In the wet light under the chestnut, a dream returns: old fear, a knife, and a resolve to end it.
The leaves of the great chestnut at the back of the garden shone wet in the cloud-veiled sun. Heavy drops fell into my face. The first months here I had wanted to fell the tree; its roots made a great part of the garden useless. Its beauty stopped me.
Leaning against the twisted trunk a quiet, bright melancholy took me. Rain and leaves composed an ancient melody. I could stay for hours, even as the low clouds announced winter. There was little work left to do. So close to winter, with fallen leaves here and there, the garden lay somber. I thought of the night.
A bad dream kept sounding. With Ivonne I walked on a quay, hard lit by the sun. Grass between the stones was yellowed. Suddenly a young man stood before us. I knew him from the boarding school. Jan—unpredictable fits of violent madness.
He held a large knife. I knew I had to settle with that fear. He stabbed at me. Again that look of madness. I slipped aside and pushed Ivonne back. He slashed wildly. I stayed calm, even laughed from above.
He stabbed again. I caught the sharp blade and wrenched it free. The knife turned in my hand. My arm shot forward. The steel went deep into his body.
Ivonne bound my badly bleeding hand, and suddenly we stood in an old house. Through the windows: old trees and a country lane. A white beam cut through the night and stopped before the window. Lights went on and we saw there was a front room too.
‘Who is that?’ she asked. ‘Tom, a friend from the same school. I always got on with him.’ He came in, opened a hidden door. We saw a room with a sunken, overflowing bath by the wall. Ivonne slid slowly in. Under water she held her hands out to me. I watched her as if she were a painting—at a distance, not truly involved.
City nights, refusal, and a heart that will not calm
Refusal to drink, refusal to yield; a party thins out and the night grows louder inside the chest.
I looked forward to feeling those stiff pages and smelling the old bookshop across the street. Energy rises this month. The world is a challenge again, not an awkward necessity to forget by the heater. Behind me: a cry, brakes, then silence. I opened my eyes, felt lighter than before. I shivered. In the street lay my body, quietly still, the head turned at a strange angle. People stared. The driver covered his face and cried. A cop wrote; sirens came nearer. They laid me on a stretcher with care.
Later: my own party, given for no reason but the dare. Refusal kept me off the drink, and so—indirectly—off her. I would be glad when they all buggered off. The later it got, the more tiresome my friends became. Only now did I see it. On the first row—small, slight woman. The body did not draw me, but the face did: open, eyes that held friendship. My voice snagged. She knew I was thinking of her. The eyes told it. I had to go on; the room grew restless. She winked. Contact made.
They began to leave, in groups, drunk and laughing. New couples among them—maybe they would last. The blonde still sat beside me. ‘Can I sleep here tonight? I feel so alone since my friend left.’ The laughter kept sounding through the dark.
Rotterdam Diary — Raw Rain, Retreat and Withdrawal
A raw Rotterdam diary about days of rain, unemployment, alcohol withdrawal,
failed retreats between the sheets and the fragile desire for connection.
Rotterdam in the Rain
The rain has been falling for days in sudden, improbably heavy downpours,
accompanied by thunder rumbling on for minutes at a time. The sky is almost
green. How magnificent this must look at sea: a wall of falling drops as
large as the marbles from my childhood. They bounce off the asphalt. Still,
it is oppressively warm.
It is never truly pleasant in this rotten little country. Only now and then,
in the evening, near sunset, after a hot day in my garden. For the rest,
the weather is like the people here: from bad to worse. No, this is not the
kind of weather for any kind of activity. It just keeps staggering on.
Between the Sheets
Yesterday I sat behind a glass, listening to the usual chatter of the boys.
The bar was fairly crowded. My friends, like me, are all unemployed,
broke, and live without any real purpose. Deprived of the feeling of still
being someone, they play another person – a someone who exists only on
their dried-out cerebral cortex.
Plans are made that will never be carried out. My friends know that. They
flee into intoxication. I was not drunk – in fact, I was clearer than usual.
Perhaps that is why they seemed so worn out to me. I saw the drunkenness
in their eyes, the failure. Too cowardly to face anything in sobriety, they
drink themselves numb, staking a claim to their place in the fixed circle of
friends, knowing that outside of it they are of no value. Uneasy, I slid off
my stool, realising that I belonged with them – that I was the same.
It was pouring. Normally this weather would have stopped me, but fear
drove me on. “Away from here,” I thought. They drag me along. Soaked, I
came home. This morning I woke up with a pounding headache – not from
alcohol, unfortunately. That can be fixed with a beer. My head is blocked.
Feverish, I undergo the consequences of that wet escape. The decision was
right, only taken at the wrong moment.
Poetry International and the City
At last I have a reason to withdraw into bed for a few days. A retreat
between the sheets. To turn away from daily life, taking no more steps than
to the kitchen or the toilet. The bed remains, in the end, the only place
where I feel truly safe. There I am really myself, even though my mind
sometimes drifts.
The sheet sticks to my skin. The curtains move in the wind. Modern Turkish
music fills the room. Electric zithers blend with a voice that is hard to
grasp. Ancient Eastern sounds influenced by our all too saturated culture.
The pushy neighbour makes me think of Poetry International,
the literary music festival in the park. Of people who still make music out of a need
for rhythm, without keeping an eye on a bank balance. Of writers who still
create stories and poems because they have some hope left for a better
world. For a moment we share our anger with others. But what is art in
Rotterdam, really? An absurdly expensive clothesline hung from a bridge.
A Failed Retreat
No, nothing truly gets done in this rotten country – too mediocre, too
deceitful. The class struggle still rules here. Now it is the foreigners who
are the victims. A Turk or a Dutchman are equal, at least as long as the
latter is not a director or minister.
Sweating between the sheets, the retreat fails. Perhaps I could try the old
zazen. Sitting in lotus posture, waiting for liberation, for the great
insight, for nothingness. Zen: the murmur of nature. How long has it been
since I swam in a clear river, letting the sun dry me among swaying reeds?
The rain imposes limits, just like life in the twentieth century.
Sometimes I long for a girlfriend – simply someone who takes care of me at
moments like this, when I feel rotten and alone. Someone with whom I can
build a whole inner world indoors, protected from the thinking in
opposites. Good and bad, beautiful and ugly, true and false. If only I
could forget these words. Let us make new agreements.
Maybe I have to think myself a way out, a supreme being without a past. No
one will be able to share it with me. They are too quick with their
judgements. They will call me insane because I invent my own lie and accept
it as truth.
I go downstairs and sit by the window while dusk slowly takes hold of the
street. The car roofs look more colourful, glossier, in the fading light. I
see the world doubled in the rippling puddles on the asphalt.
The poplars in the middle of the avenue have not yet reached the sweeping
height I would like, but they already rise above the rows of houses. The
façades are still lit by a hesitant sun. For a moment there is silence in
Rotterdam. The residents are watching television, visiting someone,
somewhere, but they are not on their way. Slowly, the façades fade, dampened
by the dozing rain. The first dog of the evening pulls at its leash, lifts
its hind leg. Grey rubbish bags appear along the curb. For a moment, in the
neon light, everything looks new again. Back in bed, an elusive freedom
takes hold of me. Hearing the Rotterdam rain
Rotterdam Diary 16 august 1980
Alcohol and the Night in the Rotterdam rain
Uninterested, I keep the conversation going. She does not look overly
modern. Long blond hair, a fine, intelligent face. Her mouth is smiling. I
smell her beer-scented breath. Her eyes are hazy – that alone holds me
back.
My own party, given for no reason, unless you count the challenge itself.
Refusal helps me stay off the drink and, indirectly, away from her. I will
be glad when they have all cleared off. The later it gets, the more
annoying my friends become. I only notice that now.
Memory and Clarity
She and the withdrawal symptoms have not yet managed to sway me. Heavy,
depressive moods have tempted me to drink whisky without any reason,
sometimes for days at a time. I felt like a wreck.
Once I lost it. I poured a glass, just to try. The first sips tasted fine,
but then the misery began. My heart pounded up into my temples. Something
squeezed my throat. The glass fell from my hand. With a raw voice I cried
for help. There was no one. Gasping for breath, I sank to my knees, my head
banging against the wall.
The Morning After, reflecting Rotterdam Diary
They start to leave in groups, laughing drunkenly. Satisfied, I see that new
couples have formed. Perhaps some of them will last forever. The blonde is
still sitting next to me. “Can I sleep here tonight? I feel so lonely at
home now that my boyfriend is gone.” The laughter keeps echoing through the
night.
“All right, I’ll make up the guest bed for you. I’ll clean up first.” In the
morning I cannot manage to wash the dirty beer glasses. Gagging, I already
threw them in the rubbish once. She helps; she has no choice. Fortunately
it is only for one night. I do not want more than ordinary friendship with
her. This past month I have been thrown back on myself too much. Would she
be disappointed?
I put on a record, Cadillac Walk by Willy DeVille, pour her another
drink. She is on the couch, I sit on a chair as far from her as possible.
Still, she is attractive, not too drunk.
She gets up, moving to the music as she walks through the room, knowing I am
watching her, claiming attention without openly provoking.
“Has he been gone long?” I ask, trying to push my thoughts aside. “Yes, half
a year already. It’s all right. I have my work and I’m used to being alone.
Only tonight everything feels different – lonelier, harder to fix. I saw
couples leave. Maybe it gets to me because I’m a bit drunk. Or maybe it’s
because of you.”
She looks through my records and asks me to put on Neil Young. “Old man,
take a look at my life. I’m a lot like you are.” Why that song, of all
songs? I cannot help her. I am too deep in my own problems. First I must get
off the drink completely. Only then can I think for others again.
Reflections from the Rotterdam Diary and the alcohol withdrawal story
We make up the guest bed together. She does not suggest anything, does not
create the right atmosphere. Despite the disgust her breath arouses in me, I
feel hurt.
“Here’s a towel. The restless feeling will pass. Take a bath; it will do you
good. Use my toothbrush.”
My own unmade bed is in desperate need of clean sheets. Tomorrow; I don’t
feel like it now. The bath empties with a loud, sucking sound. Let her go
to bed. Let her not come in here. For me it would be only about sex, and
for her it would only make everything even harder. I want to take a bath
myself, but I am afraid of running into her.
I lie flat on my back on the floor beside the bed. Breathe in deeply, hold
it for a moment, then exhale slowly. After a while I reach the point of
utmost concentration. The mind is empty. I seem to float, tumbling forward.
I stop it by moving my eyes. The body no longer seems to exist. Again the
spinning comes; I surrender to it until even that disappears.
The Red Lamp Rotterdam diary
As I was years ago, that is how I see myself: a summer camp with the boys’
choir. The small room of Brother Engelbert, the only one who was truly
kind…
“Why are you sleeping on the floor?” It is already light. She is wearing my
dressing gown. “I wasn’t sleeping.” “What do you mean?” “I don’t really
know. Never mind, I can’t explain it.” It is far too personal. “There is
coffee and breakfast ready. Do you want it here or downstairs?” She already
feels quite at home, damn it.
During breakfast, the dressing gown slips further open. I force myself to
look elsewhere. She needs to go, back to her own house. That is where she
belongs. She delays, nestles comfortably on the couch in front of The
White Pilgrim. A sense of cosiness settles over the house, and over
me. So I decide to leave myself.
“Weren’t you supposed to work today?” “No, I called in sick.” So she must
already have been dressed to make that call. “Just pull the door shut
behind you.” She will still be there. I might as well buy food for two.
Questions and Answers
How does the recurring rain in Rotterdam Diary mirror the writer’s inner state?
The endless rain reflects the heaviness of withdrawal — the weight of repetition, melancholy, and emotional exhaustion. It becomes both background and metaphor for the inner storm.
What forms of “retreat” appear throughout the diary — physical, emotional, or spiritual?
The retreat is multilayered: physical withdrawal into the room, emotional distance from others, and a spiritual attempt to escape the noise of the city. Yet each layer reveals the impossibility of full escape.
In what way does The Red Lamp frame Rotterdam not just as a city, but as a state of mind?
Under the Red Lamp, Rotterdam becomes symbolic — a place where loneliness, memory, and self-examination intersect. It is less geography than inner landscape, illuminated by fragile human longing.
He walks the streets to keep from calling, then lets another writer think for him for a while.
I walked behind an old couple, trapped into their pace. I wanted to kick them. Luckily, a bookshop. Hundreds of spines stared at me, neatly alphabetized. I wanted something sad, something tender—to drift in someone else’s thoughts. There is nothing better when you, like me, dislike yourself. With *Nader tot u* in hand I walked back out into the rain.
A man walks away from the blaze he made; hunger and guilt keep step as he tries to reach a place where quiet is possible.
He stared at the neat stack of firewood, not at the all-consuming blaze behind him. He had burned everything down—earlier, much earlier. He tore the skin from the rabbit he had found while fleeing. It was partly burned, but he was hungry. Meat is meat; hunger is hunger.
He drank from his field flask until his lungs rebelled. No forgetfulness there. So he decided to walk on.
Walk, do not talk, and forget what cannot be forgotten. For two years he had been on the road and he was close to his goal. He had stayed in the village only because he had to wait. He had feasted with whores and with those who pretended not to be; he had sung and danced. It lasted as long as it lasted. His enemies would not grant him rest; the clerics’ muttering carried.
He felt guilty: innocent “ladies,” “decent” people. The unbelievers saw a saviour in him and gave him warmth for it. He could not do without that warmth. The task on him was heavy. For them too.
He wanted quiet and no chatter. But the enemy was stubborn and followed him everywhere, like rats spreading a stench of plague. He smelt it when the “decent” ladies took him by the arm and when they opened their legs. The scorching stench of rotting falseness burned into his lungs. Forward, he urged himself. Don’t forget your task. Walk.
After a few kilometres he came to a house. With one kick the door jumped from its frame and he stood among people who recoiled in fright. They recognised him and bowed their heads.
‘It’s only a question of who kicks in the door,’ he thought. ‘The saviour or the devil—does it matter?’ It matters if the Duke claims his right and opens your daughter for her husband on the wedding night—or if men spoil them in the dark. He had done both.
A woman offered him drink. Bootleg whisky burned deep in his throat. He seized her by the chin and forced her to look at him. The eyes were dead, without fire. What did it matter? Whore or “decent,” they all sank into dead cold or mad sorrow.
Coming back from an island of ruin and silence, he carries notebooks he hopes will free him from guilt.
The cutter pitched into a wild bay. Grey rock made me feel at home again. High on the hill I painted the cross white so I could see it from anywhere. It ruled the island as it ruled my thoughts. The dog ran free.
A February storm wrecked the house; only the transmitter survived so I could confess to the world. Back on the quay the containers were rusted towers; straps and bolts brown-grey; at the end Dijkzigt Hospital cut hard against driving cloud. I lit a cigarette. Better on the second draw.
I took a room on the Groene Hilledijk. We had stayed there once, new to each other, brave and shy. Outside still run-down; inside, everything changed. I felt hollower than then. I bought razors and took a long bath. The beard had been a shield against the island wind. Young still, in the mirror. Clean body; heavier emptiness. What comes after clean?
I put the notebooks on the table. They are worth it. I must edit them. Maybe the diaries will free me of my guilt. They are her death, at least that.
