Blue Sky Directly Overhead but ...

It would be fair to write that Antwerp city struggles with terrible air pollution.  Most of Europe drives through Belgium ... trucks in their gazillions.  People on their way some place else.

I read: Antwerp is particularly affected by air pollution generated by the eight-lane motorway passing near the city centre, its important seaport (second largest in Europe), as well as by the presence of the second largest petrochemical industry worldwide. Moreover, the high buildings located in the city centre create street canyons where noise and pollutants are especially concentrated.

Researching this was fairly depressing ...

MAS - Museum aan de Stroom, Antwerp

I found this little bit of yum in the city today.

The Craftsman

I'm back at the desk now ... for days I suspect.  I just realised I have an unprocessed folder of photographs from Genova.

I'm torn between delight and something like despair, knowing how many hours will be spent here at the desk. 

I can't share all of them, I need permissions but this one ... I love the moodiness of this one.

Road-Trip View, New Zealand

We are shaped and fashioned by what we love.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Leonie Wise, Where the Road Ends

we wonder if there is a place here for us,
if we will tell our stories to island visitors some years down the line,
this island gets under our skin, into our blood
little remnants of it coming home in our memories.

Leonie Wise, extract from where the road ends.

Beautiful people, beautiful photographs, beautiful words.

Here is just one of Leonie's exquisite  images from that particular post.

She has opened a conversation for me ...  we wonder if there is a place here for us.

I know that curiousity.  I have been looking for 'home' since forever.  I'll know it when I find it and in the meanwhile I'll enjoy where I am, like always.  I've spent the last 30 years moving towns, moving countries. 

Perhaps it will always be like this for me but perhaps one day I'll arrive ... and somehow I'll know that I'm home.

Tram 11, a poem by Herman de Coninck

TRAM 11

Tram comes. Tram goes. Going: a young Zairean
humming huskily with baby, plenty of time,
intimate with each other, in public
yet still alone. The tram looks on.

Tram comes: a Moroccan woman tries to quiet
her whining little tatty boy. The more she shakes him,
the more syllables fall from him.
Until an Antwerp woman's ta-ta-ta

brings him to himself. And to all of us.
Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling through the town.
Public transport civilizes us, makes us festive,
maintains our confusion.
Herman de Coninck
Translated to English by Cedric Barfoot and Sonny Williams.

Way back in 2007, that was me reading Herman de Coninck's poem on stage in front of more than a few people.