Blackbird

I'll tell you a secret: I only pretend to play the guitar. I grew up playing classical violin, and eventually turned that into Irish and bluegrass fiddle (and eventually that died off, but I hope to revive it). Guitar? Well, I can do a few chords but nothing too complicated, and I only know one or two actual good songs that are more than G-C-D and strumming.

Still, I can do a pretty mean rendition of Blackbird, and it's a good thing to start off with as long as I am confident I won't then be asked to play a full set. It's worked well so far.



A few years back, my mum and I were waiting outside our hostel in one of the most forlorn corners of Ireland for it to open. It was on the far western edge of the Dingle peninsula, in sight of the Blasket Islands (abandoned 1957 because it was just too difficult to live out there) and about an hour or two from anywhere. As we were waiting two strangers approached, two young guys, Americans. They had just walked from Ventry, about 15 km away, and were shaggy, rugged looking, carrying packs--and a small travel guitar.

The one of them offered me his guitar. "Blackbird singing in the dead of night...."

We ended up, me mum and I, taking these two strangers to the grocery store because we had a car and they didn't. And we took them to the beach, and we walked for hours and hours along one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen. In the evening we sat, and I debated American cultural imperialism and Noam Chomsky. I won't say that we made friends because of that guitar, but it helped.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Black bird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise,oh
You were only waiting for this moment to arise, oh
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Wir schaffen das schon

Ach was. Ihr habt euch also wieder verlaufen? Wie schafft man das eigentlich, zum vierten Mal sich im Wald zu verirren? Die Straße geht doch nur geradeaus, abbiegen muss man nur zweimal, einmal hinter der alten Mühle, einmal nach dem alten Baum. Ist es solange her, seitdem ihr hier gewesen seid?

Ist ja auch egal, ihr seid endlich da. Nein, Mutter kommt heute nicht, sie schafft es nicht, runter zu kommen. Du weißt ja, wie es ihr geht. Sie glaubt, es würde ihr gut gehen, sie hört nicht zu wie ich es ihr sage, dass sie im Bett bleiben muss. Heute bleibt sie also im Bett, wie ich sagte.

Macht's euch bequem. Soll ich nen Tee kochen, oder nen Kaffee? Kaffee? Es fällt mir jetzt ein, ich hab nur Schwarzentee und Kindertee, keinen Kaffee. Ist auch gesunder so. Ich mach das Abendbrot. Etwas Schinken und Käse habe ich noch, einige Essgurken lassen sich auch auftreiben. Nein, bleibt doch ruhig sitzen, ihr seid doch zu Gast. Ich mach's schon. Ich habe gesagt ich mache es, lass mich doch.

Nein, von Sabine habe ich nichts gehört, die lässt sich seit Monaten nicht mehr hier blicken, seitdem.... nunja, sie hat viel zu tun. Unsere Tochter ist sie schon, perfekt ist sie nicht. Du brauchst sie ja nicht zu verteidigen, sie ist zu nichts fähig, das sieht doch jeder. Wie sie mit dem Jürgen herumtreibt, da habe ich gleich gesagt, hier läuft was schief.

Wie es mir geht? Es geht, mehr nichts. Jeden Tag fällt mir das Aufstehen schwerer und ich hab ja Mutter, um die ich mich kümmere. Nimmt ja so viel Zeit in Anspruch, ich habe kaum etwas für mich übrig. Es geht so, ich brauce doch keine Hilfe! Schließlich will ich nicht hier weg. Wir haben doch 40 Jahren in diesem Haus gewohnt, es würde eure Mutter umbringen, wenn wir in die Stadt ziehen sollten.

Wir kommen schon zurecht. Ihr macht euch unnötigerweise Sorge, wir haben immer alleine aufm Land gewohnt, wieso soll es jetzt anders sein? Hier hat man seine Ruhe. Hier sitzt man auf der alten Bankt und träumt von den alten Zeiten. Hier sind so viele Erinnerungen hängengeblieben. Kennt ihr noch den Baum, von dem die kleine Martina mal gestürzt ist? So sehr hat sie den Baum geliebt, den Schaukel, so sehr hat sie noch nie in ihrem Leben geheult. So viele Wände, so viele Menschen verstörten mich. Nein, du brauchst nicht jemanden zu schicken. Wir schaffen das schon, esst doch eure Brote wie gute Kinder und lasst einem alten Mann seine Ruhe. Man hat's schließlich verdient.

Memory lane

Today's weather: snow up to my knees.

Turns out I was all kinds of strange as a kid. When I was really little they made me wear a patch over one eye, "like a pirate", with a picture of a butterfly or a rainbow as an attempt to make the purple monstrosity that was my eyepatch "cuter". I also had something against brushing my hair or wearing coordinated clothing. I was probably cute in an ugly sort of way. They eventually released me, thankfully before I reached the age when caring what others think about you becomes seemingly more important than what you think of yourself.

When I was ten I had hair down to my waist and big glasses. I was a scrawny kid with skinny legs and a bit too much enthusiasm. I could sing the fifty states song and would, with little prompting, break out into a rendition or a choreographed can-can. As far as I can recall I spent a lot of my summers and as much of my winters as possible outside on the road in front of our house. I could tell by the sound if a car was coming, but hardly anyone ever came up there as we lived towards the end of the road. We'd play soccer in the street, or careen down the hill in our little red wagon. I think I even ran over my friend's foot that way. At birthday parties we'd even play Calvinball, sort of the sports version of Mao from Bill Waterson's Calvin and Hobbes comics, which basically consisted of a make-it-up-as-you-go version of soccer meets golf with balls, sticks, and various sundry props. It eventually degenerates into absolute chaos but is absolutely hilarious.

Christmas this year gave us a chance to review some of our Christmas pasts, in the form of recently digitized videos. 1996 seems like a very long time ago. I almost didn't recognize myself on the tape, and my brother's (then) squeaky voice could have been mistaken for my own. We stood on the road and demonstrated soccer moves for the camera, a particularly poorly placed pass on my part precipitating the partial impact with the camera. We chopped down trees and tried to convince the dog to drag them. We decorated the fourteen foot monstrosity.

The best moment, and the one which had us practically rolling on the floor with laughter (aside from my brother's very sexy dance, a cross between a victory dance and a wet monkey), was our little "concert": Arm in arm, my brother and I stood in our old hallway and sang in chorus, "It's Christmas at ground zero / Now the missiles are on their way / What a crazy fluke, we're gonna get nuked / On this jolly holiday!"

To each their own, I suppose. Merry Christmas / Chanukah / Kwanza / Solstice / winter break / whatever the hell you celebrate.

It's Christmas at ground zero
There's music in the air
The sleigh bells are ringing and the carolers are singing
While the air raid sirens blare

It's Christmas at ground zero
The button has been pressed
The radio just let us know
That this is not a test

Everywhere the atom bombs are dropping
It's the end of all humanity
No more time for last-minute shopping
It's time to face your final destiny

It's Christmas at ground zero
There's panic in the crowd
We can dodge debris while we trim the tree
Underneath the mushroom cloud

You might hear some reindeer on your rooftop
Or Jack Frost on your windowsill
But if someone's climbing down your chimney
You better load your gun and shoot to kill

It's Christmas at ground zero
And if the radiation level's okay
I'll go out with you and see all the new
Mutations on New Year's Day

It's Christmas at ground zero
Just seconds left to go
I'll duck and cover with my Yuletide lover
Underneath the mistletoe

It's Christmas at ground zero
Now the missiles are on their way
What a crazy fluke, we're gonna get nuked
On this jolly holiday

What a crazy fluke, we're gonna get nuked
On this jolly holiday!

Welcome, ye weary web-crawlers

IN THE BEGINNING there was nothing, and then She said "Let there be blog," and there was blog, and it was good. She looked at said blog and christened it "Wayfaring Frog," and there was much rejoycing. After many moons She installed a hit counter, and it was good. Recently, it has been better, and no one knows why. .:.

Humor can be dissected as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the pure scientific mind.

--E. B. White (1899 - 1985), Some Remarks on Humor, introduction

I'm not sure when it was this was, but perhaps a month or so ago I installed a hitcounter at the bottom of this blog. Back in those days, a long, long time ago (web-years) there were about six hits a day. And I could have named all of you.

About a week or two ago lil ol WFF was hosting up to 30 visitors a day, from all over the world. Readers came from all over the world, from as close as Canada, as far away as Tunisia and Malaysia.

Though boys throw stones at frogs in sport, the frogs do not die in sport, but in earnest.

--Bion (~100 BC), from Plutarch, Water and Land Animals

114 people were here today, and today ain't over yet. Where do you people come from? My handy little stats counter tells me you come from google, sadly misdirected to the ravings of a capricious college student rather than anything of any value. You have strayed onto one of the many twisty paths in the Web. I just hope you weren't disappointed.

The idea of an incarnation of God is absurd: why should the human race think itself so superior to bees, ants, and elephants as to be put in this unique relation to its maker? . . Christians are like a council of frogs in a marsh or a synod of worms on a dung-hill croaking and squeaking "for our sakes was the world created."

--Julian the Apostate

Forgive me if I take the liberty of revealing some of your Google secrets: the keywords which mistakenly led you to my thought-kingdom:

- hitler youth winter jacket
- english word for weather reflecting on mood
- look like a soldier who's lost his composure
- Freedom engl.Historiker
- GEHTS LOS
- e.e cummings frog
- song:519 de matt wertz
- deja ecoute
- jenny don't be hasty you said you'd marry me if I was twenty th
ree

We are born princes and the civilizing process makes us frogs.

--Eric Berne (1910 - 1970)

Many of these involve some of the songs or individuals I have quoted or referenced. I can't imagine all of these people even came close to finding what they were looking for, unless it was the title of the song quoted in the third entry above (Gomez, in case you care). What particularly mystifies me is "frog boxes". This perplexes me from top to bottom. First, what does "frox boxes" mean in any logical context? What could the seeker have hoped to find? Second, what arcane calculations deep with in the vaunted technologies of Google made that poor misguided program think that this blog would be the answer to their four-cornered anurian query? Trying the search "frog boxes" myself, I don't come up with this blog on any of the first ten or so pages. I do, however, come up with some of the following interesting tidbets:

- "Porcelain Hinged Boxes Humpty Dumpty Frog Prince Pirate Wizard of ..."
. "Frog Four-Piece Hat Box Bath Time Gift Set" (this sounds quite cute, actually)
- "Wireframes: Unpacking the Boxes / frogblog / frog design"
- "Across the Andes by Frog@Everything2.com" (this sounds cool)
- "Frog Environmental Unit (FEU)" (acronyms result in instant credibility)
- "Frog Gifts.Com, Call 1-800-FROG-FUN (1-800-376-4386), FROGS! FROGS ..." (I feel myself reaching for the phone)

I like less the story that a frog if put in cold water will not bestir itself if that water is heated up slowly and gradually and will in the end let itself be boiled alive, too comfortable with continuity to realize that continuous change at some point may become intolerable and demand a change in behavior.

--Charles Handy - The Age of Unreason

I can't imagine that any of these individuals found what they were looking for here. So I encourage you, dear reader, whomever you are, to leave a note as to how you got here and what you think. I'm curious.

Sushi

If you have any kind of accusations to level against your significant other, any problems you need to discuss in hair-curling detail and shrill volume, there are two possible venues: Jerry Springer and over sushi.

Sushi is fabulous food, even for someone who doesn't eat fish. It comes in delectable little bites which are just sufficiently large enough to jam your jaws for the time it takes you to chew and swallow, allowing the other person to get several shots in before you can respond.

As an added bonus, sushi is often consumed accompanied by wasabi. If you say something particularly outrageous, such as letting slip that you are sleeping with your girlfriend's sister AND her best friend (preferably repeatedly), the normal spluttering fury turns into choking fury as the wasabi assaults.

So, next time you have a bombshell of this magnitude, let it fly over sushi.



UPDATE: turns out I already posted on the subject of sushi. Go figure.

Sea Fever

Once upon a time I went to Denmark. I used to live kinda nearby, about twenty minutes from the last port-of-call for the Scandanavian ferries travelling to Germany from Sweden and Denmark. To get to Denmark from where I was living without taking a boat, you'd have had to drive all the way up the Jutland peninsula and cross several bridges before reaching Copenhagen. Taking the ferry is much quicker, just load on your car and sit upstairs in the lounge and enjoy. Going to Sweden takes two ferries, and a stop-over in Helsingor/Helsingborg, which is Hamlet's castle. It seemed like our local grocery store was filled to the brim every weekend with the car-ferry tourists loading up on sweets and alcohol, both of which are extensively taxed up north. It was frustrating to want to buy some yoghurts and a loaf of bread and have to wait behind someone with two entire shopping carts full of vodka and wine.

The family I was staying with was friends with one of the ferry captains, so on one trip we got a tour of the cockpit and control room, got to see the radar and GPS displays, the weather monitors, everything. The crewmen are usually trilingual (German, English, and Danish or Swedish) and work long shifts three or four days a week before having a similar stretch off. It's fascinating to be up on the deck and see the water stretching out in all directions, seeing the other boats moving about as tiny dots on the Baltic, dwarfed by our immensity.

We vacationed in Sweden quite a bit and therefore always took the ferry. But if we were going to Denmark, we took a boat. A ship, a sailing ship. A 13-meter yacht, to be more specific. On this particular trip my dad was over visiting from the US, and we planned to head for Copenhagen but poor weather left us stranded in a couple of ports a couple of times. It was a steel-hulled boat but narrow, wouldn't make much over 7 knots even in force 7 or so winds, with gusts up to 9. The only day I was ever seasick was the 9-hour stint from Gedser to Rodby, nine hours in a quartering sea. We had to be strapped into the cockpit with lifelines, and clipped to the railing every time we went up on the foredeck.




Sailing on the Baltic is not like the mediterranean or the carribbean. It can be quite cold, and you wear foul-weather gear most days under most conditions, as the wind and weather really aren't all that warm. If you look at Dutch paintings from the 16th and 17th century onwards, the landscape and fishing scenes, you will see a faint golden glow to the sky. That became the fashion after some pioneering painter went to Italy, but doesn't represent the North sea or the Baltic particularly well, which are grey and eisen, and unforgiving.

"Sea-Fever"

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1878-1967)

I remember this trip as a series of almost discreet memories: sailing by white chalk cliffs and trying to repair the motor, sitting and playing guitar on the piers in the evening, playing with the dinghy in the harbor and walking for an hour and a half in search of a store. Not having a hot shower for three weeks because I could never figure out how to work the faucets, didn't have the correct change, or was simply too late.

We spent four days alone in Copenhagen, my father and I. Though he and I get on and got on really well, and spent plenty of quality time together, this was perhaps the most intensive time we had spent together in a long time, and it was wonderful. We stayed on the ship, docket at Langlinie by the Little Mermaid, and had four days to cruise town, visit the sights, hang out in the dingy but touristy little pubs in Nyhaven, spend an evening talking over a bottle of Romanian wine.

Evenings faded into night, rocked to sleep by the wind and the waves, uneasy of the coming storm but peaceful.

Whenever I'm in a public place, on campus or elsewhere, I always wonder about the other people I see. Who are they? Where are they from? Why are they here, what do they want to be? Most of the time we each go around in our own little bubble, ipods and cellphones making the limits of personal space almost tangible, Mr-I-talk-on-my-cellphone-every-waking-second. We don't necessarily want small talk on the bus, we don't want the person in front of us in line to talk to us (how could anyone not like awkward small talk?).



One of my favorite pastimes is looking at other patrons in restaurants and stores and trying to discern their stories, or make up histories for them. (This woman, she has two kids, lives in the suburbs, is an accountant.) (That man has two cats and hasn't been laid in four years.) (This emo kid pretends he likes skating but prefers physics.) That sort of thing. Of course, it's hard to "win" at "Instant History", as we generally don't go ask complete strangers intrusive personal questions to support our hypothesis. The more outrageous, the better. Thus, the woman shopping at the grocery store for cheerios and apples has a secret identity as a pole dancer; the middle-aged guy over there buying a loaf of bread and some coffee is actually a music producer; the two kids furtively stealing candy bars are just two kids who are about to get in trouble, but one of 'em has never met his mother and the other one is a straight-A student.



When I'm abroad I usually waylay any other Americans I see, just for the occasional chance to speak English and because I have nothing else to do. Despite the intense amusement this causes my local companions, seeing me grill strangers in English, in the end it's invariably tourists, and the conversation ends up not being that interesting, just a recitation of their trip so far, and that they absolutely love (insert name of current town or type of local food).



I have another good strategy for meeting interesting people, guaranteed fail-safe: rent out a room. I am not entirely sure where these people come from, but craigslist seems to be the natural habitat of society's strangest, and they all, apparently, want to live with me. I've had some bad experiences with roommates before (one case involved police and replacing the carpet, the other involved eviction of someone who was literally living in my living room for two years). The people looking for housing may be divided into a few categories, easily recognizable:

1. The would-be immigrant (probably related to a Nigerian official looking to store some extra cash for awhile, and would you be willing to help for a mere §500,000?). There is a form letter they send, "I will be moving to Your Town next year and would like to secure a room. Please tell me how much rent is and I will send you a check for six times this number, and you can return the difference in cash" or something similar. I can't quite figure out how the scam works in some cases, but it's pretty obvious they send this letter to everyone and their goldfish.

Hello
Good day to you,I'm XXXXXX,32 from manila,Philippines.I am a pre-school teacher here but I have been chosen among Ten teachers that are going to work as high school teachers in the States.The programme was organized by an Organization to encourage Philippines teachers and it is supported by the United States Government.I will be moving over to the states in January and I want to secure a place to stay while in the States.I will like to know much about the room and I would really want to secure the room before my arrival,I will like to know if it would be possible for me to make the payment for the room before my arrival,I also want to know the total amount of the room per month with the utilities included. All these vital information are very important for me to know before submission of my proposal to the Organization .The Organization will be paying all the fees. The following information will be needed to get the payment to you if you will rent the room to me..
(1) Your full name as it will appear on the payment.
(2) Address.
(3) phone number.
Hope to hear from you asap.
Thanks.

2. Hard-time family: Someone in their forties or fifties who want to move into my basement room with their two kids and half their extended relations, it seems. Nein, danke. I have some sympathy for people making their ends meet, but my house was intended for three or four people, not eight.

3. Slightly creepy guy: He's anywhere from 35 to 50, has no real job and no desire to get one, may or may not own furniture. One guy told me once, and my mother twice, that he wants to settle down and start a family, though he has no girlfriend. There has to be a reason these people want to live with college students, financial or otherwise. Purely objectively and scientifically speaking, a large number of these people could be termed "creepers".

4. "Special cases": this includes people with criminal records, stints in mental institutions, or pet pot-bellied pigs.

HELP! we are in need of a place to move into around the 1st of december. have to be located in boulder county prior to christmas day. middle aged couple, two kids, relocating to the area. both adults have great jobs, here's the problem. my fiance' is currently in a half-way house and therefore has a past criminal record. the past is the past and this new family needs a fresh start. it is
imperative that we find something prior to my fiance's release. thank you.

Even better:

must allow pets. by pets i mean a very well mannered, house bound, litter trained, pot bellied pig. happy to leave extra big deposit because i know he will not leave a mark. if anyone knows anyone that might let a pig live in their home for a few months, please get in touch. i really can't stand the thought of leaving him in connecticut. thanks in advance. rent et al. is negotiable. first floor best.

I envy people with single apartments..

Sixed

I've been published....sorta. On Six Sentences. Go check it out, it's my post "Stranger in a Strange Land" in edited format.

Snippets

:: Finals week = hell week. Everyone and their grandmother basically decides they want something from you. Every cafe is packed to the proverbial gills, the library is a madhouse, and every bit of dry floorspace on campus seems to contain someone and their books as everyone desperately tries to do the work they procrastinated on all semester, review lots of useless things, and write the perfect ten page paper in 12 hours.

Practical wisdom is only to be learned in the school of experience. Precepts and instruction are useful so far as they go, but, without the discipline of real life, they remain of the nature of theory only.
Samuel Smiles

:: Busses don't run on time in the winter. Not only is it cold and snowy, you're stuck outside for forty five minutes waiting. Maybe that's just me.

There is one piece of advice, in a life of study, which I think no one will object to; and that is, every now and then to be completely idle - to do nothing at all.
Sydney Smith (1771 - 1845)

:: Facebook is the biggest time-waster ever. Following the minute details of the lives of many almost strangers takes a suprising amount of time that I should be using for something more productive.

Wisdom is not finally tested in the schools, Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it, Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof.
Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)

:: I feel that the world can be best served by distributing free coffee and pumpkin bread to everyone on campus, every day. I am pretty positive that this will generate world peace.

A learned man is an idler who kills time with study. Beware of his false knowledge: it is more dangerous than ignorance.
George Bernard Shaw (1856 - 1950)

:: I have not yet fallen down the stairs. That means I'm still due. Fuck. Those of you who attended my much-publicized speech on stairs know what I'm talking about. For the rest of you: I'm clumsy, and tend to fall down the stairs with upsetting frequency. Yay for being uncoordinated.

In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards.
Mark Twain (1835 - 1910)

:: I do not want to see a book for another month. What I really don't want to see is another bin of books, so all ye bastards just writing your term papers now and turning your books in all at once, I hope you are doomed to a hell of repetitive scanning for the rest of eternity, 'cause I certainly am and some company would be nice.

:: Snowball fighting should be my final exam. It's more fun than astronomy anyways.

Monty Python's usual schoolboy humour is here let loose on a period of history appropriately familiar to every schoolboy in the West, and a faith which could be shaken by such good-humoured ribaldry would be a very precarious faith indeed.
The British Board Of Film Censors, in their report on _Life of Brian_

:: The library is sending me hate mail. I guess I should bring my books back.

My schoolmates would make love to anything that moved, but I never saw any reason to limit myself.
Emo Philips

:: Did you know that pumpkin + oatmeal = yummy? Most people don't. Sshhh, don't tell, it's a secret.

:: The phrase "your mother" (or "your fax machine" if you're a certain someone) can be applied to any phrase for instant hilarity. "It's cold outside," becomes "your mother's cold outside". It's even funnier when it makes no conceivable sense. For a sexual reference, "your mother" may be replaced with "in your pants". I feel like I'm in middle school again.

:: "I should've went" is not English. Just so you know.

Anybody who accepts mediocrity - in school, on the job, in life - is a person who compromises, and when the leader compromises, the whole organization compromises.
Charles Knight

:: Soymilk should become mandatory.

:: You know what's funny? Seeing how many people get stuck in the revolving doors. It really isn't big enough for two, so if you are unfortunate enough to be exiting à deux, one person ends up hopping awkwardly along, smashed up against their companion, and if you don't both move at the exact same speed, you get stuck and have to sort it out with whomever is in the other sections of the door to get the thing moving again. Reminds me of when I was in London a few years back, visiting my cousin and was too lazy to carry my suitcase up one flight of stairs, so I took the lift (that's an elevator, for those of you unfamiliar with british). It was one of those old lifts where you have a gate to slide closed, and I opened the gate as it arrived at my floor--just a fraction of a second too soon, and the lift stopped. The outside door wouldn't open because I wasn't *exactly* at my floor, and the lift wouldn't proceed the last centimeter to my floor. We tried to get the super, or neighbours (that's neighbors, for those of you unfamiliar with british), or anyone who could unstick the lift.... and ended up calling the fire department, who kept shouting "don't panic" and "we'll get you out! Stay calm!"--despite the fact that I was perfectly calm and was having a small nap on top of said suitcase--in at me while one of them climbed up to the attic and winched the lift up another half inch. Yay for rescue.

:: I like quotes. Have you noticed?

Walkin' in a winter wonderland...

I tell most people I hate winter. I guess I have a hard time being happy about replacing running with shoveling, and it would be nice if my feet were dry more than half an hour at a time. Still, winter is beautiful, and I spend so much time hiding from it I probably miss its more beautiful aspects. They say there's no such thing as bad weather, just insufficient clothing. If I'm properly dressed, I don't mind the cold and actually enjoy it. Standing on the bridge watching the stream gently carve out the snow and ice, finding its way despite being mostly frozen over reminded me just how beautiful winter can be.

I associate winter with inconvenience, hiking everywhere in drifts or in slush, wearing eight shirts to go outside, just to peel them all off again each time I enter an overheated bus or building. After a minor car wreck a few years back, where my overambitious attempt to pass a semi with a tractor in the winter ten under the limit and apparently too fast left me sitting on top of a street sign in the oncoming lanes--I tend to hate driving in winter. I drive like a pot-smoking eighty-year-old, probably causing more danger by the ice by being a moving road block. I dislike slush intensely, as I see no benefit to a viscous, icy mass that seems to cling to everything, soak my boots instantly, and basically look like if you mixed mud and whipped cream. I resent not being able to go running at 7 am, but still, there are other things I could be doing, like being a ski bum or building snowmen.


There are many positive sides to winter, unrelated to skiing or snowboarding, which I often under appreciate. The humor in counting the number of people who slip and fall down the stairs at the library, for instance, should not be underestimated. Nor should the value of the random conversations you have with all the other poor unfortunates who have to take the bus like you do. Ogling car wrecks is also fun and entertaining (hint: the best stretch is 285 by South Park), and pelting people with snowballs can be very amusing. If you're detecting a hint of Schadenfreude, you're right--I think they call it "misery loves company".

...and for everything else there's the US Govmt

Variations on a theme à la ee cummings

White tastes like metal: sharp, earthy, slow. White is easy, white is simple, white is always. White looks like lonliness, a lone coyote on a deserted road. White feels like a blanket, white sounds like a shroud, acts like a wall, white seems like a darkness. White is two thin tracks, fading into the near distance. White hisses like a snake, disappearing in ribbons on the black. White is empty, pure, devoid of. White is someone's last day, upside-down in a smashed-in car. White is final.



White tastes. Like metal, sharp, earthy, slow White is easy. White is simple, white is always, White looks. Like lonliness a lone coyote, on a deserted road White feels like a blanket. White sounds, like a shroud acts like a wall, white seems like a darkness. White is. Two thin tracks fading. Into the near distance White hisses like a snake disappearing. In ribbons on the black, White is empty. Pure, devoid of White is someone's. Last day upside-down in a smashed-in car, White is final.



white tastes like metal sharp earthy slow white is easy white is simple white is always white looks like lonliness a lone coyote on a deserted road white feels like a blanket white sounds like a shroud acts like a wall white seems like a darkness white is two thin tracks fading into the near distance white hisses like a snake disappearing in ribbons on the black white is empty pure devoid of white is someones last day upside-down in a smashed-in car white is final

Ohje

It's been awhile since I have sent keystrokes in this direction. I feel a nagging sense of guilt plaguing me (or else it's a hangnail). Perhaps the winter has made me completely apathetic, who knows. I somehow like imaginging I'm cold blooded, that the weather is to blaim for being sluggish. I should try sleeping.

ich weiß der Anfang Anzufangen ist hart,
denn manchmal kommt man nicht an Start.
Beziehungsweise einfach nicht in fahrt,
aber wenn nicht jetzt wann denn dann?
Beweg dein Arsch!
Jedem Menschen fällt das Anfangen schwer.
Jeder schiebt die Scheiße vor sich her.
Ich hab ein ganzen Semester zum Lernen Zeit,
doch fühl mich erst in der letzten Woche dazu bereit.
Zu viele Verwandte von mir verdienen einen Brief,
aber irgendwie schaff ich das mit dem Schreiben nie.
Und ich schwöre man,
ich habe es nicht verplant
und der Anfang Anzufangen ist so hart!
ich weiß der Anfang Anzufangen ist hart,
denn manchmal kommt man nicht an Start.
Beziehungsweise einfach nicht in fahrt,
aber wenn nicht jetzt wann denn dann?
Beweg dein Arsch!
--anfang anzufangen, SDP

I am on a quest. I am searching for the holy grail, it's called a thesis and I don't really have one. If I can take Indy with me I'll be happy (before he got old). I've got the Germans down. But my thesis is like a yawning hole where I throw much of my spare time, a fair amount of waning enthusiasm, and a lot of footnotes. Perhaps that's why my toilet keeps backing up. But I have cleared the first hurdle, am entering hell, and should emerge from the shadow of the valley of death next april, when I defend the bastard. I wonder if I can count watching Blood Diamond as research. T.I.A. = holy shit.

In other news, the cooles thing ever happens to be a webcam surveilling the christmarket in Freiburg, which I can steer from my personal desktop computer way the hell far away for as long as it amuses me. Try it : http://217.22.201.135/view/index.shtml . It's like youtube, except less inane and less likely to distract me from More Important Things for quite as long (see above).

This might be the year I learn to ski. I'm not optomistic, but it could happen. I have tentative plans to go cross skiing or snowshoeing or something (*freu freu freu*) so maybe I won't hate winter like the chilly little bastard it is. I hate winter more than I hate the black death. Granted, I've never had bubonic plague before, but I have had winter and don't want it again. No, don't even bother saying it, I know I live in the wrong state. Country.

My notes in history last week featured an East German Cow-Sheep and a Multifunktionstisch. If that doesn't make sense to you, it doesn't to me either, but go watch Sonnenallee. Mostly it means that I am eagerly awaiting the end of this semester, and with it the need to know the properties of Jovian planets, the difference between Australopithecus africanus and Australopithecus afarensis (hint: the former is sometimes called "Lucy"). I might even sleep in.

I haven't gotten around to looking forward to christmas yet. I am still at the stage of getting pissed off at christmas music which follows me around like toilet paper on your shoe (second toilet reference today! I am on a roll! Er...no pun intended). I will bake cookies and foist them off on my friends. I will probably not decorate my house, and if I am a good person I will send off christmas cards.

Hm. I need standards. And sleep. And coffee. More coffee.

UPDATE: Lucy is actually Astralopithecus afarensis. Go figure, I even got that one wrong.