Mala Vida Baby

Well, well. No longer than two months further, and life looks very different. I moved, and I am living with a friend in our own little house. Yes, house: with a kitchen, living room, garden, terrace, fucking garage, and four bedrooms. Oh and did I mention I pay €75 a month? I don’t care what they say, four years of slacking and waiting for it to fall in my lap paid off wonderfully.
It’s an amazing place. My housemate is a hippy, and our combined imaginations and experience with tools is doing a great job of transforming a lovely but empty house, into a home. Although I think I’m going to hide the silicone glue next time he gets high.
I now own a home computer, refrigerator, and washing machine; good thing I had a bit of money aside. It’s a whole new experience for me, owning stuff. I constantly feel like a materialist for getting me these things. Now I’m working on getting internet, which in theory should be settled the 14th or something, this month. Stuff and more stuff, worries and more worries. I’m going to have to figure out a way to cope with this soon…
 
Thing is, our cheap little home comes at a price few are willing to pay. It’s a borderline squat, basically, even though it is the exact opposite. Confused? Me too.
Volvo Cars, a factory based around the block, is expanding. But oh, there were people’s home in the way. After a short call to the government, the locals got a letter in the mail: Beat it. Money was offered for the disowned bricks and dirt, and some took it while others started a scene and sued Volvo. There is now a whole whatever-it-is-called (trial?) running, which could drag on for a few years. It could also be settled tomorrow, but in the mean time the homes of those who chose to take the money and leave, are empty. To keep my friends the squatters from moving in, what they do is have people live in it for little money. My official address is still with my parents, so they can kick us out on a 14 day notice.
It’s not easy, knowing that every time you check the mail there could be another Beat It notice. In that sense it’s hardly different from squatting, where you can find your stuff outside on the street when you come home. But in a way, I don’t mind. We can always actually squat the place when the time comes. Good ol’ days.
 
 
Since I moved, so many things have happened. Work, mostly, and my girlfriend moved to Gent as well. More on that later maybe. What also happened, is Canada coming to Belgium and Belgium moving to Canada. You wouldn’t think it possible if you hadn’t been two seconds away from doing it yourself: love (or something like it) drawing you over the ocean.
There’s this girl in Canada, who knows this Belgian dude (through me! Matchmaker, matchmaker Muzieknoot make me a match…) on the net. An old colleague of mine. That is to say, I was supposed to salute him every time we passed. Against all odds and expectations from my perspective, he just beat it here and moved to Canada.
I’m not sure if I should be worried, jealous, or just happy for him. So I guess I am all three, knowing that I’ll miss him even though I didn’t even really know him that well.
 
Now Canada of course, ain’t Belgium. I live 40 minutes (by bike, my tempo) away from my girlfriend and I think it’s a long way. But when you live in a country the size of Western Europe, living close by is suddenly very relative. I wouldn’t be sure if I were up for it, but apparently he is.
So I am left behind, puppy eyes and all. Though I had the chance back in the day, I chose to stay. He was always more impulsive than I, perhaps that’s the reason. Maybe something drove him off, a worldly sort of ADHD that we share that makes you sick of seeing the same faces, the same streets, day in day out. Maybe he is blinded. Puppy love, romanticism, dreams, that bull. Or maybe, just maybe, there is true love involved somewhere. Time will tell, there is much at stake.
Being the usual drama queen, I’d salute him if I could. Which would be a first. Heh. With their permission however, despite my interest, I’m just going to mind my own life.
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