This is the place where people would put their Curicullum Vitae or something like that. With me that doesn’t work. I’m an outsider if ever you saw one. Nothing is standard or even remotely close to it in my life. I could write a book about writing a book about it. But if you absolutely have to know something about me that paints any picture at all, read on.
The very first thing i can remember in my life is an F-104 Starfighter burning its brake chute on final. I can’t have been more than a hundred feet away from it. That and sonic booms… and strawberries, lots of both. I was about 16 months old at the time.
I was born in a house smack in between two runways of what was rapidly becoming the worlds largest airport. It was a standard old dutch farm house, head-neck-torso type, with the torso crampacked with aviation stuff. 1on1 models of historic airplanes, Brittish WW2 dummy paratroopers, God and the world in airplane parts, relics, you name it. Stuff to be put in the Aviodome, a large aviation museum to be build on the airport. When the airport management needed someone to look after it a bit and live there for free, my daddy volunteered. He bought himself the meanest german shephard he could get his hands on (a bitch named Peter) and told his wife and three kids not to worry. It would all be over soon.
For my mom soon took four years, for me it took a little under three. Three years living in the isolation of a restricted area, my dad having to ask permission from the tower each time he wanted to get to or from the house. No visitors. Two farm houses, “Gratitude” and “Unity”. Fokker aircraft factory was assembling F104 jet fighters in those days. We were lucky. Of the hundreds of them that crashed before the whole type got decommissioned, none fell on us. What they did do was try out their maximum flying capabilities, smack in front of our house. It provided me with a lifetime tinitus beep in my ears, a fascination for fly stuff and the inability to hear in crowds. I recall watching them fly by at an insane speed in absolute silence… then that one empty second… and then the bang. I doubt any of those pilots knew someone was still living there.
One day it was all over. We moved from total isolation to dead centre boom town. A second floor appartment in a crapy concrete builing in an area filled with construction sites. My folks left my daytime care to a kindergarten miss with a nose like a spear head and dark eyes that didn’t match her platinum blond hair which gave her something spooky. In a morbid act of deliberate culture shocking she introduced me to a few hundred playground smart kindergarten veterans whom i had no idea how to deal with. They had one single field day on me, after which i decided to turn my entire attention to the various construction sites in the area, skipping whole days off the compound, driving the spooky miss crazy. I would watch the construction workers do their thing,… for hours on end. Grabbing my fingers into the fence wire i watched them build stuff, being followed on never less than three feet distance by a little cute-beyond-repair half indonesian girl named Sandra who for some strange reason seemed to enjoy being near me.
(To be continued)