Brain’storm

Read our interview with Jasmijn about her thesis.

Part 6 – Brain‘storm’

Lise

It is just after four o'clock when I zip up my coat and take my bicycle off the rack. The air above the city is heavy, grey, and full of moisture, as if another shower could roll in at any moment. The wind tugs at my scarf – no longer warm like in late summer, but restless, as if autumn is already trying to make itself known. It's the end of September, and the city seems to be at odds with itself: there are still leaves on the trees, but there are also puddles on the pavement. Two weeks ago, we were still sitting on a bench in summer clothes. Now the air smells of storm and leaves. I still have a long way to cycle to Martijn's house, where we will meet with the committee tonight. Leisure Activities Committee — the name alone. It sounds as if everything should be light. Airy. Loose. But nothing in me feels accessible, light, airy or loose today.

The bike ride takes twenty minutes. I pedal hard, but not too fast. My cheeks are glowing, my hands are getting cold. It's one of those transitional moments in the day when sounds are different: quieter, but also sharper. Bicycles are noisier. Cars are stiffer. My thoughts are duller. At the traffic lights, I think about the message from Thomas's mother. It keeps lingering in my head. Whether we want to visit again. But I don't even know if I could handle it — her eyes, her voice, that living room.

When I arrive, the door to Martijn's house is already open. It's an old student house, with creaky stairs and a smell of damp coats and pesto pasta. It's warm in the kitchen. Everyone is already there. I'm not the only one who's windswept. The windows are white, all fogged up. Six people in total. Martijn, who always speaks before thinking. Noor, with her eternal bun that the weather couldn't get in the way of. Then Jasper, who puts everything into perspective. Lieke, who fanatically takes notes. Daan, who is often silent but can suddenly have a brilliant idea. And me. Lise. Promotion officer. Without a sense of promotion.

There is not enough room at the table, as always. We play musical chairs until everyone has a place, half on the windowsill, half on the laundry basket. Jasper carefully tips over a beer crate, releasing a few last bottles, which create the missing sixth seat. He triumphantly takes his place on his new throne. He gestures for me to sit on his chair. Martijn shouts that we're sitting like sardines again. I laugh along. Automatically. There is pasta with pesto and spinach. I take a bite, chew slowly, and come across some stray cherry tomatoes that were clearly forgotten by the chef: cold. Jasper gestures to me to ask if I want a beer from his throne. I nod and continue listening to conversations about exams and weekend plans. There are jokes about previous activities: the karaoke night, the bad fitness marathon.

‘Okay, guys, new brainstorm. What are we going to do at the end of October? Didn't we talk about something outdoors? Something active? Maybe we can do something related to the autumn weather.’ Noor throws into the group from her windowsill position. Behind her, the wall is covered with photos that you'd better not have on your phone, because you never know when your older brother or crazy uncle might get their hands on them. The kind of photos that make it seem like life is carefree, nothing is too crazy. Here and there, you can see that the photos are coming loose; in other places, grey pieces of duct tape serve as self-adhesive corners, like I know from my mum's photo albums. Photos that remind me to “live every day as if it were your last”.

Martijn throws his fork on the table. I hold my breath, my chest suddenly filled with air. My vertebrae are lined up straight. I feel caught out.

“Survival. With those ropes. Bridges. Mud! Maybe the end of October is perfect. When it's cold, it really becomes a challenge,” he shouts.

Everyone starts laughing. ‘We can call it “Relaxing Expedition”!’ Daan adds.

I listen. I can see in my mind how Thomas would react. How he would say, with a mixture of irony and enthusiasm, that a mud bath is good for your immune system. He always wanted to be there when it came to tents, making fires, and breathing in the air as if it could buy you extra life. Everything outside. Always outside. And how that is precisely what touches me so much tonight: that the world that gave him the most joy, the world in which he was always present, is suddenly imbued with absence for me. That it does not give new life, but exudes loss.