Cornelis Verhoeven, 2-2-1928

Today would have been my father's 85th birthday.

It's strange how much i still miss him, or rather, how little that has changed. He's being celebrated in Belgium with a day of lectures about his work, and i had the privilege to read one of those lectures. It is an impressive and beautiful essay, both intellectual and personal, close to the bone and sharp without being vicious or hurtful. But the author takes a step that made me feel very uncomfortable: he addressed dad with three questions.

In the almost twelve years he's been dead i've tried addressing him directly only once, in writing him a letter, and i gave up midway through my first paragraph. All i heard were my words echoing back from the nothingness he left, all it did was emphasize what was missing. His absence from my life is so monumental, and has been from the moment i saw him go, that i can't pretend he's around. Sometimes i desperately wish he was around, maybe not so much to ask questions, but more to just be around him, smell him, share a smile with him over coffee, feel what the house is like when he's concentrating on his work. It's the corner of his mouth, the exhale in the pause of a sentence, the twinkle when he raised his eyes to meet yours -tiny things, millions of them. All that is missing, still, and will be, forever, and addressing him for me is just a needless pointing out what is no longer there.

But i admire it, like i admire people who can pray and mean it. There'll never be an answer to his questions but that doesn't make them any less viable -i just couldn't have asked them. Hell, i probably couldn't have made them up -my dad couldn't swim but i drown in less than half an inch of philosophy. All i can do, the closest i get to having him about, is reading him and translating him. So that's what i do. An essay that makes me feel close to him, because it's about water, and i can relate. You can find it here, on his blog:

http://cornelisverhoeven.wordpress.com/

snake on the steps

We had an interesting guest at the house this morning



he (or she -it's rude to check) was about to come to the door when we walked out



but got shy once she (or he -still rude) figured out the house wasn't inhabited by fellow members of the serpentine brotherhood (or sisterhood -it's rude to check that as well) -but not too shy for a quick portrait



before heading back into the grass, where i couldn't resist another portrait



it wasn't till she/he (snakes hiss, do female ones hers?) was gone and i got over the wonder of my first snake encounter as a photographer, that i realized i'd seen something quite special: someone without legs (or limbs) climbing steps. Certainly made for an intriguing subject

William Trubridge's secret admirer

No, it's not me -i'm quite open about it. And it's funny to see on this island, when people come to the Blue Hole, they tend to know about William Trubridge and they're quite vocal about their admiration too. But i've noticed something not everyone can see, and maybe even Billy does not know: every day, when he plunges into unbelievable depths



and swims back up again



his moves are followed by one of the tarpon, who even after he's reached the surface, keeps staring up at him adoringly

freediving condition

William and the whole hole

On a clear day, you can see forever -and William Trubridge, and the whole Blue Hole

golden grace, brown disgrace

Meet Livy -rarely has a dog been more graceful





and totally ridiculous





rarely has a dog made more beautiful daughters



who haven't yet figured out the trick of making puppies themselves



and top that of by both totally defecating all over the scenery

frost -still water, just harder. And smaller.

One interesting part of travel is jet lag. It's not just about time difference -i'd say that's only a small part of it. In William Gibson's novel Pattern Recognition it is described as the time it takes the soul to come back to the body; we travel faster than our souls can on airplanes, and it takes a while for them to reconnect. You sit still for a long time and when you get up again, you're in a different world. It takes time to adjust, time for the soul to travel the same distance the body just has done.

After Vertical Blue, i went from a blue water white beach warm world filled with friends and passion to a grey and cold London filled with hard work. The transition took a week of grump. The two things that helped were my girl, and water. Water, as an element, is endlessly fascinating in all its forms, and even though i was away from its blue deep form, i was surrounded by its frosty form. It beckoned me to go out exploring again, even if i'd been working outside all day and had become quite frosted myself.

It was near the end of the day, and though i was surrounded by monuments





my attention was drawn down



from monuments to moments, almost literally frozen in time







and i saw the cohesion, the link between blue water and frost



which is when my soul returned to me, i reckon

It reminds me of something my father wrote about the element of water: "That water is an element means that man could attribute an endless amount of meanings to it, but only based on the fact, that the water itself is the centre, and not subjected to an ‘egotrip’. It’s not man that makes water, it’s water that makes man and invites him to contemplation. Drifting on water, listening to the waves or with his eyes following the stream he is confronted with something that in force and duration surpasses his own existence and on which he depends."

Suunto Vertical Blue

Some pictures of this year's Suunto Vertical Blue, where i was the commentator together with the lovely and formidable Francesca Koe. Luckily for me, main photographer Igor Liberti not only very kindly let me share the territory, he also introduced me to this wonderful tune:

squirrel squiggle

an old friend

Shook hands with an old friend last week



I played when i was a kid, so much so that i ended up injuring myself. Kept playing with the injury, got worse, in the end it required surgery and i had to give it up. Broke my heart, as well as my knees.

But i never got over the feel and sound of a 'nothing but net', when you shoot and the ball goes in perfectly, not even hitting the ring, making the net go 'swoosh'. It is the sound of truth, that is.

I've made visits to my old friend in the past, always taking care not to get too excited, not to expect too much, keep in mind that, though our friendship is only just mature, my knees are pensioners. I always forgot and ended up limping. Last week, it seemed i was finally mature enough to be a pensioner -i walked away, rather than limped. I came back a few days later, shot a few, missed a lot, got some, got 2  swooshes in a row, and it made my day. Swoosh, and walk away. I'd love to dunk again but i'm too old for that shit.

Of course, Leonard Cohen said it better: "I ache in the places where i used to play." Love, even rusty, tends to be worth the pain, though.

PS i love this version of the song:

jumping through bubble rings

As Patron Saint of Bubble Rings® i have to jump through many hoops -which i do with pleasure