hidden emotions and characteristics, is accompanied by a lot of love. We are so curious. We want more and more, also from each other. This is intense and interesting. It is full of suspense. We wonder how far we can go.
 When I was on my bike just now, I was thinking: do I find myself better than other people. There was a part of me that said yes. I can handle the complexity of reality and other people cannot. A little later I thought: wait, but I also cling to strange religious convictions that I make up in order to deal with the world. After that: I believe in respect for others, so how can I think I am better? But a part of me plays with that thought, that I am above them, that I am superior. Another question: do we feel superior when we are together? I notice that I miss Marie, even though has only been one day since we last saw each other. I keep wondering what she thinks, right now. I constantly have thoughts relating to this, but when I wrote them down yesterday without knowing if Marie could read them, it did not feel right at all – as if I was talking before my turn, saying things that were off. It was true as well: when are things really accurate? They are constant thoughts you have and adjust, have and adjust.
 The freedom we feel, is tied to our friendship, how we relate to each other. We keep not wanting to hurt each other. I really do not want to hurt Marie, I don’t feel any resistance towards her. We keep calling each other scary, but I actually don’t find her scary at all. I trust her completely. Maybe this is the scary part, to trust someone so fully. In the end there is this man at Maries window who smokes and drinks and stands in the rain. From all of us, he might be the one who hides the least, because he appears as he is.
 In the man it all comes together: he shows how in all this wanting to disappear, all this drinking and smoking and going to pieces, one still exists, even living on the street, even being alone, even having no one; how he still has this umbrella and throws his empty beer can in the trash bin, folds his plastic bag neatly. That even in the endless disappearing one lives and is human: passed