SANE MEN FROM BRABANT

Our two most famous painters are Brueghel and Van Gogh. Our best poet was probably Brederode, a second generation transplant to the North who was a certifiable crap disturber and problem drinker, and the most well known politician we've had in recent times is a man so odious that I do not wish to mention his name. Actually, that last one is a crapshoot; at least seven gentlemen qualify.

Severely mixed blessings, if blessings at all.

And adulated in dubious circles.


It's probably the landscape: sandy soil and peat. Bogs, swamps, and moors. Blasted heaths and grim dark colours. Overcast, gloom, rain, mists, vapours. Grey. Or on occasion a harsh sunlight cutting everything like a saw. As well as a phenomenal narrowness of the gene pool, which leads to psychosis, visions, and a near-Russian tendency toward intoxicatory behaviours as the be all and end all of civilized life.

Sometimes I miss the smell of fermenting tobacco leaves (for the cigar industry) that seemed omnipresent in a few towns, or freshly brewed coffee in one of the local herbergs, and a few times I've caught myself wishing for unidentifiable deepfried objects.
The cuisine relies on vinegar and molasses.
Perhaps perfectly.

My friend Herman played his bagpipes outside the church at four or five in the morning, several times. Waking the local priest, who at least once composed a fierce and eloquent sermon anent heathen instruments and deviant boozery for the edification of congregation that morning (a Sunday), several of whom started speculation about the poor man's sanity that went on for many months. Sad, because he was a remarkably sane man.

Sane people often have a hard time of it there.
Civilization is remarkably near by.
And so very far off.



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