southern gothic

I grew up in a seabound village. It's a spooky place, believe me. Think about a sleazy, deserted Texan or Alabama community portrayed in a "southern gothic" novel and you'll get close to what my village is like.

Life & death? - Death.

People talk with a drawl. They drive fierce vehicles. That little pansy car? Must be your wife's? The liquor is bad, but you'd better drink it (there's several reasons why you have to). The coolest band around is called Vikingarna. The older folks listen to local radio and buy cassettes. In the modern age we're in for eurodisco produced by Dutch craftsmen. Baby, come on tonight/make me feel so right.

Women work hard, two jobs minimum. Men, on the other hand, hang around, chit-chatting about life & families. (But this is serious business, of course) Gossip is the nerve of life, the air that we breathe.

The older generation have made an art out of telling stories. Sometimes they are wonderful, humorous stories, always ending with something witty a particular person has said: "...and then (s)he said...." These stories often convey a form of wisdom and insight. A sensitivity to the mundande and the absurd: a sensitivity to language and the way we are present in language.

But gossip is always grim and cruel. Sitting at the coffee-table, munching biscuits, I am told the latest news about suicide, alcholism, violence. Dogfights during hunting raids. Poor Muffsen is dead. A nice family reunion is spent reminiscing about the dead: when they died, how they died, who's next. Yummy, another cup of coffee, auntie?

Some villagers have dedicated their lives to economically disastrous projects; buying stuff and selling stuff in a rapid succession. Neighbors slander them behind their backs. Others are victorious and wealthy: they make investments, work hard, build houses, produce kids and a "prospect". They are slandered, too.

For the good and the wicked - a biscuit labeled Fazer and another cup of coffee.