Toerke

Home is where the hurt is, where the chips are greasy and the sauce mayotastic. Where chocolate is made with real milk, tap water tastes nice and is actually safe to drink. It feels good to recognize things. Even if it is just the Witte Tornado uniform, the smile on the face of my favorite Turkish grocer, the stone mandala in the Scheldetunnel. I look at things as for the first time, sometimes from another viewpoint

but always as if with brand new eyes. And should I get the blues for lack of Asian heights, should I long for yet another Zen master, then there is still the bittersweet mercy of the Kriek Lambic. It is there that I call home…