The Life Fantastic

As much as it freaks me out when friends or classmates get engaged (most likely), married (fair amount of them, too), or have kids (less likely but still has happened), I have to admit that part of me is jealous. I'm jealous of their conviction, their seeming certainty, and the fact that some part of their life will be set. This seems incongorious, particularly in light of my personal tendancy to up and move overseas at the slightest provocation.

Though I am in no position to make anyone any kind of permanent promises, I am envious of their conviction that this person is the person with whom they want to spend the rest of their lives, and vice versa. Statistically speaking they only have a 50% chance of success, and perhaps less if the statistics reflect the particularly short-lived marriages many my age have. Perhaps the expectation of forever only exacerbates the (perhaps inevitable) tragedy when it all falls apart, and a viable relationship is not, in my opinion, contingent on marriage, nor is marriage a cure for a failing relationship. Still, I am envious they are so certain--though I realize I am myself too young to want to settle down and start a family, as seems to be the logical next step for these marrying friends and classmates. Part of me wishes someone were so certain about me, though I know who I am now is not who I will be when I am in a position to decide more than the next year or so of my life, and this other person, this later model of me, is the one who can make and keep promises. I wish my friends well, and hope they beat the odds.

While part of me is looking forward to continuing studies, and of the interesting places I will go and things I will learn, part of me wants to just be done, to get it over with and go on to join the working world, earn an actual income, pay off debts, and not be committed to multiyear programs. Whenever I am working I wish I were studying to learn more, experience more; studying encourages me to read things I otherwise wouldn't have read, to consider them, and to analyse them. When I am studying I wish I were just working, where the product of my labor would be something useful and not just some term paper that one person will read and will mould in my closet bearing its arbitrary mark.

I admire the freedom of some college dropouts who can just up and move somewhere for the sake of a relationship, a wild desire, or an urge to travel. I admire the dedication of those who decide to come back, and I realize that my commitment to the system and to myself means I will never be either of these people--I will not drop out, and thus not have to return--but I realize I have, in many respects, taken the easier road whose parameters were defined for me. I have done fewer things truly remarkable though as few have been out of the ordinary. My enthusiasm and work ethic have brought me as far as they have, but I haven't faced real challenges, I haven't done anything exceptional or overcome particular hardships. Building character, I guess.

I suppose I just wish I had more figured out. I sort of know what I want to work at, and how to get there, though I imagine I will have to work my way up and may have to move a bit a the beginning. Some day, I think I want to have a family and kids, but that comes at some later, indeterminate point. I want to travel, but don't know where or when or how. My vantage point allows me only a year or two at best, and beyond that, who knows who I'll end up as, where I'll be, with whom, and what I'll be doing. But you can visit me anytime :)

Mondtanz

Heute habe ich das Fahrrad genommen und bin gefahren. Das Fahrrad habe ich von einem Mann Namens Frank, für den ich arbeitete. Als ich 16 und hemmungslos war, habe ich als Pferdedressurin gejobbt. Frank hatte fünf Pferde, um die er sich nicht sonderlich kümmerte, die ich zureiten sollte und die je sonderbare und gefährliche Macken hatten. Irgendwann habe ich aufgegeben. Er hat mich bezahlt und mir ein Fahrrad geschenkt, das ich meinem Bruder geschenkt hatte, als er aufs College ging.

Also nahm ich das Fahrrad das ich, wie viele andere Sachen in meinem Leben, von meinem Bruder geerbt habe, dessen Gänge erst neulich wieder funktionieren (dank meinem Vater) und dessen Sitz erst neulich nicht mehr nach vorne klappt, sobald man drauf sitzt (auch dank meine, Vater). Ich musste raus, raus aus meinem Zimmer und meinem Haus, wo das Fernseher immer läuft und keiner guckt zu, weg von meinem Schreibtisch, von den Hausaufgaben und den von mir selbst beauftragten Aufgaben. Der Mond schien mir ins Fenster hinein und hat mich raus auf die Terrasse gelockt. Ich war auf seltsamer Weise vom Mond gefangen, im großen, weißen Auge segelte ich wie auf dem Meer aus dem Haus, in den Sonnenuntergang hinein.

Die Häuser hier sind wie in jedem deutschen Dorf, nur aus Holz, ordentlich in Straßen gereiht, die nach ehemaligen Präsidenten genannt sind. Polk, Madison, Tyler. Es ist gepflegt alles, und nagelneu--oder erscheint zumindest so. Die Wege sind allesamt gepflastert, die Rasen sind gemäht und sehen wie Golfplätze aus, stilvoll mit Blumen am Rande geschmückt. Mitten in der Siedlung, die Stadt heißt, befindet sich eine große Grünfläche, die eigentlich jetzt endlich braun ist, auf der kleine Pfaden und Wege wie Narben laufen. Ich fuhr auf den Mond zu, mit der sehr kleinen, kindlichen Hoffnung, da hoch fliegen zu können. Auf beiden Seiten rastete das braune Grass, Weizen oder was ähnliches, an mir vorbei, oder ich an ihm. Meine kleine Freiheit, mein Flug auf den Mond endete in einem Wohngebiet, wo die Leute ihre schöne Autos vorm Haus parken, und wo mich die Rasensprenger regelmäßig erwischen. Heute aber nicht. Man hört sie, bevor sie anfangen. Manchmal kann man einfach nicht schnell genug rennen, oder es ist abends und man eh' nichts sehen kann und dadurch erwischt wird.

Die ganze Gegend ist von einer merkwürdigen Stille gefangen, es bewegt sich nichts außer einer leichten Brise, die mich wie ein Liebhaber streichelt. Der Wind ist warm und duftet nach Erde, Laub und dem verbliebenen Sommer. Hier fehlen die Kinder, die im Sommer noch auf den Straßen gespielt hätten, oder der morgendliche Betrieb von Hobbyjoggern und Schulkindern, die sonst immer auf dieser Strecke sind. Wo auch immer sie alle sind, sie haben mir die leise Stadt und meine Gedanken überlassen....

Drizzly thoughts

The morning makes your day: a good morning, a good day, or so the theory goes. Starbucks is built on it, or at least the café at the university where the lines are so long you have to weigh your caffine habit against the probably dirty looks you receive for walking in late. Waking to the sound of rain on the roof and the windowpanes can be soothing, a peaceful feeling of Mother Nature drinking her fill, smoky clouds pushing into the mording which, yeilding unwilling, gives unto day. The air is cleaner, fresher and bears the sharp scent of ozone. If you're lucky, the light reflecting between grey sidewalks and laden clouds charges the air with a strange intensity.

The sodden muck resulting from a steady drizzle dampens the spirits as well, as if the cold water has been pouring into my enthusiasm instead of just my collar. Nothing, however, is more exciting than a torrential rain or a lightning storm--provided, of course, of the appropriate shelter. Listening to rain and wind buffet the house and howl at the corners like an injured animal.

People of this area have a strange relationship to lightning: fear. For us, weather plays a crucial and tempermental role in our lives, changing suddenly and maliciously, cloudless skies of an unfathomable blue giving way to furious storms rolling in from the west. It can snow in June and September, be sunny one minute and hailing another. Driving into the mountains once I experienced sunshine, wind, rain, hail, lightning, snow, and back to sunshine. In the space of half an hour.

We fear the lightning as we fear few other things. Like peoples of an earlier age cowering before God we too are judged but indiscriminately, like a petulant child, and cower before that infinite power. Lightning inspires terror and frantic counting, if you are fortunate that there exists enough of a gap between the flash and the crash to not make the exercise superfluous.

But today is not such a day, and better pens than mine have exercised their creative bent on the subject of weather and storms. Today is a day that inspires no torrential writing of high creative quality; thoughts, like the weather, are insipid at best, dogged by the thought that I haven't been properly dry since breakfast.

And on a relatively unrelated note: "Still waters run deep." What the hell does that mean?

The Music Review

Someone asked me yesterday what music I was listening to, and of course I drew a blank. So for those of you who, like me, consider leaving the house without headphones unnecessarily cruel, I give you: the music review (with thanks to Pandora).

Hello Saferide
H.S. is Swedish singer/songwriter Annika Norlin (heh... Norlin...). Her songs are often narrative, telling a story, and just all-around well done. The song San Francisco, available for download from her website, just basically makes me happy in a fruit smoothie kind of way.


Long Lost Penpal, from Hello Saferide

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

Ane Brun
I first saw her in concert a few years back, opening for someone else but I think I ended up liking her better than the band for whom she opened. She's got a fantastic voice, puts a lot of style into it, and it just sounds effortless.


Rubber & Soul, from Ane Brun feat. Teitur

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

Brett Dennen
He might have a voice you either love or hate, but I love it. In any case, he has fantastic songs and beautiful lyrics, sounds a little bit like Bob Dylan meets James Morrison. He'll be coming to town soon, as he's touring with the John Butler Trio. I've had a hard time finding a good video, but this is someone's interpretation of one of Dennen's songs.


Ain't No Reason, from Brett Dennen

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

John Butler Trio
If you don't know about them, you should. The guitarist is simpy amazing. I don't understand how people who play this well don't rule the world. Check out the video:


The guitar solo from Ocean, from JBT

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

Rob Drabkin
Reminding me of JBT is Rob Drabkin, a kid with big hair from Denver whom I saw in concert, also as an opener, and he blew me away. I'm unfortunately not able to find a video of his more virtuosic stuff, but he's just cool anyways. And he has big hair.

Go listen to him on myspace

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

Matt Wertz
I went to his concert last week, and it was great but short. He might be more pop than rock, though he doesn't even begin to approach the cheesiness of James Blunt ("You're beautiful...." bite me). I'd liken him more to John Mayer. My favorite song, 519, has no appropriate video, so, sucks to be us. I am in awe of his vocal chords, though, and wonder how they take the strain. He also tends to look like the whole thing is pretty strenuous.


Carolina, from Matt Wertz

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

Ashton Allen
This is the kind of song you play over and over again till you can't stand it, and then you keep listening. Some people liken him to some early Beatels; I don't really have a reference for him but I like 'im.


Better than I know and Dewdrops, from Ashton Allen

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

Gomez
One of my all-time favorites. I love them. Nuff said. And besides, the video is worth watching because it is just well done, and does a great job of narrative. They've probably gotten popular enough that I can no longer afford the concert tickets, boo.


See the World, from Gomez

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

Matt Costa
Sounds a bit like Jack Johnson meets Beatles, Matt Costa has simple lyrics, the kind of tunes that get stuck in your head and overall a lot of energy and enthusiasm.


Sunshine, from Matt Costa

Other great people: Rachael Yamagata, Our Lady Peace (yes, they have more than that one single), Ellis Paul, Josh Rouse, Ben Jelen (soso), KT Tunstall, Bright Eyes, Erin McKeown

Stranger in a strange land

I left my house as the sun was setting, driving out of a sunset and into the reddish dusk that turned into gloaming. Driving eastwards, away from the hills, the strip malls and superhighway gives way to a 30-mph speed limit. Smallish, older houses huddle up next to the road as if for protection from being completely forgotten; not much happens here. Matching suburban-sprawl housing developments disappear and are replaced by bungalows and dusty tractors, and fences keep in a few cows or horses that seem to be lacking inclination to even move, much less escape. A woman jogs alone along the side of the road. I wonder where she's from, and where she thinks she's going. This is Route-66 territory, though that forgotten road runs far south of here. This is Colorado before money moved in, resolutely holding out against prairie palaces and golf courses.



The interstate runs north and south, south towards New Mexico, north towards Wyoming. I can be in Laramie in 69 miles. The speed limit runs to 75 mph (140 kmh), and state patrol dodges heavy transport trucks from Tennessee and Texas to enforce it. I roll along, windows down, sneaking glances at the brilliant sunset illluminating the hills to my west, now visible as a chain of ragged teeth against a darkening sky. I feel like I could drive for hours, days. Somewhere north of Meade the scent of cattle hits like a wall. Silos dot the landscapes reminiscent of the area's past and dwindling present as a farming community. Cattle feedlots and fields, tractors and 'home', bygones of the world following the Goldrush and the Cattle Kings as tenacious remnants of another era. It feels as if I'm Steinbeck out to discover the country in which I was born and know little about. Glitzy strip malls and truck stops the size of small towns tempt the weary, like Homer's Sirens, or at least Kafka's--for these are silent--into stopping for lukewarm coffee and the dismal but somehow comforting ubiquitous fried food. I resist their call and drive on, for I have "miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep."

Boxes

I didn't go paint boxes this morning. I should have, they could have used me and I didn't have any other plans. Instead, I cancelled, because I didn't deem myself capable of driving there nor of putting in much work.

I got up at dawn, as I do, choking down my breakfast which all of the sudden was making me nauseous. I went back to bed, figuring I was just over-tired and hadn't quite slept enough. I managed about 10 pages of reading and went back to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. I have spent today alternating between sleeping and reading Candide which should have taken me two hours max and instead took me the entire day. I went for a tiny walk which wiped me out, and that is the point where I called in sick on the boxes project. I was thrilled when the nausea subsided somewhat, though the thought of food still makes me want to toss my cookies. A few glasses of watered-down orange juice are all I've had since dawn, and I optimistically cut up a peach in hopes I can get it down.

WebMD and google have failed me; they don't know what I've got, and their top suggestion is side-effects from chemotherapy, which I don't have. I wouldn't call it chronic fatigue, just persistant. It's quite possibly the backlash of all the stress I've been having--my body telling me to take it easy or else. It's good I got as much done yesterday as I did, or else I'd be horribly "in the weeds", a restaurant term for being really f*ing behind and unable to catch up.

The plus side (I take my positives where I can find them) is that I borrowed two DVDs from the library I'd not otherwise have been able to watch, one of which somewhat relates to my honor thesis topic, about the Truth and Reconciliation tribunals in South Africa after apartheid. And the other one is in French, so that counts as studying, doesn't it?

Time to use my wakeful period to get stuff done, 5 pages at a time.....

Snip snip snippets

In no particular order:

1. I am of the steadfast and unyielding opinion that the word 'like' should be permanently banned from the English language. Everyone knows how a valley girl sounds, but the grossly inappropriate usage of the L-word has become établié, so ubiquitous as to be completely, totally, and in all other ways unavoidable. Not only does it grate most unpleasantly on the ears, this annoying interjection reduces the average IQ of any statement by an automatic 50%. Minimum. It is impossible—and I use the word with full cognizance of its finality and nevertheless in firm insistence of its appropriateness—to sound intelligent while interjecting ‘like’ with all the enthusiasm and unconsciousness of a four-year-old with Tourette’s. “Don’t you, like, think that if we’re talking about, like, relative deprivation as the, like, cause of ethnic conflict, wouldn’t that, like, be supporting the, like, economic causes theory?” I kid you not. It happens. It denigrates an otherwise intelligent—or at least comprehensible—comment appropriate to a college student and reduces it to the intellectual and linguistical equivalent of picking your nose: not to be done in public, appetite-reducing for the poor souls in your vicinity, and if you’re lucky, you won’t have to eat it (you know, like, your words). Rant over.

2. Wait, new rant. I hate TV. A lot. And more every day. I think it has passed the point where you could convince me that TV is worthwhile, or even remotely interesting. It is noise, and always on, and irritating. My attention span is somewhere between that of a goldfish and that of a shoelace when it comes to TV, I can’t be bothered to watch it for more than ten minutes. But most of the time, I just want it to be turned off (for a change!).

3. Autumn is coming. We had the first cold and icky day since I’ve been here; it’s been good sleeping and good running, and makes me not feel so bad to be inside.

4. I want to steal people’s bicycles. Basically, anyone with a nice road bike. I’m not too picky.

5. We’re building a refugee camp out of cardboard boxes next week for an awareness activity about Darfur. It’s going to be pretty sweet, and pretty cool looking (I think).

6. I really like having my own bathroom, rather than sharing it with between two and five or six other people (depending on whose boyfriends were over). I miss living with cool people with whom I have some sort of a relationship. I enjoy having a living room, I guess, though I can never use it. The yard is cool too.

7. Turns out I don’t like driving all that much, only in the mountains with a fun car. Give me a bike (see no 4) any day.

8. You meet cool people in libraries. Librarians are cool people, though I don’t know if we qualify as actual real live librarians. Mostly we explain thirty thousand times a day how to look up books and how people can look up the books themselves so we don’t have to.

9. I know more people than I thought I did. Lots of cool people are gone from work but some are still there, and the new ones seem dece. I have classes with friends, astoundingly enough, and run into acquaintances with relative regularity. People remember my face, which is surprising and often more than I can say for them. One guy actually remembered I speak German, which is funny as I always used to completely omit his face from my memory and would be utterly surprised when he would speak to me in German elsewhere on campus and not just in the library. Goes to show you my memory for faces is contextually dependent.

10. Intro classes suck. Makes me wonder how half these kids got out of high school, honestly. I used to think my brother was overdoing the intellectual elitism regarding his classes, which he claimed were all too simple—but now I am starting to agree. I’m not particularly impressed by the level of thinking done by 95% of the people in five sixths of my classes. Also see comment no 1.

11. But most of my instructors are really good. The intro to astronomy and anthropology are taught by interesting people who make an effort, and they present the material in a way I understand. History is bearable if dry, and politics is really interesting even though I’ve already covered all the material thus far with various past research papers.

12. I don’t like reading as much at night. Which is why I am writing and not reading an article on mediation.

13. My to-do list has 23 items on it. C’est ma vie. Speaking of which, one of those items is to have my French evaluated. Turns out I don’t speak French, but I’ve decided I want to move to Belgium next summer, so I suppose I ought to one of these days.

14. I can highly recommend Pandora.com, as an internet radio (“music genome project”) which suggests songs you may like based on characteristics of music you have given in your preference. So far, I have come up with a ton of great artists, including John Butler Trio, Matt Wertz, Hello Saferide, Ellis Paul, KT Tunstall (I knew of her before), Brett Dennen, and others.

15. I've pretty much stopped drinking coffee, except on occasional days when I remember to bring spare change. I miss it, in that I enjoy the taste, but I don't have coffee cravings. I find Bagels to be pretty fantastic, particularly with humous, and I miss Brötchen.

16. My experiment: make it through the week on the food I bought on Sunday. Progress: haven’t starved yet. PS: wasabi peas are addictive.

Good night!

A public service

An anthropology class is not the place I would normally expecct to hear a public service announcement. So it was somewhat surprising to hear the Professor stop lecture 10 minutes early to inform us about various student service options available on campus, ranging from a women's resource center to a psychiatric clinic to an escort service to get you home safely at night. I appreciate the information, I suppose, though none of it is new and most of it probably not useful to me; I suppose I appreciate that someone bothered to inform us. But who is someone? Is this some new campus policy, that all intro anthropology courses discuss self-help options? I'm glad the administration is so concerned for our welfare; but then again, as tuition-payers we are the source of its income.

In many respects a college campus is a socialist environment. You pay a certain fee to be there and are thus entitled to many of the services on offer, and the rest seem to be subsidised. You have access to the health club and to resource centers, to doctors and sports-injury clinics, to social events, presentations, and theater, as well as computer labs and other facilities. Of course, like everything else in life this stuff costs money and nothing comes for free, so the fee (tuition) paid is designed to reflect this and is not a small number. Whether or not the fee is representative of the services received (or on offer) is not the point: You pay the same fee regardless of which services you use. And in most respects, you get what you need, you utilise those services which you require, and other students utilise different services. Why isn't this principle carried over into everyday life?

This isn't an argument for socialism per se, but rather the observation that this system seems to function efficiently and could be used as a model. Of course, there are some freedoms that are proscribed and perscribed, and you are limited to the quality and quantity of services on offer. Additionally, the fee paid for this lifestyle is obviously not perpetually sustainable, but rather is financed by extensive loans or private payment.

In Europe, by contrast, the education is publicly available and many of the services are otherwise on offer, though the campus community itself doesn't exist hardly at all. The services exist in a larger context: in Sweden, for example, you can be paid to go to the gym, you have access to subsidised health care or insurance. In much of Western Europe, the commodity for which we americans pay such high fees--higher education--is free. It is this dichotomy which is particularly interesting, as these societies provide the service of education as a benefit of a larger program--general society--whose fees--taxes--are borne by everyone, yet the education service itself is not necessarily of the quality seen in the US. That is, in terms of facilities and services on offer; the quality of the education alone is measurable by different standards and not by me.

Both of these trends (in America, expensive education with services in a society with little or no services; in Europe, free education with no services in a society offering a variety of them) have their issues. In Europe, one of the biggest political issues in almost all of the states is the payment, reform, and/or maintenance of the social welfare system, which in the US seems to be restricted to the limited welfare programs (i.e. social security or medicaid) provided by the government with huge private concerns being responsible for health care and other areas. Europe is also trying desperately to reform their education, either lower or higher or both (Britain as an example of the former, Germany of both). Take your pick.

Gottesbelästigung und Nagelknöpfe

This may not sound like the profound and utter revelation that this is--in fact, you may relegate it to the category of N.S.S.: No shit, stupid--but I assure you, this is big:


I write English better than I write German.

Obvious, right? Okay, so forget about the revelation part, this isn't Genesis or anything. It was worth a try, though.

My boyfriend's theory is that there are two distinct versions of me, an English one and a German one. As a student of politics I know to sit the fence on this one, and neither agree nor disagree, as I would imaginably be a rather poor and subjective judge. In any case, I apparently have a different sense of humor and methods of expression depending on the language I am speaking, some kind of linguistically induced multiple personality syndrome. And I guess his humor is distinct, depending on whether or not he and Leo are writing me in English or auf Deutsch.

I have managed to surprise the occasional unwary and unsuspecting German into thinking I am someone from Sachsen or something, a fellow Landesleut from a different neck of the woods, but my true colors show and within a short amount of time they figure out what I'm trying to pull. An example: I recently tried to explain blasphemy on a particularly English day, and all I could come up with was Gottesbelästigung (the actual word is Gotteslästerung), which is something approximate to assaulting God, the kind of assault usually preceded with "sexual". Way to go, points for the home team. Round two: Nagelknöpfe, which, instead of referring to the heads of nails in plurality, instead refers to the buttons of nails, which don't exist--not even in singular.

I blame my lacking German competencies on the American educational system and on my miserable career as a Germanist. The educational system, as it waits till college to encourage you to take a foreign language. The other reason, far more grevious and perhaps incorrigible, is the fact that most of the German literature I have read (Harry Potter does not count) has been in translation. Bachmann, Goethe, Nietzsche, Heine, Aichinger.... English, the lot of them. Please, don't throw anything, it wasn't my fault: the lacking enrichment of vocabulary was due to an insidious plot to ruin my life on the behalf of my profs.

See, were I to write this post in German, a) three of my four regular readers would probably not understand it, and b) I would have had to look up words like insidious (heimtückisch), incorrigible (unverbesslich) or perhaps unsuspecting (arglos). And as you all well know, I'm a pretty lazy person.

So: suggestions for phenomenal (sagenhaft) German prose, with which I have any hope of ameliorating (verbessern ....boring word) my disappointingly (enttäuschend) restricted vocabulary and my stilted (gespreizt or gestelzt) style?

Give my regards to Watson....

In the face of persistent dissatisfaction and succeeding several hours of German history, I've decided to try and figure out What's Going On. It's hard to say, women being at the proverbial mercy--ah, mercy, ye who in this regard are not so merciful--of their conflicting and confusing (yes, men, we are confused by our emotions as well, though it stops well short of the male bafflement) emotions as we are. I'm attempting a Nietzschean regression, referring, of course, rather to Nietzsche's genealogical approach than his nihilistic philosophy.

My situation here is by all accounts passable, and comfortable, in that the comforts of a civilized, materialistic society are available to me without having to have carried them in my backpack. A desk to suit an executive though I am but a student; a bed big enough for two though I sleep alone; a car though there is nowhere to go. I do not want, nor do I starve, though the higher cost of living requires I tighten my belt and my budget. I am busy; or rather, I am behind, which has the gilt of inevitability and of inescabability to preclude any attempts at idleness. My to-do list follows me around like a hotdog on a string: not smoothly, occasioning comment, and reeking faintly. Still, the items will diminish slowly but surely, and the particular reductive effect of deadlines is not to be discounted.

It has also been a long time since I have had had more than an evening or two a week to myself, in which I was my own sole source of entertainment. I miss my boyfriend primarily for emotional and intellectual reasons, but also for the enrichment he provided to my social schedule, as someone with whom I spent a disproportionate amount of time, alone or with our combined or separate circles of friends. We are reduced to frequent but sometimes hurried conversations, our respective schedules conspiring against us and compounded by the time difference. This frustrates me; the connection makes me more aware of the distance than ever.

Various people, whom I would consider somewhere between friends and acquaintances, depending on the individual, have welcomed me back with relative warmth. In comparison with my social life in Germany, my social life here is like marmalade: high viscosity and therefore of slow speed, sweet but taken in small quantities, and moulds if left unused for too long. As mentioned, however, my assignments and my location of habitation now preclude extensive social activities--though I will admit that such activities are so few on offer that I can almost certainly accommodate them. Mostly I just feel out of place and lacking the desire to try and fit in. That will, I am sure, change with time to a certain extent. I will make (more) friends, or I will return to entertaining myself as I have in the past. I do not sit idle, and I can be happy without needing others.

My optimism is flagging somewhat, I must admit: or that which is flagging is my sense of challenge and discovery. Perhaps arrogant and almost certainly untrue, but I have the lackluster and dragging feeling of déjà vu, of having seen and done and experienced what there is to do here; not only that, particularly in light of the shining goal of graduation hovering before me, my classes appear less as an interesting intellectual challenge (or pass-time, depending on the level) and more as simply--work, items to be checked off a list. There is no wonder of discovering a new city, not to mention experiencing a new culture or language; I am already aware of the difficulties and drawbacks inherent in my system. It is the mystery that is lacking, not an inherent defect in my current situation; a fault I could accept, accommodate or ameliorate, but what is the solution to a missing mystery?

Überlebt; überfordert?

Die erste Woche Uni habe ich nun überstanden, mit intakten Gliedmaßen und annehmbarer Laune. Es war etwas anstrengend, ein bisschen wie in einem See zu schwimmen, zwischen Algen ohne klare Sicht, wo es alles hingehen sollte. Dazu kam noch die erste Woche Arbeit (wollte ja alles gleichzeitig anfangen, sonst macht's ja kein Spaß).

Das Studium in den USA unterscheidet sich wesentlich vom deutschen Studium. Erster Unterschied: wir bezahlen viel Geld. Das sieht man. Die Einrichtungen sind schön und gepflegt, es gibt Computer frei zur Verfügung in fast allen Gebäuden, die Labor sind Weltspitze (mehrmals Nobelpreisgewinner für Physik), die Bibi ist riesig (du kannst dir neue Laptops und DVDs ausleihen) und zumindest von außen schön. Einen großen Rasen (,,Quad") streckt sich zwischen den Gebäuden, Blumenbeeten und Fahrradstraßen bezeichnen die Wege. Es gibt Teiche, je mit einer romantischen Brücke. Der italienische Baustil der Toskana prägt die Gebäude, deren rötlicher Sandstein mit der Grüne der Bäumen und Rasen kontrastiert. Es kommt mir gewissermaßen seriöser vor, professioneller.

Der Campus ist ein großer Stadtteil, eine Insel in einem liberalen See. Fast 4000 Studierende wohnen direkt auf dem Campus--Pflicht ist es, im ersten Jahr in den dreckigen Dorms zu wohnen, wo man ein Zimmer zu zweit teilt und alle Mahlzeiten in der Mensa zu sich nimmt. Es gibt einen Stadion, eine Laufbahn, eine Sporthalle, Theater, Amphitheater, Planetarium, usw. Es gibt auch sechs oder so Colleges, zu denen mein College der Arts and Sciences gehört--Geisteswissenschaften, wie man es hier nennt. Ingeneurwissenschaften, Architektur, Musik, und andere teilen auch die Einrichtungen.

Das Anmeldeverfahren findet im Internet einige Monate im Voraus statt. Mich habe ich in April für das Herbstsemester angemeldet. Manche Kurse verwenden einen ,,clicker", ein Gerät, mit dem du fragen (z.B. Mäthe- oder Meinungsfragen) in einer Vorlesung von 500 Leuten beantworten kannst. Deine Antworte werden auch deinem Profil zugeschrieben. In so einer Veranstaltung fühlt man sich etwas verloren, etwas vergessen und unwichtig, nur eine unter vielen. Man kennt sich nicht, nicht wirklich, wobei in einer kleineren Fakultät wie meiner lernt man sich irgendwann doch kennen. Wenn man Glück hat, teilt man den Kurs mit einem Bekannten oder Freund.

Da ich in Deutschland keine Grundstudiumsveranstaltungen belegt habe, kann mein Vergleich nicht so ganz stimmen, aber in den Grundkursen hier gibt es kein Referat, keine Hausarbeit, nicht wirklich. Die Note wird aus vielen kleineren Komponenten zusammengesetzt, Reaktionsschreiben von je 2 Seiten, Anwesendheit, Partizipation, usw. In den höheren Politikkursen schreibt man eine Hausarbeit von ugf. 15 Seiten und dazu noch zwei oder drei Klausuren. Sonst ist es eine Vorlesung, und man schreibt auf, was der Dozent sagt; außerdem liest man für jeden Kurs ugf. 30 Seiten pro Tag.

Die erste Woche kam mir wie eine Prüfung vor, einerseits eine Gelegenheit, zu zeigen, dass ich doch eine Ahnung habe aber anderseits ein Zwang, alles auf der Stelle zu können und zwar sofort. Die unterschiedlichen Ansprüche meiner Kommilitonen stoßen mit denen meiner klirrend zusammen, meine Welt ist die ihren sehr anders. Es ist isolierend, dass es in jedem Raum neue Leute gibt, und mit vielen will ich nichts zu tun haben. Die Jungs, die nur an Football denken, die Mädchen, die Sonnenbrillen so groß wie Teller tragen und wie Insekten aussehen--sie schreien ständig ihre Handys an, hören gleichzeitig auch Musik und das alles mit dem feinsten und gehobenen Valleygirl (ggf Surfer)-Akzent. Das Wort ,,like" findet Platz zwischen jedem zweigen Wort, sie reden teilweise grammatisch falsch, immer sehr laut, und nur vom Sich-am-Wochenende-bzw.-jeden-Tag-Betrinken.

Alle Leute sind nicht so. Nur, weil ich Einführungsveranstaltungen mitbelegen musste, komme ich mit dieser Art Leuten in Kontakt. Politikstudenten sind was anderes, und die Model-United-Nations-Leute sind eine Rasse an sich. Man kennt sich. Ich fühle mich mit denen wohl, während ich sonstwo einfich fehl am Platz bin.

Am ersten Tag griff ein geistlich Gestörter einen Ersti mit einem Messer an und versuchte, ihm die Kehle durchzuschneiden, bevor er sich selbst mit dem Messer verletzte. Man weiß nicht, warum er es gemacht hat. Dem Studenten geht es relativ gut. Er sagte: ,,ich wusste, dass es schwierig an der Uni anzufangen sein würde, aber so hart habe ich es mir nicht vorgestellt."

In der Bibliothek zu arbeiten macht mir Spaß. Alle mögliche Leute kommen herein und wollen Bücher und Hilfe, öfters gleichzeitig. Es gibt Leute, die bald ihren Abschluss bekommen und noch nie in der Bibi waren. Andere haben sich zum zig-tausendsten Mal verlaufen und wollen nur das eine Buch haben, nach dem sie zwei Stunden gesucht haben. Es macht mir auch Spaß, die Bücher anzuschauen, die ich einchecken muss. Alle mögliche Studienrichtungen, von Organentransplant zur Krisenbewältigung, Ethnologie und Chemie. Ich mag es, die Leute zu fragen, was sie mit den Büchern wollen--was sie für eine Arbeit schreiben, für welchen Kurs.

Leiter habe ich es nicht geschafft, in der Woche Hausaufgaben zu machen. Außer den Kurse hatte ich noch Arbeit, Termine, und zig Tausend private Sachen zu erledigen. Also stehe ich gerade einem ganzen Berg von Aufgaben gegenüber, denen ich mich nun widme.