sophie blog 3

No one wants to be “November”. Just before December, just before the last month of the year. So pointless, so lost, so expectant.

No one wants to be “November”, when the Christmas lights in towns and cities don’t look cosy but just ridiculous because it’s November and not December. Because it’s too early. When everyone is waiting for the real party to get started. It’s not a beginning or an ending. It’s neither too early nor too late. Not autumn, not winter. And the last thing you want to be is “a warm and sunny November”. So unbelievable, so inappropriate.

The sun is shining, and the laughter of the seagulls is louder here. My drops think it’s because of them. And I don’t tell them it’s only because we’re closer to the sea. I’m afraid to use the word “sea” because it will upset them and make them think about an ending, about arriving. “If you stop thinking about the end, time will go quicker,” I reply, when they ask me when we’ll return to the Amsterdam canals full of water. They miss the water. Somewhere close to the sea.

One of the writers at the festival talked about her deaf mother. About her full-time job as a translator. The translator of her mother’s calm and silent language, and the shouty, impatient language spoken by the rest of the world. The writer smiles, and her smile is like the sun in November. So brave and so powerless. And I think to myself: is that what writing is? Translating silence. Translating everything that doesn’t suit the spoken word.

I read on the internet that Crossing Border will receive the subsidy they need to carry on after all. The ravens are happy, and the seagulls laugh louder. The tree on the festival poster on the desk in my hotel room is also happy. Stood on top of a mountains of roots from trees that have been cut down, it shows its open arms. It shows its young leaves and its old. It’s not afraid of the end. It likes small, big, green, yellow, and red leaves, and it doesn’t worry about the branches it’s lost.