{"id":15488,"date":"2021-11-19T10:35:37","date_gmt":"2021-11-19T09:35:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dirkvanbabylon.com\/uncategorized\/procuring-month-cleaning\/"},"modified":"2026-04-19T13:08:36","modified_gmt":"2026-04-19T11:08:36","slug":"procuring-month-cleaning","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dirkvanbabylon.com\/en\/sprokkelmaand\/procuring-month-cleaning\/","title":{"rendered":"Sprokkelmaand: cleaning"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

Wall-to-wall carpet<\/h2>\n

That moment when I lay there, paralyzed on the wall-to-wall carpet, was the beginning of awareness.<\/span><\/p>\n

Adorn your bridal chamber, O Zion, and receive Christ the King. <\/span>Adorna thalamum tuum, Sion et suscipe Regem Christum.<\/span><\/i> From the Proper of the Feast of Candlemas.<\/span><\/p>\n

On February second, 2003, the no-longer-as-formerly celebrated feast of Mary Candlemas, I wake up around noon, more or less, on my mattress, in my crumpled sheets, lying on the wall-to-wall carpet of the sparsely furnished little loft. I live here alone now, since I put an end to a strangling relationship that lasted more than sixteen years.<\/span><\/p>\n

Gradually I come to a half consciousness. I awaken in fear and do not know why. The evening before I went to sleep very late, or rather in the morning, somewhere between five and six o\u2019clock, as a result of endless chatting. I am not properly awake, but I am no longer asleep either.<\/span><\/p>\n

I want to get up, but I cannot. It takes some time before I understand what is going on. Something is wrong, but I do not know what. I feel indecent, a little dizzy, not well. I try once more to sit up, but I fail. My outstretched body feels heavy.<\/span><\/p>\n

It takes quite a while of struggling before I understand that this is getting me nowhere. I cannot get up. It is only by looking at my left hand that I notice to my horror that it does not move when I think that it moves. The left hand feels as though it wants to move, but it does not stir.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am paralyzed. At the same time I can establish that the left leg will not cooperate either, and that I cannot move my foot on that side. I bring the good hand to my face. Am I still there? The left corner of my mouth feels numb and slack. I am drooling without realizing it.<\/span><\/p>\n

My chin is wet on the left side, as I can feel with my fingertips, but the cheek feels nothing. I notice it only when I touch it with my right hand. I am paralyzed on one side; the realization reaches me with difficulty. Stroke. Anything but this. I was prepared for a sudden death, for a first heart attack, but not for this.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is terrible. I must seek help. I look around to see if I can find the telephone. Where did I leave the mobile phone yesterday evening? I should add that every evening I remove the mattress from the bed frame, because a spring board in the support of the borrowed folding bed is broken. I am lying on the floor.<\/span><\/p>\n

Several times I attempt to get up, and rather roll to the left, so that eventually I roll into a gutter between mattress and useless bed frame, on the wall-to-wall carpet. To my utmost confusion I cannot get out of it. It dawns on me that the whole left half of my body does not respond, does not move, seems dead.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is a blood-chilling realization that makes one extremely afraid. You go to sleep healthy, though heavily under the influence. You want to get up, but it seems as if the blade of the guillotine has come down a little wrongly, so that the left half of your body has been cut off from living substance and now forms nothing but a dead weight.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mentally I make desperate attempts to bring the left arm and left leg into motion, but it does not work. Only my right half rises, but given the heaviness of the left half that remains lying there, whatever you try and whatever happens, you merely turn around your longitudinal axis. It is frightening. Given my training, it gradually dawns on me what is happening here.<\/span><\/p>\n

A stroke. The phenomenon is also called hemiparesis, or unilateral paralysis, and if the paralysis is definitive and complete, one may also speak of hemiplegia, just so you know. One-sided paralysis. It is an ominous terminology.<\/span><\/p>\n

Paralysis<\/h3>\n

When it occurs so acutely, it is usually caused by thrombosis, an abnormal clotting in an artery, but sometimes it is precisely due to a cerebral hemorrhage.<\/span><\/p>\n

So what is to be done? Halt the clotting, or on the contrary stop the bleeding\u2014that is the question to which only medical science knows the answer. It is simply frightening, and a dreadful idea, not to be able to move anymore.<\/span><\/p>\n

It involuntarily reminds me of the fate of my mother, whom I knew for eighteen years as paralyzed because of multiple sclerosis, which is quite a different disease but also causes paralysis. I try to swallow something. The prospect of dependence rises before me in all its horror.<\/span><\/p>\n

Lying between mattress and bed frame it dawns on me that I am alone at home. I do not yet have a fixed telephone and the mobile phone is lying somewhere around. It soon becomes clear that somehow I must alert the emergency services. For a moment I am tempted not to do so and calmly await death, but that is not a serious option. Especially now that I want to live.<\/span><\/p>\n

For years I have lived with the idea that, like my father, I might one day have a heart attack, and that enough time and myocardium would remain to stop smoking, begin a cholesterol-lowering diet, and adjust some other harmful habits of life to which I have remained attached until now despite my profession.<\/span><\/p>\n

In that way I might reach seventy, like our father, after which there would still be enough years left to become demented like him. That I might one day become paralyzed like my mother never occurred to me as a possibility to take into account.<\/span><\/p>\n

To be paralyzed is the last thing I would want, after having functioned throughout my youth in a home-care situation, willingly or unwillingly. I push the bed away from me with my right arm. It is quite a struggle, but with the strength of my good right side I manage to free myself from mattress and bed frame and drag myself crawling to the breakfast table, where the mobile phone is probably lying.<\/span><\/p>\n

But it is not there. The little loft seems larger than the hundred square meters it really is when you wriggle over the wall-to-wall carpet with a paralyzed left side. I feel increasingly confused inside. That this should happen now. Things were just beginning to go well for me.<\/span><\/p>\n

I have lost a great deal of weight. I live more healthily. I am freed from the constant irritation of living with a disturbed man. Yes, what a relief, though at a high cost. It does not come without acknowledging that your health has suffered serious damage.<\/span><\/p>\n

Just when you have begun to build a new life, and to crown it all you have met Prince Sixteen in the chat, breaking through like radiant sunshine in the winter garden of your heart, now this happens. You begin to revive and fall in love again, but before you know it you are paralyzed, and then the celebration simply will not take place.<\/span><\/p>\n

That cannot be! I mean it from the bottom of my heart, and with all my limbs, living and dead. I am firmly convinced that I will recover and that a new beginning presents itself.<\/span><\/p>\n

Chatterbox<\/h3>\n

Last night I spoke for a long time with Prince Sixteen in the electronic chatbox and afterwards on the telephone.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

That was wonderful, fantastic, fantastic, reaching the limits of pleasure and beyond, in the dominant staircase. Exceptionally refreshing. It can’t be that it has to end now. That it ends in a wheelchair and care in a nursing home. Just when I had the prospect of restored sexuality, a renewed desire, just when my libido rears its head with its alarming force and overrides all practical objections.<\/span><\/p>\n

Just when I want to reap the bitter fruits of suffering, loss, and deprivation.<\/span> I am close to tears, but I bite them back and I must move, even if centimeter by centimeter, if I am not simply to die here, for if the paralysis spreads further then I will not be able to go anywhere at all. Let alone fall into a coma.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is difficult to move forward with a left side that refuses to cooperate, although at times it seems that there is some life, that the little finger moves a bit, or that the foot pushes slightly. I feel so helpless and humiliated. That absence of an entire side. That half man, that dead weight, that I cannot raise. Will I stiffen and die?<\/span><\/p>\n

Have I a cerebral hemorrhage or a thrombosis? I try to remember what I smoked and drank all night, and fragments return of the exchanges of words with Prince Sixteen. It is Sunday afternoon, February second, around twelve o\u2019clock precisely, the afternoon of the feast of Mary Candlemas. See me lying here struck down on the feast of returning light, the beginning of the end of the gray winter.<\/span><\/p>\n

Offertory<\/h3>\n

Psalm 44:3 \u201c<\/span>Diffusa est gratia in labiis tuis.<\/span><\/i> Grace is poured upon your lips.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Yet I think of you, my beloved. Even half paralyzed and crawling on the floor I cannot stop thinking of you, my Prince. My virtual relationship. My discovery.<\/span><\/p>\n

You are only sixteen, and I will soon be forty-seven. That I may still experience this, and it should not be possible at all, yet it is so. I cannot put it otherwise. I am deeply impressed by you.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It’s by clinging to you that I’m pulling myself out of my semi-paralysis, more frightened than injured. I’m devastated by your loneliness, your attractiveness, your intelligence, your witty retorts, and the way you say “oops” when I make out with you virtually.<\/span><\/p>\n

Paralysis goes together with a feeling of downfall and threat. It is also a moment of revelation, a breach in my defensive wall, a panoramic hole in my interior, which soon will be hacked into translucent slices by machines like a sausage, sawn through by imaginary beams, cut into pieces by excited energy fields.<\/span><\/p>\n

Before you know it you lie wrapped in an old blanket on a stretcher and you cannot move at all anymore. You are sucked into a process of care that an unknown force has set in motion and that you can no longer stop. It brings me back again to the starting point.<\/span><\/p>\n

The longer the paralysis lasts, the more likely it becomes that the loss of tissue will be definitive. If it happens quickly the clot may still dissolve, and then nature can repair the damage by itself. <\/span>I want to live, because I know despite my disturbed mind, that I am still needed by you, my dear little Prince, my sixteen-year-old son whom I have found again, after so long searching on the internet and beyond, but I have found you.<\/span><\/p>\n

Everything I have undertaken has ended in failure or fizzled out through the unfathomable nonsense of delusion. The love in which I believed, and the adventures I experienced\u2014it all turned out to be the flowering of madness and rage. Loose sand.<\/span><\/p>\n

Yet the father always keeps believing that something will come of it. Now certainly, now completely, because the catastrophe has been averted. A little like the typhoon in <\/span>Mahagonny<\/span><\/i> by Weil and Brecht. Afterwards everything is allowed, and in the end things go terribly wrong anyway. Man himself destroys what the hurricane has left.<\/span><\/p>\n

Chat Talk<\/h3>\n

XXX<\/span><\/p>\n

Music without you<\/h3>\n

Dear Ibrahim,<\/span><\/p>\n

I have radio and CDs again in the house, and the internet is still working.<\/span><\/p>\n

Saved! The dragon of musiclessness is dead! It had become so dull here. The stereo tower that I took with me from our house I never managed to connect properly. I am not a practical person. The thing is perhaps broken. Therefore a new device had to come. Now it stands there shining.<\/span><\/p>\n

More happened this weekend. I recovered a missing carpet, a red woolen oriental woven carpet with vegetal colors. It once lay in the waiting room of the general practitioner\u2019s practice, and one day it disappeared, as everything in our household disappeared sooner or later under your reign of terror.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sometimes something returned, or I saw my belongings standing with other people. Familiar objects moved unpredictably, without reason or traceable order. I took two armchairs and a sofa from the waiting room, and the rack with glass shelves. How we ever obtained them I do not know. It was one of those things that suddenly existed. At the time I stopped asking questions, I must honestly admit.<\/span><\/p>\n

I begin taking things out of the boxes. The new radio and CD player that I bought today in the supermarket is a source of delight. Untouched peace and beauty, a carpet of sensual pleasure on classical tones. I do not have many CDs left after the chain of disasters you unleashed upon me. When I began to examine and listen to them, many bitter memories still overwhelmed me.<\/span><\/p>\n

Often the contents do not correspond to the covers. Either there is nothing in the CD cases or something entirely different from what is written on them. I notice now that I do not have much left, perhaps twenty good ones, though I have not sorted everything yet, given the empty cases that I do not yet dare throw away, in case playable CDs still emerge from the rubble, possibly without a case or in the wrong one. Hundreds have disappeared. Mainly classical and black. Very much sung.<\/span><\/p>\n

It took some time to get the new CD player working. Without the manual it does not succeed. I begin with Latin-American music, sparkling with joy yet intimately paired with melancholy. Memories. Friendship that once brought promise and prospect, founded on a deep feeling for one another, and that ceases to exist.<\/span><\/p>\n

One can only deal with each other on the basis of deep respect, can one not? Which also means that you always leave each other some freedom. But one can also go too far in that. It goes wrong when you allow someone to abuse you, obstruct your development, and worst of all lie to and deceive you half the time.<\/span><\/p>\n

As you did, my detested Ibrahim. And the other half of the time you did not lie, so that no one knew anymore which half was the true one. But I did not want to talk about you anymore. My soul has left yours, or the other way around.<\/span><\/p>\n

My train of thought no longer proceeds in jerks and starts when I put on Bach in my loft. Christmas Oratorio. I enter a steady, rhythmic and orderly stream, through which I gain better control over my nerves, which otherwise sometimes want to howl through my throat, especially when I write.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then I constantly look at the time and count the number of lines written this evening. How slowly the demolition of memory progresses. That looking at the clock becomes all the more tense because later I will also go to the chat to see whether Prince Sixteen is online. That is usually between half past twelve and half past one at night.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now that it has been several days since I last saw or heard P16, I increasingly give priority to writing the book, because this quiet activity gives the greatest spiritual satisfaction, more than chatting with decent boys who cannot even reach the ankles of the rather small Prince Sixteen.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Dear Prince,<\/span><\/p>\n

I cannot become excited about other men anymore, and I do hold that a little against you, my beloved, that you slipped away so completely and deprived me of the possibility of being satisfied by others. But perhaps it had to be so. \u201cBetter to die than impurity,\u201d I always say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c<\/span>Grosser Herr, O Starker K\u00f6nig.<\/span><\/i>\u201d Bach, the divine sewing machine. I am particularly satisfied with my carpet, my chairs and my standing rack. Everything is old, except the radio and CD player, which stares at me with its faceted eyes and flickering eyebrows. I love old things, but for technology we are unfortunately dependent on the new.<\/span><\/p>\n

I chose a device with as few buttons as possible, for I am old enough for that. Too many function keys on machines stare at me maliciously without revealing their secrets. I do not know what most buttons are for. In this respect I was born prematurely old. I drag along an antique soul on large cart wheels.<\/span><\/p>\n

I already felt old as a toddler, given the unpleasant living situation in my young years with a sick mother and a father who was a dentist. Normally I never think back to it, but with a bit of Bach it may and can be done, and it hardly hurts, like when my father waited long enough before drilling after administering the anesthesia. Then it was almost bearable.<\/span><\/p>\n

Usually he did not wait, because he was always in a hurry and never satisfied. Some people have that about them. My chain-smoking papa was constantly busy working to fill financial craters that he himself had made. That unmitigated recklessness. That obstinacy that I also have. I will have to walk that road now as well, I have noticed.<\/span><\/p>\n

I have taken much from him. I too allow myself to be cheated while I stand by, and afterwards I must pay off the debt. I do not want to fall short of him, and that will also have been one reason why I endured Ibrahim for so long, because my father cared for his sick wife until the end, that reversed mother-care in which I had my own role to play.<\/span><\/p>\n

Not that it was a partnership in my early youth. Care is not teamwork but a constant struggle, in which I always felt I lost, because I thought I was the only one who could not refuse. Though that may be self-overestimation.<\/span><\/p>\n

After mature consideration I will let my father precede me in heroism, because he performed an admirable act of care all those years in nursing his paralyzed wife, my mother.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fall asleep<\/h3>\n

I will not dig up those bitter feelings tonight, because nothing good will come of it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Since it is one o\u2019clock at night, I will look briefly on the chat to see whether Prince is there, now that in the Christmas Oratorio we have meanwhile arrived at the wonderfully beautiful \u201cSchlafe mein Liebster.\u201d I shall use that as a quotation tonight. I am back after a short interruption.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSchlaf ein.\u201d You are not on the chat tonight, my beloved. I count the days. Twenty-two months remain until your eighteenth birthday. It would be wonderful if by that time contact between us were restored. <\/span>Schlafe mein Liebster<\/span><\/i>, I shall simply sing along with Bach.<\/span><\/p>\n

You are not there. May it hopefully mean that you sleep well and have sweet dreams. Then a musical ray of sunshine breaks through. \u201cNun wird mein liebster Br\u00e4utigam!\u201d Now my dearest bridegroom, the hero from David\u2019s line, for the comfort and salvation of the earth, will finally be born. Now the star from Jacob will shine. The first dawn already breaks through.<\/span><\/p>\n

I look up the text. Stop weeping now, people of God, your well-being rises high on heaven\u2019s arch. \u201cHerr dein mitleid.\u201d The minutes tick away while I listen and wait idly. I become so slowly quiet. Waiting for the heavenly bridegroom\u2014am I doing anything else? It was not Ibrahim who fulfilled the expectation, that I have meanwhile understood. \u201cLord show your compassion, comfort us and make us free.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I could not say it better myself. Prince remains absent and I suffer from the lack. While the orchestra tries every variation on the theme, the tenor and the soprano, a little boy from the Vienna Boys\u2019 Choir, catch their breath for a moment and then, turning around each other, sing the longing for liberation and mercy. \u201cUnd macht uns frei.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Prince does not come tonight.<\/span><\/p>\n

The stack of books<\/h3>\n

Bismillahi rahmani, rahim.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

In the name of God, the compassionate, the merciful. Everywhere in all countries the consolation of the Most High lies within reach, if only we are able to accept His Grace, and may read pious books such as this one here, and may listen to music of our own choosing.<\/span><\/p>\n

I feel consoled and liberated by these voices that sound so different and yet sing the same text, repeating it, turning it around and laying it over one another. <\/span>Und macht uns frei.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

All this time the books have remained lying in boxes, as far as possible out of sight, at the bottom of the built-in wardrobes, and on little shelves in the storage room, the toilet and in the dressing corner. They lie crisscross in vertical stacks so that searching is not easy.<\/span><\/p>\n

After half an hour I still do not have what I am looking for, but I return with all sorts of beautiful things that I have not touched all this time and that now fall into my hands. Hours of Mary. Pious Meditations. <\/span>The Holy Bible<\/span><\/i> in the King James translation.<\/span><\/p>\n

I lie on my stomach before the lowest shelves. I must use a small ladder to search higher up. The Persian mystics, the Sufis and the dervishes. I did not know that I still had all this. That my collection of books lies so disorderly mixed together perhaps symbolizes the disarray of my inner life in the past years.<\/span><\/p>\n

In the cramped apartment that Ibrahim and I occupied during the last year of our steady joint downfall there was no place to give the books proper breathing space. Some have disappeared, others remained locked in banana boxes all that time.<\/span><\/p>\n

This caused me torment and pain, something Ibrahim never understood, for I am someone who truly loves books and who cannot live without them.<\/span><\/p>\n

The icing on the cake<\/h3>\n

I also find a red book with the title: <\/span>The Drunken Poets of Allah<\/span><\/i>. On the flap stands an enticing text in German, which I reproduce here:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI am the fish in love, all seas greet me. A drop of me is the sea, each drop the ocean. Love speaks my tongue. Love is a walk. Before there was a throne you were already king. Ah, this loving hand turns my sorrow. Before Adam was created, the soul placed in the body, the devil cursed, heaven was a promenade. Whoever does not understand the lover is a madman or a brute.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I translate it just off the cuff, but the thought is by Yunus Emre (c. 1240\u20131320), Muslim, mystic and poet who wrote in Turkish. The quotation smiles at me in yellow letters on the red cover of <\/span>Allahs trunkene Poeten<\/span><\/i>, by Stefan Makowski, with as subtitle: <\/span>Islamische Liebesmystiker<\/span><\/i>. Benziger Verlag 1997.<\/span><\/p>\n

Who has ever spoken more beautifully about being in love? The little book has just fallen into my hands while I was searching through the piles of books for something about Saint John Berchmans.<\/span><\/p>\n

The ice-cream<\/h3>\n

There is nothing worse on earth than being an adolescent.<\/span><\/p>\n

There is nothing beautiful to discover in this place full of mildew, nothing fresh in a moldy past. <\/span>That’s precisely why I like to give boys a bath: to give something back. To repair the damage of the past. To add a pinch of yeast to all the baking flour.<\/span><\/p>\n

I want to right an injustice, and grant these fragile creatures, these unruly boys, a moment of beauty and jovial peace. I only intervene, to add a touch of mystery to a single moment in their lives, based on thick books their dad has read.<\/span><\/p>\n

What if that isn’t my son?<\/span><\/p>\n

XXX<\/span><\/p>\n

Und macht uns frei.<\/span><\/i> Then the connection drops.<\/span><\/p>\n

To be continued\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Note: some passages from this novel have deliberately been omitted (xxx), because they are not intended for sensitive souls.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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