Mijmeringen van een rasechte motaar tussen de regendruppels van, enkele dagen bijzonder slecht weer, door

Een epistel, opgedragen aan alle mensen



Kijk, den Teejoo gaat ondertussen toch al een paar jaar mee als motaar.
Niet dat dit iets is om bijzonder fier op te wezen.
Er zijn ongetwijfeld mensen die het beter doen.
Anderen zijn er zeker ook.

En ik geeft grif toe, den Teejoo is eigenlijk wel een individualist, zoals mijn goede vriend de Goose wel eens zegt. Al bedoelt hij daar zeker niks verkeerds mee, persoonlijk zou ik dat eigenlijk graag toch ietwat genuanceerder willen zien :-)
Tijdens perioden van slecht weer filosofeert den Teejoo nu eenmaal wel eens graag.
En denkt hij vaak na over zijn bestaan als motaar, en over het bestaan, tout court.
Ik ben ervan overtuigd, vroeg of laat eindigt dat bestaan wel, net als elk ander bestaan. Gewoon omdat een mens ouder word, en het hem niet meer zo goed gaat als, laten we zeggen, toen hij net 21 was geworden. Das dus één van de redenen, waarom aan alle mooie dingen een einde komt, en deze eindigen als “souveniers”, mooie herinneringen aan vervlogen tijden. Nostalgie is iets voor de oude dag ?
Maar “trust me”, dat is vandaag nog niet.



In mijn haast 35 jarig motorbestaan, heeft den Teejoo wel wat gezien. En hij heeft veel weten veranderen. En dan bedoel ik niet alleen op motorfiets gebied. Natuurlijk, de bikes van vandaag staan mijlenver van de hoogtoerige, en lawaaierig jankende, twee-takten van 25 jaar geleden. Destijds beleefden we inderdaad de glorietijd van de twee en driecilinder twee-takt machines. Hun snelheid was fenomenaal, en sommigen hun rijgedrag was dat eveneens.
Daar staan de huidige twee, drie en viercilinder vier-takten inderdaad ver boven. Maar ze zijn dan ook meer dan een kwarteeuw jonger. En de techniek is nu eenmaal in die 25 jaar ontegensprekelijk verder volwassen geworden. Maar is dat ook het geval voor de berijder ervan ?



Neen, den Teejoo heeft veel meer zien veranderen, ook naast het technische aspect van het motorrijden. Geloof me, … veel meer.
Naast het technische gebeuren, is er onder andere ook het menselijk aspect. Al raak ik daar misschien een teer onderwerp aan. Motorrijders zijn immers nog steeds broeders. Dat geloven, en zeggen we toch graag. Zijn motorrijders broeders ? Wel, we groeten elkaar nog hartelijk op de weg. Immers, steevast gaat dat linkerhandje omhoog als er een motaar aan de andere kant van de weg gespot word. Na vijfendertig jaar biken, vind ik dat nog steeds een van de charmantste aspecten van onze hobby. Maar kijk, net daar eindigt het tegenwoordig net té vaak. En dat komt, naar het idee van den Teejoo, omdat de tijden en de evolutie, de mensen veranderen. Waar dit vroeger inderdaad een van harte gegunde groet was, is het nu, volgens den Teejoo, veel meer een “heb je mij wel gezien” ding geworden. Nu, niet echt iets om hoog over op te lopen, als je het mij vraagt. Ik denk weemoedig vaak terug aan de tijd, toen iedere motaar de andere belangeloos hielp met problemen. Een platte band ? De motaar achter je helpt hem te plakken. Zonder benzine gevallen ? De motaar die na je komt, sleept je wel tot aan het tankstation. Gevallen ? De volgende motaar helpt je opstaan en zal je stuur zelfs even voor je rechtzetten. Zo ging het vroeger. En den Teejoo is wat blij én fier, dat hij deze tijden gezien en beleefd heeft. Hij denkt er met een warm hart aan terug. Dagelijks.

Tegenwoordig. Tegenwoordig ben je voor alles verzekerd, niet ? Platte band ? Bel touring. We hebben allemaal wel een gsm op zak. Niet ? Zonder benzine gevallen ? Bel touring of de wegenwacht. Zij slepen je wel naar het volgende tankstation, of, hopelijk hebben ze een gevulde jerry-can mee. Gevallen ? Iemand belt wel 101, of je doet het zelf.
Op het gevaar af als een oude romanticus versleten te worden, of om gewoon als een zeveraar bestempeld te worden..... Is het dit wat we vooruitgang noemen ?. Het lijkt me vaak, dat het hedendaags zo hoog geprezen individualisme, gewoon een heel gemakkelijk excuus is geworden voor het alom heersende egoïsme ?

Oké, we zijn dan misschien wel allemaal individualisten. Tot daar toe. Dat vind ik eigenlijk nog eens zo erg niet . Dergelijke bepalingen zijn immers als een elastiek. Ze nemen de vorm aan tot waar ze uitgerokken kunnen worden. En eigenlijk is het ook de waarheid. Die mag gerust wel eens gezegd worden. Individualisme siert nu eenmaal elk individu. In kleinere of grotere mate. Net als die elastiek. Maar ooit is me geleerd, om voorzichtig te zijn met veralgemenen. Ik doe dat dan ook niet makkelijk. Den Teejoo heeft nu eenmaal nooit voor de gemakkelijkste weg gekozen. Ik kan der ook niet aan doen, maar den Teejoo is geen kuddebeest. Vele mensen doen iets, omdat anderen dat ook doen. Geen probleem als ze daar gelukkig mee wezen. Maar voor den Teejoo geld net het omgekeerde. Als “iedereen” iets doet, is dat een reden voor den Teejoo om dat bepaalt fenomeen eens duchtig onder de loep te nemen en van nabij te bestuderen. En om er kritisch over na te denken. Want alleen zo, zie je ook de smalle kantjes van de maatschappij. Tegenwoordig zijn we niet alleen een maatschappij van de individualisten als je wilt, ik stel vaak vast dat we ook een maatschappij zijn waar gemakzucht heerst en waar gemakkelijke en eenvoudig lijkende dingen, de voorkeur krijgen boven kwalitatief betere zaken, zelfs als deze laatste een goedkoper alternatief vormen. Laten we daarvoor allemaal maar eens gewoon naar onze pc kijken, die we nu gebruiken om deze tekst te lezen. Ik durf wedden, en zelfs voor redelijk veel, dat uw pc een Microsoft based pc is. Want iedereen gebruikt toch een of ander “misbaksel” van Bill Gates , niet ? Wel neen beste vrienden. Niet iedereen doet dat. En zeker niet den Teejoo :-)

De gemakkelijkste weg naar een oplossing, is niet steeds de beste weg, of de meest voor de hand liggende. En aan de meest voor de hand liggende weg, beleef je waarschijnlijk veel minder plezier dan aan een kronkelende omweg vol verassingen. Geloof me, ik rijd al 35 jaar met de motorfiets om een reden. En der is meer baan”keuze” tussen Antwerpen en Gent dan alleen de E17. Al is de afstand niet overal gelijk, je hebt er wel veel meer motor plezier. En deze filosofie reikt veel verder het dan motorrijden alleen. Je leert zo uitkijken naar alternatieven. Dat pas, is de echte motorrijders geest ! Kijk maar eens naar uw pc, waar we het hierboven over hadden. Den Teejoo gebruikt al een jaar of tien, niks meer van Microsoft op zijn personal computers en server. Daar draait al even lang, én tot overgrote tevredenheid, alles op Linux. Linux is een volwaardig alternatief voor wat op uw pc staat. Vrijheid van geest én keuze is mij meer waard, dan de beklemmend dure wereld van Bill Gates, die door “iedereen” gebruikt word. O, ja,, Linux is vaak gewoon gratis, net als de support.
Maar u leest dit relaas niet om Linux te leren kennen :-)

Waar de motaar Teejoo als sinds begin jaren 70 van de vorige eeuw veel plezier aan heeft, is het rijden van treffens. Nu noemen we dat inderdaad motor treffens, en den Teejoo heeft daar nog steeds erg veel plezier in. Keer op keer. Je ontdekt op die manier immers wegen en wegjes, die je anders nooit berijden zou. Vroeger noemde men dat concentraties. Ook dit is wel een tijd geleden, akkoord. Het was de glorie tijd van de BMB. De Belgische Motor Federatie/Bond die nu trouwens nog bestaat. Het was de tijd dat den Teejoo erg goed bevriend was met meerdere Waalse motaars. En de tijd dat den Teejoo bevriend was met Pepe Brel. Zijn voornaam was eigenlijk Pierre. En ja, hij was de broer van Jacques Brel. Wat een mooie tijd. Mooie herinneringen ook.
Het was ook de tijd van den Dodouche in de Walen, kanten van Verviers als ik me het goed herinner. Een echte rebel, ja, oké, ook een rebel met een grote mond, maar in mijn ogen was hij vooral een rebel met een gouden hart. En met een grote liefde voor alles wat in de motorwereld roerde.
Dit zijn slechts twee namen, van een haast eindeloze reeks geweldige mensen, waar ik erg fijne herinneringen aan over hou. Ik weet niet zeker wat van ieder van hen allen geworden is, van Pepe, Dodouche, Oscaar Vespa, Jaak Ubben uit NeerOeteren, en vele anderen, die hun weg in mijn herinneringen verdient hebben. Het waren inderdaad erg mooie tijden, tijden uit onze jeugd, en waarschijnlijk ook tijden , die we nu een klein beetje idealiseren. Het was dan ook allemaal de vorige eeuw.

Den Teejoo herinnert zich bovendien zéér goed al het kabaal dat in het ledenblad (nog gedrukt in zwart/wit ! ) gemaakt werd, en alle discussies die vaak erg hoog opliepen, toen de inschrijving van treffens plots over de 100Bfr begonnen te stijgen. Daar werd destijds bijzonder veel heisa rond gemaakt. En terecht overigens. Ook destijds was men bereid om, als sympathieke motorrijder, de organiserende motorclub iets te gunnen, ter vergoeding van het werk dat ze in dat treffen en de aanwezige bewegwijzering gestoken hadden.
Ook nu betaald den Teejoo graag voor bewezen diensten, zeker als alles goed meevalt en prima georganiseerd is. Al valt dat tegenwoordig soms wel eens tegen, daar wilt den Teejoo eigenlijk niet al te veel kritiek op spuien. Dertig jaar geleden, kon je dat immers ook misbaksels van treffen hebben.

Maar wat den Teejoo eigenlijk wél wat meer dubbele gevoelens bij heeft, is dat je een flink aantal treffens, tegenwoordig ziet georganiseerd worden voor een “goed doel”. Natuurlijk, het krikt ons ego op, om deel te nemen aan een goed doel, en zo te tonen, dat we als motaars best leuke jongens zijn. En, geloof me aub, dat mag gerust ! Daar is helemaal niets fout mee ! Iedereen heeft wel eens een ego-boost nodig. Zeker vandaag. En terecht. In een maatschappij die alleen maar prestatie gericht is geworden, zijn goede doelen best een mooi iets. Maar wat bij den Teejoo steeds vaker een steek door zijn hart is, is dat dat “goed doel” op zich als excuus beschouwd word, om flink wat meer inschrijving te vragen. Als ik terug denk aan het formaat en de breed uitgesponnen 100-frank discussies van weleer, dan kan den Teejoo bijna niet begrijpen, dat er tegenwoordig geen discussies of reacties losgeweekt worden bij zij, die met hun geldbeugel open mogen staan. Sommige treffens presteren het zelfs om acht euro en zelfs meer te vragen, én hier bovendien zelfs geen consumptie bonnetjes bij te leveren. Ik vind dit echt betreurenswaardig. De 100 frank discussies van weleer worden zelfs niet overgedaan, nu het 360 frank discussies kunnen worden. Nu wil ik me zeker niet uitspreken over de financiële mogelijkheden van iedereen, ik kan alleen maar spreken over mijn eigen geldbeugel. En voor die geldbeugel is 8 of meer euro inschrijving per treffen best veel. Zeker als je er zo veel mogelijk rijd per maand.



Ik heb dat zelfde gevoel trouwens ook bij het aanschouwen van, wat ik telkens aan de benzinepomp betalen moet. Nog nooit in het verleden heeft den Teejoo voor 30 euro getankt in zijn bike. Nu is dat legio. En mijn benzinetank is écht niet groter geworden hoor ! Geef toe, het is toch niet alleen den Teejoo die deze prijs betaalt. Ik herinner me de periode dat er algemene stakingen en meerdere protestbetogingen in Brussel waren, omdat de brandstof prijzen steeds hoger stegen. De jaren 80 van vorige eeuw was dat. Tegenwoordig lijkt het erop, alsof het niemand meer wat schelen kan, wat hij/zij, waarvoor moet betalen. Of is dit slechts schijn ? Soms lijkt het wel, denk ik dan, dat het geld bij velen op de rug groeit en ze het maar te plukken hebben. Het is me meer en meer duidelijk dat we in een periode van steeds groter wordende onverschilligheid leven. Gebruiken we misschien goede doelen, om ons zelf te sussen,en om ons blauw gelouterd ego, een floeren uiterlijk te geven ? Ik stel alleen maar de vraag, niet ?

Je kan opteren dat alles in het leven, in dertig jaar ook duurder geworden is, maar dat gaat eigenlijk voorbij aan de essentie van deze retoriek. Zijn motorrijders nog broeders als ze de reden van hun treffen in een goed doel moeten zoeken ? Voorzeker zijn ze dat nog steeds, al kan je wel een paar kanttekeningen bij deze fenomenen plaatsen. Kijk, het is nog steeds zo, dat motorrijders mensen met een ander uitgangspunt zijn. Toch voor de échte motorrijders. Als een bestuurder van een vier-wieler ergens naartoe rijd, van punt A naar punt B, dan is zijn doel, gewoon punt B. Niet zo voor een motorrijder in hart en nieren. Voor hem is de weg van, punt A naar punt B, het doel. En die weg, is niet noodzakelijk, zelfs haast nooit, de meest voor de hand liggende. Motorrijders rijden, gewoon, omdat de wegen er zijn, die hen uitnodigen om net de verborgen plaatsjes naast die wegen te ontdekken. Wat ik bedoel is, motorrijden is een goed doel op zich. Het is economischer, minder vervuilende en veel aangenamer, dan je op een andere manier voortbewegen. Al kunnen de meningen hier verschillen

Vrienden, we hoeven geen excuses te zoeken in goede doelen om mooie ritten te maken, den Teejoo stelt dat motorrijden ook een goed doel “an sich” is. En hiermee wilt den Teejoo geen enkele kritiek op “goed doel “ treffens uiten. Hij wil alleen maar stellen, dat we ze niet moeten gebruiken om de verkeerde redenen. Naar zo een treffen gaan, om jezelf als sympathiek motaar te profileren, om je ego te strelen, om vooral door je omgeving als een motaar met een goed hart beschouwt te worden, of gewoon om jezelf het imago van goed mens te geven, zodat anderen je best leuk zouden vinden ….. neen jongens, zo werkt het niet. Echt niet. De wereld waar we in leven is geen cinema, geen “make believe”. Er is écht wat meer nodig als een goed doel treffen, om als motaar sympathiek gevonden te worden. Laten we aub naar treffens gaan omdat we graag rijden op onze tweewielers, en niet omdat we o zo graag, graag gezien worden door Mia, Germaine of Valerie. Laten we rijden om de juiste redenen, en niet omdat we een macho zijn !!!



Je als een heer in het verkeer gedragen, helpt veel meer, dan die stikker op je koffers of je helm van het goede doel treffen van vorig maand. Maar den Teejoo merkt ook, dat je de motaars die zich als een heer in het verkeer gedragen, tegenwoordig op een hand tellen kunt, en dat ze zeldzaam worden. En dat vind den Teejoo pas erg jammer. Heel erg. Want den Teejoo probeert dat dus wel te zijn. Al 35 jaar. Stoppen aan zebra paden. Mensen laten oversteken. Voorrang verlenen waar het moet. Je aan de snelheidsbeperkingen houden. En neen, 10 km te veel, is 10 km te veel per uur. Afstand houden. Je aan de verkeersregels houden. Want die laatsten zijn er ook voor ons , voor mij en voor u. Alleen zo, kan je respect van anderen verdienen, niet door naar een treffen te gaan, waar het goed doel voorop staat. Respect en sympathie van andere weggebruikers krijgen, is een werk van jaren, niet van een 1 dags treffen. En je krijgt het niet door vb in Berlare van het ene ronde punt naar het andere te rijden, op je achterste wiel. Geloof me, de roem die je daardoor erft, is er één van korte duur. Bovendien. Met zo een enkele daad verniel je dat, wat anderen in een heel leven opgebouwd hebben.

Den Teejoo wil eindigen met een enkele vraag, één verzoek.
Herken je jezelf hierin, aub, doe er dan wat aan, en PAS JE RIJGEDRAG AAN !!!
Den Teejoo en de rest van de wereld dankt u hartelijk

Tot ergens in den draai,
Het ga je goed, motaar !
Maar houd het VEILIG
CY all,
Den Teejoo,
die hier misschien heel even,
de moraalridder spelen wil :-)






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BLUE

Blue is the color of a broken heart.
Thats what Timmy used to say.
Timmy was just nineteen, when I first met him .
His real name was Tom, but he preferred to be called Timmy.
That sounded much more international, cause that was the way he wanted it to be. You see, he was looking foreword to an international carrier as a songwriter. At least, thats what he planned. At least, thats what he would have liked to be. He would have, really.
Timmy was a kid from a better family, that did some business in old metals and things like that. He always had all the things he needed in life, was never neglected or so, and had all the opportunities one could wish in life, at the age of nineteen. Really, when I got to know him well, I didn't understand why he was feeling that depressed and unhappy. Yes, Timmy was not to happy with his life. And I soon knew why. Timmy had a nice couple of parents. But they were busy. And, as all busy parents, from the higher social classes, his parents were …. well, very busy hard working and getting money. Money that would have given they kids a good education. That was very important to them, to make sure, they kids never had anything in short. One sees that often, in my humble opinion. Parents see that financially, kids have anything they need and wish for. This way, they truly believe, the kids will be fine, and have nothing to complain about. They seem to often, to forget, kids need more than an expensive house to live in, and some appropriate toys to keep them happy. Kids need a home to. Well, at least some do. Unfortunately, its just that what the parents of Timmy and his sis, seemed to forget. And kept on forgetting. A crying shame you say ? Yes, you are right there. And that made Timmy sad, even as a kid. So sad, he got sick from it. So as good parents, they got to the doctor with they son. Who send him to psychologist. Who put him in the hands of a psychiatrist, who immediately put him in his clinic for over three months.
Guess you can say, his parents, were the first ones to break Timmy's heart.
Blue is the color of a broken heart.

When Timmy came out of the hospital he was more clever than before.
Yes he was. Not that he learned that much more on his behavior, but he had learned one very important lesson in life. He learned about the effect of drugs and medication. And he learned his lesson well. That is, if I may say so, probably a bit to well.
I first met Timmy in the park. Told you that, no ? Doing a walk with my dog. He was laying on a bench in the park, sleeping or something like that. I didn't give him much attention, after all, he seemed to be dressed like an old beggar, with a torn down light brown raincoat, who seemed just a couple half-measures too large for him. It looked like he got his clothes from a second hand shop or so. Even my dog didn't pay much attention to him, he was more interested in the tree next to the bench, but, hey, my dog follows his nose after all. So we passed by him, without paying much attention, you know, another drunk in the park. After all, who cares ? We did quiet a walk in the park, and, as we returned home, we once again, went by the bench where this strange individual was laying down. Now Bo did pay some attention to him. He sniffed a bit at his long and neglected hair, that was falling all over his face, and then look at me, with a question mark on his doggy face.
Weirdo, Bo said to me.
You think so ?, was my answer to Bo.
And this made me curious.
I sat down next to this person, on the same bench, and said a couple of words to greet him.
There was no answer.
I shook him a bit by the shoulder, and yes, this person awoke. It was the first time I saw his face. He was much younger than I was, guess I should have been able to be his dad. He had long hair, that needed a good brush, and the rest of him clearly needed a hot bath and some strong soap. Slowly, he got up. And he looked around him, in a strange absent way. It was as if he was looking but not seeing. And he looked right through me.
See, said Bo, weirdo indeed !
Guess Bo can smell a guy temperament miles away.
I am a songwriter, the guy spoke to me.
Really ?, answered I a bit surprised.
Yes, answered my new friend, slowly, and he pointed to the sky.
So I cant help it, we started our first conversation. First of many to come.
And this is the way I met this particularly and kinda strange young guy, called Timmy.
Getting sober, on a bench, in the park, the park where I walked my dog regularly.
Blue is the color of a broken heart.

I learned to know Timmy much better in the time to come after our first meeting.
As he lived alone in a shaggy flat, I invited him more than once to come to me and have a descent meat. And sometimes for a hot shower. Bo never liked him to much, but than again, Bo was a easy going dog. He never gave me much trouble. And that being something, I was not able to say of Timmy. He got in trouble, often. Very often. Not to say, to often. Sometimes with the bartender, sometimes, with his mom, sometimes with the owner of the shop he got his livings from, and too often to, Timmy got lady troubles. As I got to know him a bit better, it all started out, when he wasn't even eighteen. As it was a common thing in those times, Timmy wanted to go and live by his own. There were many and heavy discussions about it with his parents. But at least, they gave him his way, and they bought him a reasonable flat, in a better side of the town. He got the flat for free, you can say, but he got the responsibility to decorate and furnish it himself. And for that, he needed some additional money. And, since he didn't wanna go to school any more, he had to get that money by working. And, although Timmy had the habit to see his parents working hard, I am afraid to say, they didn't teach him that. As he never liked to go to school, as he said, he never learned a profession either. But of course, he didn't need that. He was going to be a famous international song writer, remember ? Needless to say, Timmy didn't get to much of painting on his walls, and almost no furniture at all. And as he started to live on his own, Timmy's life changed dramatically. His dad, being weak of heart and tender to his son, wanted to give him a monthly fee, just to help him started. But his mom disagreed on that. Timmy had enough. If he wanted to live on himself, well he should learn to take care of himself to. And get a job. Need I to say, his mom was very authoritarian person ? And since in most modern marriages, ladies are the boss, his mom got her way. And dad didn't pay him a penny any more. At least not, when mom was near. Every now and then he slid him some money, when his wife didn't see it, but that was far from enough to pay Timmy his living. On top of this, I told you that Timmy learned the importance of drugs and medicine, Timmy needed to pay his doctor and his medication. And, as you can guess, he couldn't any more after a while. He went to his parents home to beg for money, as he told me. But as he came there, very often, dad was not even home. And his mom , being hard as a rock, never gave him any. If she had been able to grow up this way, surely so could her son. But no, her son was as weak as her husband. It was extremely clear to her, where her son got his weak personality from. Definitively not from her. Her son was just her curse, and nothing else ! And he should not forget, she had a daughter to; who soon would get married. To a very nice young man, studying in his last year, to become a doctor !!! That was something so different than Timmy ! That was nice family ! He should see a example in this !
So, no, Timmy never got money out of her. Only her shame.
Guess you can say, his mom broke Timmy's heart to, even more than once.
Blue is the color of a broken heart.

So, I learned to know Timmy, when he was living on himself for quiet a while, as he said himself. He didn't make much out of his flat. Didn't see why he should. He always saw himself as a vagabond, a country cursor or a vagrant. He liked this old fashion and too romantic view of life. His flat was a place to sleep. And to be dry when the rain comes. And for sex of course. Yes. Timmy had a girlfriend. Once. It didn't last for long. He told me this once, when he as eating his steak at my pace. She even couldn't bake an egg, he said. But she was a beauty. Me, myself, I only saw her at his funeral. A short, superficial ceremony. She wanted to sit, right next to Timmy's mom, but she chased her away. Just as her son, I reflected at that moment. She wasn't even dressed in black. Well, I do agree, dressing in black isn't much popular on weddings any more , nowadays. But come on, a combination of yellow and red, nylons and stiletto's ? Okay, Timmy would have appreciated the view. And so did I. But you see, as I said, Timmy was not happy with Diana very long. As all nice looking ladies, she wanted things. To keep on being good looking. And to live in style. Her style, that was. Not Timmy's style. Besides, Timmy never had the money for style. He spend to much money on his “occasional” dope, as he called it himself. When I first got to know him, he was just starting with needles. He could keep on talking and admiring the effect of a shot forever. It made him feel like.... well, very high. All those colors he saw then. All those beautiful feelings that arose. All those nice words and sounds that were finding they way to his head. All those warm feelings. Those warm feelings for Diana just grew and grew. Probably as fast as his dick. But hey, what straight guy could blame him ? I surely wasn't. After all she looked like a regular movie star. And the least you could say, was, that she had the temper and the allures of one to. Actually, but mind you, I could be wrong here, it was my thought she stayed a while with Timmy, because of his father. She knew, that secretly, it was he who financed Timmy's life. And that he did, indeed, have money. And a flourishing business. So I just suppose, that by Timmy, she tried to get into dads wallet. Something, that didn't work. Timmy never told me a lot of this, but sometimes, one can understand a lot, just by listening to what someone is not saying. And I consider myself a good listener. So, this story would have got an happy ending, if dad would have been staying alive. But he didn't. A sudden haert attack. His first. And final one. No warnings. Just nothing. Dad passed away. To soon.
So Timmy lost his father, and just a week later, he lost Diana.
Blue is the color of a broken heart.

In a bar, at the bad site of town, Timmy was working, keeping the floor clean. And doing stuff like that. He did find a job after all. Okay, it wasn't the job of his dreams, but hey, one always must start at the bottom. Don t you think so too ? Anyway, he didn't like it. Didn't he tell me he once would be a worldwide know songwriter ? Well, it was in that period, Timmy actual did write some lyrics. He kept a small and neglected writing book, inside of his jacket. And he noted all his ideas in it. He had many in that time. Many I did love. Many I didn't feel much about it. You know, when the boos is in the man, his spirit is in the bottle. Well, thats just a saying we have, over here. But sometimes, luck is just after the corner. Sometimes it is indeed. Timmy met an impresario. Yes he did ! This impresario had several know singers and artists on his curriculum vitae. And he was getting quiet wealthy, thanks to those. They came to a kinda agreement, Timmy and he. So the impresario took a copy of Timmy's schoolbook full of poems and lyrics. And then he just disappeared. Never to been, seen again. And I almost forgot about it. But not so Timmy. Cleaning floors and dirt in this bar. Whipping off puke and urine. Timmy wasn't afraid to work, so it seemed. Doing those dirty jobs. And others. His mind stayed with his lyrics, though. And he didn't forget all of it, no. It was just the way he was to me, his only old friend. We became very close in that time, Timmy and I. Even Timmy and Bo. They even started to like each other. And one day, I hear this song on the radio. New song, new performer. That evening, Timmy stood at my front door. He clearly shot his last money up his arm. As he told me, he went to his mom. Crying his eyes out. That his song was stolen. And he had no way to prove it. And he was missing a lot of money this way. And he needed to pay some bills. And Diana has left him. It was all getting just to much for him. As you can understand, his mom kicked him out. Again.
I took him to the clinic that night. He was so far away, and so feeling down, I thought that the worst thing in life would happen to him. When the medics hurried to him, he told them his heart was broken. They looked at me, they just didn't understand. As I was sitting down in the waiting chamber, I did hear his song on the radio. And at that moment, I did understand what he was saying to the doctors. It was the song. And it became a hit, with a striking title.
Blue is the color of a broken heart.

So Timmy was feeling more depressed every day. It looked, as if all his life, he was feeling sad and blue. The needles didn't help him much, and most of the times, he had no money to get to one after all. I had to get away that week, to Germany. I had a congress for my work, and I couldn't postpone that. Me to, I have to make a living.
One of those days, he got up feeling extreme terrible, I guess. He didn't know what to do, where to go to, or who to talk to. And he didn't see any solution for his problems and his own attitudes. So he went out, and walked to the outside of town. As he did so many times before, he walked and waggled on the small country road next to the train highway. Except, this time, he didn't take the dirty road itself. One could say, Timmy took the 16:08, the express to Gent, at the age of twenty four. Later the train-conductor declared, that in his impression, Timmy did see him coming. And he did hear the train whistle. Twice. It seems he was even looking the conductor right in the eyes. It gave this guy a extreme horrifying feeling, as he told the press. And it seems as Timmy was saying words, or shouting at him. But of course, the man didn't hear.
Since I was away on a field trip when it happened, I came back the other day. A few days later, I forced myself to go and watch how they put Timmy in his last resting place, an very cheap coffin. They had to put him in it, in four different pieces. His head was totally wrapped into towels, and I even couldn't see his face. I think it was the cheapest coffin his mom could find. And she wasn't present then and there. Since her daughter was at the point of getting married, I think it was all she was ready to pay for her son. He was berried in a corner of our local cemetery, known as the cheap corner. People over here call it that way, because when it rains very heavy, water from a little close creek, floated this side. Timmy's mom didn't pay to much for the stone of his grave to. The cheapest one was just good enough for him. So I asked her, for the permission, to let engrave a small text on his tombstone. I was ready to pay for those myself. As my last tribute to a good friend. She agreed, with not a single tear.
I am reading those eight words right now.
Blue is the color of a broken heart.

Vick and Mick

There are several kinds of premieres in life.
Well, you could say, this story is one of them.
First of all, due to the fast incremental grow of my English speaking friends, I decided to write this story in English. It is a sure thing, I wanted them to know, what an wonderful artist with words and sentences I am. And I wanted them to be part, of my experience as a writer of short stories. How else, can you be a part of a writers art, as with living his stories as his reader ? It is in this way to, that I should probably be able to give all my SL friends, a present in the form of a story, to demonstrate my gratitude to them, for helping me this far in the fascinating place SL can be. So if you are a SL friend of Teejoo, please see this story as my gift to you, in the hope we will learn to know each other deeper than in the past.
This story is in one more way a premiere in its kind.
Usually, as most of you know, I only written fiction, complete fiction, with, I do confess, only some small parts of real life scenes. Now, this story is quiet different. It happened 10 steps from my front door, and I, myself, was an acting part in it. All the way.
So, for a change, this story, is a “real happened”story, and not fiction at all.
And it is, once more, the prove that reality is often more horrifying, than any fiction.
Life can play many tricks, I assure you, but I guess, it will always need a storyteller.

This is the story of Vicky and Micky.
I don't want use they real names, thats why i use these.
You must admit, it does sound good to :-)
Mick now, is 82, his companion Vicky is about 69, if I recall correctly.
They like to make pictures, just as I do.
Ever since I know them, they travel all around the world, taking pictures of everything they see and everyone they meet on they journeys. And they have seen a very big part of our world, believe me.
I learned to know them, because Micky once took a post package in for me, and delivered it to me in the evening. We talked, and that was the beginning of a very nice friendship. Just a few days later, he met Vicky. And a few months later, as she moved in with him, he introduced me to her. Some of you may know the I ride motorcycle. Well, there is still a taboo around that you know. Many people don't like to talk to bikers. They are seen as dirty and mean. I am sure, thàt is the same story everywhere. Now I am a real bikes, I ride all year. Have a total of way over half a million kilometers on mi counter. And Micky had much respect for that. Well, he was right you know, to much guys become newborn biker in they midlife crisis, and only ride in summer and when the weather is good. They do like to call themselfs the bikers of the new generation. I must confess, I am one of the old generation, thats the good generation, the one I like :-)
But I was talking about Vicky and Micky.
I came often to their house; it was one of the smaller houses in our neighborhood, specially made for the elder people. They lived in one of those houses, not even 2 minutes away from me, in walking distance. We all three loved taking pictures with our cameras. Al thought I must say, I shoot digital, and, they never found they way up to digital, they still shoot on films one has to develop. So, by the years, I saw a lot of the pictures they made in albums, as they saw many of me on my PC . Micky loved mi bike, he knew all the history of BMW boxer bikes, just as I did. We talked long hours sometimes. About traveling by bike, and about the good old days. I am sure, you know the stuff. And I kinda felt sorry for both of them, to be alone, just the two of them. Just like me. No friends, no kids, no relatives. Just like me.
We understood each other very well.
And I learned to know some nice and good old neighbors.
Believe me, even for an old biker of the year 2008, this is rare thing.

On Monday, it was about 13:10, I know, cause I watched the clock just a while before, I heard a loud knocking om I front door. Bell rang a couple off times, and the banging started again. I rushed to the door, imagining plenty of weird stuff, and opened the door. There was Vicky. All red in the face, and crying her eyes out. Come quickly, there is something wrong with Mick, she said crying. Clearly she was very upset about Mick's condition. I went with her to they house in a hurry, and asked her if she called a medic. Well yes, she had. Once in the house I saw old Mick had slipped out of a resting chair, and was laying on the ground on his back. It seemed to me, he slipped out of his lazy chair on the ground. I immediately noticed this was something seriously wrong. He was not breathing any more. As I tried to give him mouth to mouth, I noticed he was pale, cold, and already had dark blue lips. I felt no pols what so ever. And when I tried to open his eyelids, they were very heavy and difficult to open. The old Mick had passed away, I suddenly realized in a shock.
The moment I looked at Vicky, and she started to cry even more loudly then before, the doctor came in. Obviously, Vicky had left the door open. I think you are to late, I said silently to her. The doctor being a lady, you know. She studied Micky quiet well, for several minutes, but she couldn't find any life in the poor chap. Anyone called for a ambulance ?, she asked. Well, no, no one did. So she called for one on her cellphone.
I think there is not much more we can do, she said to Vicky, but I asked for a reanimation car ambulance. Vicky cried even more harder than before, and louder, as if she wanted the neighbors to hear her sadness.
While the lady doctor gave her a sedative, to calm her down, the ambulance arrived. And with them, the cops. In our country, as like in more I guess, there is always an investigation, when someone dies at home. To exclude criminal intension's, or not. After a short try in reanimation, dead Mick was put on a stretcher, with a blanket on him, and pulled in the ambulance. She drove away with a lot of noise, as if there could happen a miracle to Mick's condition. The police consisted of two woman cops. They first talked to the woman doctor, and then noted our statement. Concerning myself, there was not a lot to tell, so that was rather quickly done. So after a while I stayed back with Vicky. We decided to get in my car and drive to the hospital. Maybe there they could have don something to get Mick back ? I did seriously doubt that, but I just couldn't take away all hope for Vicky. Of course, once there, we found out very fast, that all hope really was gone. We were able, though, to take a look at Mick, as they had brought him in. He already was in a separated room for the passed away people. Needless to say, that Vicky was .. well, hopeless. You understand.
I took her home. Well, I took her back to Mick's home I should say. She seemed all confused in the car, but I thought that was due to the tranquilizers the lady doc gave her. So I left her at home, what else could I do ? I mean, I surely didn't have all day, no ? Even a guy like me has to do some shopping and working. So I confess, I left her alone. Since there was no relative or family I could bring her to. Believe me, I asked. Twice.
So I did what I had to do, for what was left of the late afternoon. Feeling bad. And thinking about Mick. What a swell guy he was. What a good friend. Hell, he was the best friend I had in my own neighborhood ! There was not an other person I saw that much, or had talked to. Yes, although old of age, he was younger of mind than many other people I know. And yes again, although old, he was a very good friend of mine. But than again I could think the same about Vicky. And now she was all alone in the world. Just as I was. I decided to pay her a visit as soon I was getting home. When I parked my car in front of mi house, I saw two police man coming outside her and Mick's house, saying goodbye to her, and coming up to my place. It was clear, they wanted to talk to me. Again.
This time the two police agents were of opposite sexes, where i mean, an older guy, and a brand new lady cop, as I understood very fast. They presented themselves, and asked if they could come in to talk to me. Now tell me, would you say no to a cop ?
Once inside, the lady went straight to the point. If I recall my statement from before, and if I had something to add. Well no, what should I have to add ? So she told me, that the medics of the hospital had assured them, that Mick should have been dead quiet a while before the ambulance picked him up. At least 1:30 or 2 hours, the older man pointed out to me.
To be completely honest, I was not at all, less astonished concerning their mistrust, because, don't cops mistrust everyone ? I guess, mistrust comes with the job. Or at least, with that job. I told them, that indeed, I noticed some things on Mick when I found him, that made me wonder, but than again, all and everything happened so fast and quickly, that I didn't spend much time thinking about it. But I did notice, as I told before, that Mick was quiet cold indeed, and his eyes opened a bit hard. They seemed to buy my explanation, after all, it was all I could give them. Then they told me, they had spoken with Vicky about their concern. It so seemed, that the lazy chair where Mick died in, was not visible from the kitchen. I did know that. And after diner, Vicky spend her time in the kitchen, cleaning up, and in the garden. So, as they have the habit to eat very early, they usually are finished eating before twelve o'clock, Vicky disappeared in the kitchen after diner. And after diner, Mick laid himself down in his lazy chair, as he always did. Now Vicky was talking to Micky, several times, being busy in the kitchen, but he never answered, as he did often when falling asleep in his chair. And Vicky, used to that, never checked on Mick. So the assumption now was, Mick died quickly after diner, sitting down in his lazy chair, and Vicky only found out more than an hour later. Fetching me. And the lady doctor.
The cops seemed to be pleased with all the talk they done, and with my reaction, they put some thing on paper, let me sing it and politely sais no to the bear I offered them, and then left.
Now, you can start to think this is the end of the story of Mick and Vick. Well, it was surely the end of Micky. And it could have been the end of this story. But, as every story, the clue lies in its tail, as we say over here.
Tuesday, I had a busy day.
Didn't see Vicky or anyone, I was away from home most off the day.
But on Wednesday, about eleven, I had a phone from the police office. Again, you could say. I had the older person on the line, who I met late on Monday. If I knew about any of Mick's relatives . I only could say what I knew, no, as far as I knew, Mick had non. Just as Vicky. Where the top cop answered, that I seemed not to know my neighbors that well. As it turned out, Mick has been married before. Even twice. Not only he had several kids, but he even had a grandson, almost as old as I.
And, as he continued, not only I seemed not to know this, but even Vicky. Which they found quiet suspicious. Not to mention strange. But as he spoke to me, he didn't blame me, cause I was after all, just a neighbor. There would not be an investigation, he told me, Mick died of natural causes, as the doctors testified, so there was no need for any investigation. So he left me on the phone, very surprised. Very surprised indeed. With Vicky, Mick had his third wife. At least. Hell, I would never had won from him in that race ! What a guy. What a secret guy. The rest of the day I kept wondering. About Vicky. It was true, she never seemed to be interested in the past, all her love went to voyaging and taking pictures. And of course, to Mick. I was quiet puzzled, and that was the least I could say.

Now still, this is not the end of this story.
O no, its not.
On Wednesday evening, Vicky came to me on visit.
They used to come to me on Wednesday evenings, you know, we did have our habits after all.
She told me the visit of the cops. She had seen them once more than I did. And the countenance of that visit, I knew. Then suddenly, she told me she had had the visit of their landlord, Mick did rented the house. She had to leave, even quickly, before the end of the month. So the little house would be free to rent to others. There even was a waiting list. And Vicky was surely not on that list. So she was kicked out I asked her ? Well yes she was. And no, she had an alternative. As I was in for an other surprise, she did have a small house on her own. For years already. And she kindly asked if I could help her with my little van to move back. Now how can one say no, to an old lady friend ? And there was an other surprise. This afternoon, she had a visit from Mick's son and grandson. They came to make the inventory of the countenance of the house of Mick. All would be sold as quickly as possible. That was the other reason she wanted to move quickly. Otherwise she would think that those people would sell her part of the furniture to. No tears no sorries, no emotions. Just about the money. Thats how kids seem to grow old these days.
So I helped her move. I even got an old collectors item photograph apparatus, and some nice paintings for mi help. I must say, she wasn't the same Vicky I knew before. There was a crack in her. And it was a big one.
When I left her, I wondered, witch number of secrets, she would have kept for the future.

I must say, these are extraordinary times we live in today. I do realize that. Believe me. And I am amazed about it. Every new day. Believe me again. But I do wonder, day after day after day. With our gigantic communication possibilities, our world wide web, the Internet and cellphones, our world sized catastrophes and crisis, our jumbo jets and our space rockets, I often ask myself the same question. It turns and turns circles in my head at continuing and accelerated speeds. I wonder why, at a time we were never so close to each other, why we now are so far apart from each other. In the year 2009, loneliness and egoism, were never in human history so big and widely spread. And I do know it sounds like a cliché. Never in human history people were so far from each other, and yet so close together. In a world thats constantly getting smaller, never has there been so many people, man and woman, living alone, and feeling alone and lonely. There is an enormous difference between, what people feel, what people think, and what people think they feel. Our feelings have no parallel progress with progress of our technology. As humans, we are getting older than ever in our history. Thanks to medicine and progress in modern science, they tell me. The older we get, the longer we live, and the more we feel lonely, and abandoned to our selfs and our own faith. Now I wonder again, but tell me please, is this progress, really ? Maybe it is ? Maybe it isn't ? I am sorry to say so, but, personally I am not that sure about it. I often say, and being a computer technician, I think I can know, that technically we do live in the 21ste century, yes, but our emotions are still the same as when we lived in our caves, centuries ago. When our emotions will get to the same standards as our technology, then, and only then, we will be really human humans.
Mick and Vick, they were the finding example for all of this.
They were so close to each other, and yet so far away.
They got so old, but in no means, I would say, they became wise enough to be honest to each other.
So why did they lived together ?
Maybe it was for human warmth.
Maybe it just was for not being alone in a cold house.
Maybe it was for the little things in life.
As every person in life has his or her mystery, the answer to that question will probably always be an other mystery to me.

There is no happy ending to this story, my dearest reader.
After all, does every story really need a happy ending ?
I guess not, but however, it does need a storyteller.
How else, would it make you think about the essence of all of this ?


Januari 2009