Where I’m from

I am from yellow newspapers and old books
from Playmobil policeman fighting crime
and ghosts stories while praying scared in bed

I am from the small garden with a steel swing
in a house that dreams of escaping Loch Ness

I am the weeping willow that stands alone
in a Cold War between mom and dad

I am from baking waffles and tasting its liquid paste
within my grandmothers protective cave

I am from the absent father and the one who gave me a last name
from being a dreamer who’ll never grow up and flies aside with Tinkerbell

I am from working and praying is holy, other lusts is going straight to hell,
until I met Nietzsche’s Antichrist and I had to believe in something else

I am from Brussels wounded image with some old relics hidden high
from hiding into the kitchen behind macaroni with meatballs and French fries

From a grandfather who survived Dresden in a prison and working camp
and a mother who tries to be a woman respected by her man

I am from big bad bullies and fighting them back
showing off in front of the girls and remembering a lost and found man

with of a plastic balloon racecar, when you blow it up
it races away, fast and empty, until you forget about it

I am from heroes and villains
– and the great stories they left behind.

Author: Bart S. Vermeer

Ik voel me als een verhalenmaker, een ingenieur van het verhaal dat zich al dan niet opdringt. Ik (ver)bouw verhalen en laat ze samenkomen. Dat kan alleen op een kamertje waar ze me even met rust laten. Of samen. Na de rust, de daadkracht met de ander.