cocoon

I feel a bit guilty that mine isn't a chirpy, funny-thing-I-saw-this-morning kind of blog; but I don't want it to be. I know that blogs ought to be either entertaining or informative, if they are to attract readers, but to be honest, I don't really want anyone to read my blog. I certainly don't want people to comment. I mean, they can if they want, but I don't want to talk to other people on it. I don't like dialogue; that's why I'm a writer. I get to think about what I want to say, say it, and a year later it appears (hopefully) as a book. It's not something people are expected to respond to. They can read it or not read it and like it or not like, but I'd really prefer not to have a response. Okay, nice letters from nine year olds never go amiss, but I would rather write as if there is no audience. Maybe I want to have just enough awareness of an audience so that it keeps me bothering to update the blog.
When I started this blog, there was a political crisis in Belgium; everyone with an opinion had started blogging about it, and I wanted to start blogging with no opinion about it, with the bare minimum of awareness of what was going on. Living abroad is like being shipwrecked on a desert island; you'll have a different experience if you are a biologist specialising in the ecology of the region, than you will if you don't know a sea cucumber from a sea cow. But I'm not sure one experience is better, and maybe the island needs both. I am used to being in places and not knowing what's going on, and sometimes I think I know more important things about the place as a result.
We walked through St. Josse today. I know it's poor, I can see it's multi-cultural, and I expect there's a relatively high crime rate. There was a house for sale at 65 thousand euros; I was pretty tempted. Three floors, two of which are rented out. One of the rented out floors has a window missing – frame and all. The other rented out floor has a door to the balcony missing – frame and all. It's closed against the outside world by plastic sheeting taped in place. The street contains a few second hand clothes shops, a cheap barber shop, a grocer's and a couple of cafes full of men speaking non-European languages. It sort of reminds me of Dickens. I suppose I'd find nineteenth century Cockney as impenetrable as Turkish.
Right across the street was a charming example of an Art Nouveau architect's house. That old-gold and cream colour, like on the Horta house (there must be a name for that colour, it can't be peach, which is what it seems to look like); restored and shining like an antique brooch in a box of junk. Lots of things close down for August; especially small businesses in the suburbs. So I've lost my favourite writing café – the Portugese one with the madly smiling sunflower faced-doll in the window. And the Arab pastry café opposite the church has shut, too. I don't think anyone is expected to do anything in August, And so to Ikea.