The unfinished product
To every thing there is a season
Back in France, after seven weeks in the Netherlands. Two different worlds. Two different lives. A few thoughts, while a few bigger pieces are still simmering…
Have you ever noticed how your 'system' is capable of switching between modes? When visiting my parents, both well in their eighties, I slip into child-mode. When in the car, I descend into a shallow traffic state. A partial me I do not like. That is not like me.
Back at the place I now call home, the core me has more space to be, to unpack. To relax into its natural size. Which is a lot bigger than expected. I am an iceberg. And people run into me. They take offence at the parts they didn't notice until their hull is scratched. The protective hull that keeps them afloat. Or so they assume.
I now have a rough idea of the size underneath the surface. Nothing concrete, or measurable, but no doubt it is bigger than the visible bit.
The untouchable is real, but can never be brought fully into view.
Now, when I visit my parents, the son still surfaces while other bits inevitably go under, but I 'know' that huge mass is still down there, in me, with me, holding me up.
I hope you can envision that enormous clump of accumulated me floating in the ocean of life. Dense matter in a liquid medium. A sphere with only a small slice exposed above the tides.
Having lived a nomadic life for almost seven years, we've kept our suitcases packed, so to speak. We have travelled light during that time. Depending on other people's stuff. And I have come to meet their iceberg.
Most people underestimate their own size.
Most people do not understand where their stability comes from. Because if you believe the island of your life is this stable solid landmass, and one day you notice the southern shores have begun to sink, while you had put all your effort into finishing the beach-house, then blaming the one who rocked your world seems a good strategy. Then of course you feel threatened by the shift beneath your feet.
But while the southern shore is vanishing, the north coastal area rises. You are not sinking. You are turning.
Turn, turn, turn.
Not easy. Not friggin’ easy at all.
An artist is someone who places the turning central. One often becomes an artist through some intense turning. It shifted your attention from the bit sinking, toward the side emerging.
The floating clump is not dead matter, though. It is alive and responds to the moves you make. To stuff added or removed. To the maelstrom of existence.
I have settled down again. Added stuff. Unpacked belongings from long-time storage. Numerous books, art materials, paintings and pictures, tools. Like your home looks strange and unfamiliar after a journey, I feel new to all that old stuff I still own. I no longer depend on them for my stability. Out of sight does not mean gone.
I am turning. Can't help but turn.
The planet we live on turns, too. A very complex tumbling through space. So why do we humans keep chasing the finished product? Why do we have so much difficulty in being unfixed? Why put so much effort into a permanent settlement when we clearly are nomads by default.
Have you ever noticed how weird the concept of a finished product is? A finished thing is untouchable. Any interaction will unfinish the thing. And it does. Any 'new' product or gadget leaves the factory in this peculiar, maximised state. Packaged to protect that ideal, sealed to keep it unscathed by life.
Products, buildings, roads, furniture, clothing, images, machines, institutions appear to have shorter and shorter lifespans. A very brief journey from shining new to the landfills of disregard. Hardly any space between medicine and poison. Between friend and nemesis. Between wanted and waste. So little room for life. For turning.
A ‘good’ product gets better over time. It is a work in progress. Ageing. Maturing. Slowly ripening most of its lifespan. It is unfinished. A finished product is…
well... finished.
Enjoy the unfinished life you lead. Soon the turning will move you. Again and again.
Allow yourself to be moved. Don't be afraid, the whole of you is made to turn.
Not sure what a finished world would look like, but quite certain I am not interested in working toward it.
Last week’s video-interview has given my Substack a proper boost. A strange experience to have people talk about me! Several new readers have found their way to the story and reported that reading the first seasons has only one drawback. They now have to wait for the new chapter…
"Have you ever noticed how weird the concept of a finished product is?"
I hadn't, actually. Thanks!!
"One often becomes an artist through some intense turning. It shifted your attention from the bit sinking, toward the side emerging. The floating clump is not dead matter, though. It is alive and responds to the moves you make. To stuff added or removed. To the maelstrom of existence." Beautiful Bertus. Enjoy the turning, the composting, the emerging. "To everything turn, turn, turn. There is a season turn, turn, turn."