Minor incident(s)

Von der gegenüberliegenden Seite des großen Saals schweifte sein Blick über die versammelten Menschen gleiches Geschlechts, ihm wurde das erste, etwas schüchterne Mädchen zugeteilt. Vorschriftsgemäß drang sein Blick auf sie ein, annehmende nickte sie, hob die Augenbrauen, nicht mehr schüchtern auf ihn zu tretend, legte ihm sanft den Arm auf seine Schulter, an den Nacken entlang. Mit gekonnten Bewegungen gleitete er sie rückwärts, Schritt für Schritt für Schritt für Schritt, bis den sanften Druck vom um ihrer Taille umschlungen Arm sie zum stehen kommen ließ. Angespannt hingen sie einen Augenblick so in der Luft, in einem Moment suspendiert. Sie spürte wie er einatmete, um plötzlich wieder rückwärts, die Bewegungen vom Takt bestimmt, vom Takt gefüllt, zwei Schritte zu gehen, anzuhalten, wieder vier Schritte loszuziehen, im Kreis. Die Füße bewegten sich fast eigenwillig, ohne Einwand, Nachdenken oder Wunsch, als ob die Musik sie tanzen ließ, als wären sie nur Musik und nichts anderes.

J'veux pas y'aller à ce dîner, j'ai pas l'moral, j'suis fatigué, ils nous en voudront pas, allez on n'y va pas. En plus faut que je fasse un régime ma chemise me boudine, j'ai l'air d'une chipolata, je peux pas sortir comme ça. Ça n'a rien à voir je les aime bien tes amis, mais je veux pas les voir parce que j'ai pas envie.

On s'en fout, on n'y va pas, on n'a qu'à se cacher sous les draps, on commandera des pizzas, toi la télé et moi, on appelle, on s'excuse, on improvise, on trouve quelque chose, on n'a qu'à dire à tes amis qu'on les aime pas et puis tant pis.
-- Bénabar, "le Diner"

Being in the presence of genius is quite humbling. I crouched in a padded chair (not in a padded room) in a small theatre in an old building on a dark night in January. Before me were arrayed six people, implements of destruction scattered about them, recognizable instruments almost overshadowed by a vertible heap of percussion implements which included several kitchen utensils and a bucket. Besides the flute-, tambourine-, bucket-, chimes-, and miscellaneous percussion-playing woman with a blues singer's lungs there was the eccentric frontman--his guitar lovingly strangled by a wifebeater--a drummer looking like a runaway Beatles wannabe, an additional percussionist, a saxophonist complete with beard, and an exceptionally awkward fiddler. This was not the genius of which I spoke, but rather the opening act, an eccentric jam band from Denver with a Moldy Peaches-meets-Devotchk kind of sound, campy but amusing lyrics, a propensity for electronic effects and shredding and strange, stretching jam riffs which threatened to devolve into utter chaos but somehow managed to transform itself into a different song.

No, genius was Tom Hagerman of Devotchka, who started his "solo" set with a piece he made up a few days ago, obscenely complex. With the aid of two violinists, a violist, a cellist-cum-pianist and an accordian-bassist, Tom Hagerman played a series of inricate, fascinating pieces reminiscient of the Amelie soundtrack, beautiful accordion pieces that almost transported you to Paris or somewhere else. Accordion, intricate, complex melodies with classical and folk roots. It's not Devotchka, but they seem related, and I think the string section is the same that plays with Devotchka, or played with them at the concert I saw a year or so back. The truth is, Tom Hagerman is probably someone who can play any instrument if you leave him alone with it for five minutes. He just oozes musicality as other people ooze awkwardness--or pus. He's just.... wow.

No Youtube videos to post, but go listen to his stuff HERE

Mir wurde gesagt, sei stumm, es ist besser, nichts preiszugeben. Es preiszugeben oder eben nicht, das Prärogativ steht mir durchaus zu. Mich kennst du vielleicht nicht so gut, wie du es dir denkst, denn eine solch verschlossene Person zeigt immer nur die halbe Wahrheit, wird immer nur halbwegs enthüllt. Es ist auch besser so, der Welt die eigene Person zu zeigen ist nur Verschwendung. Der Wind trägt meine Geheimnisse, vergessene in den Sturm hinein gerufene Beichten. Nur eine Person rennt mir hinterher, sie holt mich ein, behält den hart umkämpften Vorsprung, um die Ecke. Manchmal ist sie vor mir, nicht zu fangen. Manchmal ist sie weit hinter mir, schnell ist sie und schlagfertig, sie ist nicht so leicht kleinzukriegen, die Zeit. Mir rennt sonst keiner hinterher--er würde mich nicht fangen können, ich löse mich einfach ab--und mir gefällt es auch besser so. Die Träume will ich nicht aufgeben, in einer Käfig will ich niemals sein, auch nicht in einer der eigenen Schaffung. So einfach ist es, und gleichzeitig so kompliziert. Verschlossene Menschen verpassen viel, doch will ich nicht den Wildtieren ausgesetzt sein. Und du? Es kann sein, dass du mich langweilst, dass du dich selbst langweilst, und von der in die Ewigkeit hinfließenden Langeweile nichts ahnst. Es möge sein. Meine Aufgabe ist es nicht, dich wie ein Hundchen zu erziehen; deine Aufgabe war es, mich vor der Flut zu und der Furcht zu schützen. Deine Ansprüche sind zu niedrig, meine sind zu hoch, und dadurch rennen wir aneinander vorbei (wir winken uns aber zu, wie es sich ja gehört). Mich kannst auch du nicht fangen, auch wenn du rennst.

Und dennoch bleibt etwas, haftet an mich fest und streckt die kleinen Finger Glaubensrichtung, zupft am Ärmel und will auf den Schoss. Straff und mickrig, zierlich zärtlich und obendrein zerbrechlich passt es, dieses Etwas, auf der Handfläche und auch in den kleinsten Ecken, deren Konstellation meine Welt bestimmt. Die Modalverben sind die wahre Wahrheit, nur sie beschrieben die Unbestimmtheit des Könnens-Mögens-Dürfens-Wollens-Müssens-Sollens--- der Ausrede, die wir uns selbst sagen, um nicht gegen Tatsachen ringen zu müssen.

There's nothing I could say
To make you try to feel ok
And nothing you could do
To stop me feeling the way I do
And if the chance should happen
That I never see you again
Just remember that I'll always love you

I'd be a better person
On the other side I'm sure
You'd find a way to help yourself
And find another door
To shrug off minor incidents
And make us both feel proud
I just wish I could be there
To see you through

You always were the one
To make us stand out in a crowd
Though every once upon a while
Your head was in the cloud
There's nothing you could never do
To ever let me down
And remember that I'll always love you

--Badly Drawn Boy, "A Minor Incident"

In other news, "it's official: mail is slow as snails". This must be related to the guy who set out to prove whether Kansas was really as flat as a pancake, and belongs under the heading "Too Much Spare Time".

And I thought I had homework to do....

Heimweg

So war es eigentlich nicht gedacht, nicht geplant. Es wusste nur nicht, dass es anders zu verlaufen hatte. Ich war auf dem Heimweg, den mir Schutz bietenden Café schon längst hinter mir gelassen. Mein Rücken der Straßenseite hin gewandt, verkroch ich mich in meine Jacke, den Kragen hochgestellt, die Schulter hochgezogen gegen die Kälte und den Wind. Gegen den Wind, der die Straße hochfährt wie mein nicht erscheinender Bus und mir die Tränen in die Augen laufen lies. Der Wind, der pfeift und peitscht, kleine Papierstücke und Sandkörner tragend um mich herum und an mir vorbei.

Die Straße entlang liefen kleinere Grüppchen Jugendlichen, glänzende Mädels in hochhackigen Schuhen, begleitet von Jungs, die gleichzeitig sich lässig zu verhalten und die erwähnten Mädels zu beäugen oder beeindrucken versuchten. Es wurde viel gelacht. Sie waren auf dem Weg zu oder von einer Party, einer Bar, die Kälte spürten sie nicht trotz Rock, trotz bloßer Beinen.

Mit jedem auf mich zu kommenden Auto stieg und wieder fiel meine Hoffnung--das ist nicht mein Bus. Je kälter mir wurde, desto mehr ich mir meinen nachgesehnten Bus in jedem Scheinwerferlicht zu sehen erhoffte, nur jedesmal enttäuscht zu werden. Besonders schwer waren die erlebten Niederlagen, als die endlich ankommenden Lichter eines Buses mich wieder versagten, sich als die einer anderen Buslinie erwiesen. Nein, ich will nicht nach Denver, ich will nicht Broadway.

Ich stand aufm ,,Hill", Mitte im Studentenbezirk, wo die Brüder- und Schwesterschaften ihre Häuser haben, es einige Theater und Bühnen und Bars gibt und allerlei studentischer Betrieb herrscht. Dementsprechend fuhren mir entgegen und an mir vorbei die Streifenwagen, markiert und unmarkiert, die halbwegs für Ruhe hatten sorgen wollen. Es ist relativ üblich, sich selbst von der Bar nach Hause zu fahren, an jeder Kreuzung ein Polizeiauto, um Betrunkene aufzufangen. Wie Feuerwerk schienen mir die plötzlich aufflammenden Lichter rotblaurotblaurotblau, mit oder ohne Sirene, die einem zum Anhalten drangen. Die Zeit konnte man nicht in Minuten messen, sondern in Polizei.

Hinter mir stand einer, der auf einen anderen Bus wartete. Als eine nachts alleine wartende Frau ist mir ein hinter mir stehender Mensch ziemlich unheimlich. Ich drehte mich, um ihn im Augenwinkel zu behalten und gleichzeitig der Straße entlang jenes Scheinwerferlicht mit vom Wind tränenden Augen zu suchen. Er schien--meines böse werdenden Erachtens--doch jedesmal sich wieder hinter mich stellen zu wollen. Irgendwann stand ich, die Straße dem Rücken zeigend, aber das passte auch nicht. Ich musste ständig drehen, gucken wo er war, er bewegte sich wie ein unruhiges Tier.

Endlich ist sein Bus gekommen, endlich auch meins, endlich, als ich mir zu überlegen anfing, ob mein fast leeres Guthaben ausreichen würde, um mir eine Freundin zur Rettung einberufen zu können. Mich fest in die Ecke des Sitzes verkriechend, dem vor mir Sitzenden, der mich anquatschen wollte, den Gesprächsversuch verderbend, klammerte ich mich an meinem Buch und versuchte, mich wieder aufzutauen. Endlich auf dem Heimweg.

Des isch jo arg schee!!

For those of you just learning German:

,,Am Zieschdig hat se die Bolle blotze losse" (Am Dienstag hat sie den Eiskugel fallen lassen) und ,,ebbe ist fudsch" (etwas ist kaputt) und ,,wolle sie ne Gutsele schlozze? (wollen sie ein Bonbon lutschen), ,,Pfiefedeggel" (pech gehabt)

Dialects are alive and well in Germany, and this one's called Badisch, spoken in the bottom left corner of Germany--the bit they always fought over with the French. I imagine it's orthographically written the same as high german, with different pronounciations. ':, -le' is added frequently to nouns, such that Apfel - Äpfle, Laden - Lädle, Schloss - Schlössle. The final -n on verbs also left out, such that gehen - gehe, lernen - lerne. Lern Badisch!

UPDATE: I stand corrected.... it's not the Badner, it's the Swabians who are the only ones apparently capable of making Spätzle. I mis-remembered what my roommate said (she was from Karlsruhe, which would make her Badnerin [?]). As for the translation for Bolle, I hold no responsibity and instead would refer you to the link above, where I got that from. As I am neither a) Badisch-sprecherin nor b) German at all, I have no compunctions in ein linguistisches Fettnäpfchen zu treten. Bonne soiree!

Apparently only the Badner can make Spätzle (noodles--you may know them; the word is a Badische variant of Spatzen, sparrow: Spatzen - Spätzle). It involves scraping strips of dough into boiling water, but only one 'ethnic' group is apparently capable of it. With extreme apologies to my former roommate, who was Badnerin.

I met someone who grew up in a Kaff around Freiburg, and for him it was easier to speak English than High German. In general, people who speak Dialekt tend to be regarded as less educated, as the universities teach in High German and the newscasts as well. I had a professor who spoke in a moderated version of Dialect, more of an Akzent than a Dialekt. I suppose if it were English I would consider it Texan or Cockney, so I was surprised to hear him speak super-posh Oxford English once.

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

In other news, this is what I do if I am tired of working on my thesis:







.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

I've been here for almost six months. CrAzY! And I'll be gone in another four. Insane. In a non-sociopath kind of way. It's strange to think of how many people I know here whom I will never see again. Then again, with the internet nowadays it's easier to hang on to people than it is to hang onto ten bucks, particularly if you're hungry. At the moment, I have as good as no idea where I will end up next year. Somewhere on the other side of the pond. One dreary semester and one honors thesis to go (enter self-pity here).

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

As usual, I have fallen in love with a perfect stranger, whose name I don't know and whom I am unlikely to ever see again (je parle francais...). And who probably has a girlfriend, to compound my impeccible good fortune, grr. Pech gehabt. Ah well, it's probably a bad idea to get attached to anyone anyways, seeing as how I'm leaving soon. Let's see how well reason prevails :)

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

My desk has become a curious collection of rubber bands, small note papers, gum wrappers, plastic forks, and ziplock baggies. Cleaning my desk is probably the most satisfying thing I've done all weekend. Definitely not the most fun, but the most satisfying. And I have no idea where the zipock baggies came from.

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

It's possible to bake an apple pie in a bowl. I did, and it was yummy, and already gone even though I just made it on saturday.

.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.Ö.

Get cape. Wear cape. Fly is really cool. And I need to go to more concerts, before I move somewhere where they don't really have 'em.

Wahrheitsbeweis

Die Erinnerung ist nicht gleich die Wahrheit. Das, was ich aus den tiefsten Ecken meiner Erinnerung hervorrufe--das ist nicht die Wahrheit, nur deren Schatten. So war es nicht--aber doch geschah es genauso, weil ich es so sage--meine Vergangenheit ist keine Glaubenssache, es gab sie und gibt sie wirklich, und nur ich und wenige, verstreute andere stehen als deren Zeugen da.

Es war eine gute Kindheit, die ich hatte. Natürlich kenne ich keine andere, natürlich ist mein Blickwinkel von den Tatsachen, soweit sie auch der Wahrheit entsprechen, verdunkelt. Ich könnte euch erzählen, wie es war. Und ich könnte erzählen, wie es gewesen wäre.

Ein junges Wesen wie ich damals war versteht nicht die Welt (als ob die älteren sie besser verstehen?). Für mich--wie schwierig es ist, das alles so schön auszudrucken!--bestand Krieg daraus, sich mit aus Plastik gemachten mit Luft gefüllten Baseballschläger gegenseitig zu verprügeln, am Besten wie Ritter verkleidet. Dies Überbleibsel meiner Erinnerung ist mir heute noch sehr deutlich, was ich in meiner Naivität wirklich geglaubt hatte. So war es.

Als ich kleiner war, konnte ich ausschlafen. Um mittag noch im Bett zu liegen, das war das Schönste, was es nur an Wochenenden geben konnte. Ich würde mir etwas träumen, ich habe mir Geschichten im Kopf ausgedacht, die ich nun mir selbst vorspielen würde. Es waren wie Bücher für mich--und Bücher habe ich auch haufenweise gelesen, mal einen Roman am Tag. Der Held oder--öfters, so wie ich Mädchen war--die Heldin musste jemanden retten, ein Problem lösen, etwas finden. Eine Geschichte würde mir einige Tage ausreichen, Nahrung für meine Fantasie. Meine Welt bestand aus Fantasie, mir war nicht klar, wo die eine anfing und die andere auslief. Hinter den Augenlidern waren immer Geschichten. So war es.

Als ich älter wurde, vergingen mir die Geschichten, oder ich habe sie vergessen, oder ich habe sie verpackt und per Post in die Ferne geschickt. Ich sehnte mich, aber wonach? Ich wollte alles und jeden und immer und überall. Entdecken wollte ich, erleben wollte ich. Warum wollte? Will ich also nicht mehr? Ich bin noch nicht gefangen, ich bin weggelaufen oder ich bin hin gelaufen. Hinter mir versuchte ich die Kindheit zu lassen, wie ich Kisten meiner Sachen hinterlassen habe, ob man es einfach so machen könnte. Ich interessierte mich für die Realität, zumal nicht meine Realität. Mein Problem wurde die Welt, meine Grenzen wurde das Meer, und ich wollte Berge sehen. Keiner hat mich wirklich einfangen können, aber kleine Ecken habe ich überall hinterlassen. Nicht ganz hängengeblieben bin ich, keine Spinne hat mich in ihr Netz einfangen können, und das was ich will erobert das was ich bin und das was ich mache. Vorsicht mit mir--du kennst mich nicht, du glaubst mich nur zu kennen. Ich lasse es nicht zu, dass man mich kennt. So ist es. Oder doch nicht?

Searching?

I'm not sure what I'm looking for. But it's clear I'm not finding it.

Fake plastic trees

A lot of Radiohead is too random for me, to electronic, too....something. But I find this song very poetic, very beautiful, and quite melencholy.

Her green plastic watering can
For her fake chinese rubber plant
In fake plastic earth.
That she bought from a rubber man
In a town full of rubber plants
Just to get rid of itself.
And it wears her out, it wears her out
It wears her out, it wears her out.

She lives with a broken man
A cracked polystyrene man
Who just crumbles and burns.
He used to do surgery
For girls in the eighties
But gravity always wins.
And it wears him out, it wears him out
It wears him out, it wears him out.

She looks like the real thing
She tastes like the real thing
My fake plastic love.
But I cant help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run
And it wears me out, it wears me out
It wears me out, it wears me out.

And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted,
All the time, all the time, ohhh... ohh...

It reminds me a bit of Joni Mitchell, both, in an obscure way, in voice as well as lyric. This song seems to lack Mitchell's optimism, her connection to nature. This is what happens when they paved paradise to put up a parking lot. Fake plastic trees in a tree museum, fake plastic people.

I wish I had been around back then. Those are the days when society was up in the air, where you had the feeling that change was necessary and immanent. Our society seems so...stagnant. We have an endless list of horrors and we see most of it on TV and in movies, and it doesn't mean much to us any more. Students put activism on their resume, measuring success not in results but in personal character building. We know too much, and somehow far too little, and we seem to care even less.

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot
Dont it always seem to go
That you dont know what youve got
Till its gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They took all the trees
Put em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see em
Dont it always seem to go
That you dont know what youve got
Till its gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Hey farmer farmer
Put away that d.d.t. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees
Please!
Dont it always seem to go
That you dont know what youve got
Till its gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Late last night
I heard the screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man
Dont it always seem to go
That you dont know what youve got
Till its gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Reunion

This weekend, practically everyone I've ever been good friends with since middle school descended on Boulder. It just so happened that everyone had nothing to do on a Saturday morning, so by noon there were six of us munching sandwiches on the terrace and trying to pretend it was warm enough to sit outside in January. Which it almost was.



I haven't seen some of these people in years and years and years. Fate and ambition scattered us acros the country and the globe. Architechture in Virginia. Germany. Physics in LA. Denmark. Sociology in Boston. Barcelona. Musical Theatre in London. Peru. Russian studies. We sat over sandwiches, we camped out at one girl's place, we hiked for coffee. We hung out some more. It was astounding how well we all got on with the unfamiliarity borne of not having seen one another in years, but of having had a very close past and a similar temperament. We had stories to tell, funny stories, sad stories. By the way, my little sister's engaged, by the way, my brother joined the army. We took a poll of who had a boyfriend and who didn't, who had one and lost 'im, funny hook-ups and douchebags, high school crushes, unlikely romances and one-night stands, friends who were married or pregnant. We do judo and rock climbing, opera and video games, music, parties, boys. Many things were different when we were younger. I've apparently gotten nicer over the years--I was kind of a mean person for awhile, it's a wonder I had friends. Some of us have come out of our respective shells, have grown in stature and in confidence and in experience. We've changed quite a bit, but maybe in many ways we're still the same.

Many of us are graduating in May, or in December. Some of us will go on to grad school, with or without a year of work or being crazy or living in a cave, some of us will go on to work and earn an actual living and eat something besides ramen noodles. None of us are engaged, and it doesn't look like we're about to be, though that seems to be the trend. Where will we be in 5 years, in 10 years?

In other words, this might just be the cutest song ever...from the movie Juno.

Anyone Else But You - Moldy Peaches

You're a part time lover and a full time friend
The monkey on you're back is the latest trend
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of a train
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Here is the church and here is the steeple
We sure are cute for two ugly people
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me
So why can't, you forgive me?
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

I will find my nitch in your car
With my mp3 DVD rumple-packed guitar
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du

Up up down down left right left right B A start
Just because we use cheats doesn't mean we're not smart
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

You are always trying to keep it real
I'm in love with how you feel
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

We both have shiny happy fits of rage
You want more fans, I want more stage
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Don Quixote was a steel driving man
My name is Adam I'm your biggest fan
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Squinched up your face and did a dance
You shook a little turd out of the bottom of your pants
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du
But you

201: I'm a stranger here myself

I was going to write a celebratory post about how this is number 201. As you and I, and anyone else who has passed kindergarten knows, the number of posts listed on the right side of this here screen don't add up to 201. But that's the number of posts and drafts I've saved. That amounts to about 40-odd posts I've never published. Some of them are quite personal, and will never be published: it's so I don't spill everyone's secrets--or my own--to the wide world. Some things are just posts I was working on and never got around to publishing. Here's one of them:

I'm a stranger here myself

I'm pretty sure I'm going to end my days as the crazy lady in the big old house with lots of cats, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. One of these days I will be labelled an eccentric. I'm starting to be known for a few peculiar personal habits which, while not particularly shocking, tend to be a bit unusual or unique. For instance, I can't really sleep in (I interrupt this post to point out the absolutely brilliant sunrise over the snowy rooftops, which all you lazybones are missing out on). I just can't sleep in the morning, and eventually I get bored and just get up. Most people find this strange. Boyfriends and housemates cope.


(Crazy cat lady action figure)

sad panda : The Definition (from urbandictionary.com )
1. sad panda - An unhappy, disappointed person. The phrase can be traced back to an episode of the cartoon South Park, in which the "Sexual Harassment Panda" teaches the children what is and isn't sexual harassment.

For extra sadness, the "a" in sad is drawn out.

I'm a saaaad panda, because my favorite band just broke up.

The fact that I am inept at slang I blame on living abroad. I just don't know any of the words the cool kids use, though I am slowly learning:

- awkward turtle
- lame sauce
- TMI turkey
- sad panda (apparently a South Park reference, but I wouldn't know)

Lame Sauce: The Definition (from urbandictionary.com )
1. Lame Sauce - Adj. Unpopular, unfavorable ( American Mall Kid Talk )

Yo! Halo 2 was delayed again homes! That is LAME SAUCE!

2. lame sauce - Something or someone that is extremely stupid, lame, or not fun.

Ethan is lame sauce because he doesn't like paintball.

3. Lame Sauce - Lame sauce is lame sauce.

Losing a bet to your co-worker that "lame sauce" is an actual phrase, is totally LAME SAUCE!

4. Lame sauce - Noun. Someone that has mastered the art of boredom and lazziness [sic]

Person1: yo nikko what chu doin?
Nikko: nottin
Person1:lets go blaze it and then play ball
nikko: nah man ima go home and sleep
Person1: Nigga ur lame sauce

5. Lame Sauce - Lame Sauce is something thta is more then lame, yet less then anything else

"That nice was lame sauce"

Some people also detect a slight foreign accent in my english, which is funny, as I am, I guess, as American as you can get without being Midwestern, and occasionally demonstrate this in an obvious and embarrassing fashin while abroad. My english is a mix of super-proper academic speech (exacerbate, ameliorate, protracted, etc.), four-year-old slang (apparently 'sick' is no longer the proper synonym for 'cool'), and (improper) expletives. Apparently having a 'fuck-off desk' is not the proper use of this word either. My writing (on essays) is decent, but apparently confusing, as the last paper I turned in had about fifteen versions of "write more clearly" "I don't understand your writing/sentence/point" and "what does this mean???" on it.

A friend of mine is German and has lived here for three or four years, speaks flawless English, and when we have a conversation in English she has to supply me with words. When we speak German, she's the one who forgets the German words and I have to remind her.

Sometimes I feel like a social oddity, or at least an exchange student. I haven't watched TV since 2004. I've watched perhaps 10 episodes of South Park, about two of Seinfeld, five (tops) of King of the Hill, Family Guy, and Simpsons. I've never seen a reality show of any kind except something on Discovery about training Navy SEALs a long time ago. I've never seen Lost, Gray's Anatomy, Scrubs, or anything else that's come out in the last four years or so. I simply have no idea what these things are about, and apparently lack the attention span to find out. So hanging out with me requires some measure of patience with my ineptitude with pop culture, and me not understanding about half the normal references. La vie inconnu...

And here I got distracted, I was talking about eccentricity, and not in references to planetary orbits (die, Kepler, die). I enjoy being just a little bit different from average, and apparently have friends so I'm not that strange. You should consider me a challenge, or at least a discovery. I may not be the coolest person you've ever met, but that doesn't concern me much: at least I'm interesting. And I'm not boring, apparently, as I say odd things frequently enough that I can be counted on to provide reliable entertainment.



As I was working on finding "supporting" material, I became fascinated by the awkward turtle and other hand gestures.

Paradise forgotten

Life's different up in the mountains. The air is completely, utterly different--as if you could smell things growing. The rocks under your feet extend perhaps for miles underneath--the mountains are as old as time and still growing, and all you have to come to terms with is an obstacle. The mountains can be exquisitely beautiful and extremely dangerous; ask anyone about lightning, and you'll see a dark look or a wild eye, a sudden shake of the head as if one could fend off the weather. The hillsides are rough and rarely verdant, not even in spring and never in summer, except when the wildflowers bloom. Everything turns to gold and eventually to white. The first snows are often in september, and they remain until May. Many places have three or four meters of snow, many roads are closed, many places inaccessible.



If you venture out, it's paradise. I could never have thought a world of one color could be so beautiful. The snow hides the roughness, the imperfections, leaving only the blurry outlines, the frozen hint of a lake that was and will be again, but itsn't now. A path could be a stream leading anywhere, the laden boughs comforting in their monotony, yet somehow disconcerting. You don't want to get lost, you don't want to sleep on the mountain.

Most of us only visit. We come, we wander, we take pictures, we leave. We remember, for those days when the world is far away and outside a window, what life is really like.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
--Robert Frost

Without music, life would be a mistake

You can feel the strings under your fingers, pressing into the tips, pressing against you as you bend them to your will. Your hand is already molded around the neck, poised to change gracefully from shape to shape in line with almost un-thought desires. It turns out you don't need to see to play, your fingers know what they are doing, they will find their place on the strings, they will know how far to move. Your body moves of its own accord in rhythm with your soul, and the less you focus on what happens next, the better you can let go and let your fingers go about the business of playing. You hear the music in your head and you know exactly what has to come next and what could come next, shadows of possibilities refracting as if from a mirror, and you must choose one this time around. You could sink deeply into the bass, fishing out the warm notes which give the melody its depth; or, you spin off into the melody, carrying the weight of the tune--step lively!; or you could sing harmony, dancing around the melody, high or low, faster or slower, pausing on the third or the seventh or the sixth, counterpoint. The music spirals out of your fingers as if alive, spinning and twisting and rushing in a waterfall. And you bide your time, waiting for it to come around again, another path to be taken...

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
Aldous Huxley (1894 - 1963), "Music at Night", 1931

Well...

I had to run for the bus this morning. Twice. I made it almost to the bus stop before I realized my phone was still sitting on top of the coffee table, so I bolted back, managing to fill both my shoes with snow. I made it inside and back outside in time to see the bus rounding the far corner. Normally, if I've cleared the fence I can make it if I run, but today was a toss up, and the last thing I needed was to eat shit on the ice and f*ck up my knee like I did a year or so ago. It's incredibly hard not to be awkward while running and carrying baggage, but I was more concerned with being late than with being awkward. First day of work this year.



The new year started without a huge bang, but was fun nontheless. The previous year I celebrated in Berlin, which is probably one of the more insane experiences of my life. So. Many. People. And firecrackersanddrunksandlightsandnoiseandandand... My resolution last year was to be on time, to be seriously, really on time--and I pretty much made it, at least through the time I was in Germany. In the US you can be five or perhaps ten minutes late and still qualify as on time. It'd probably be a good idea to work on that again this year, though that will only really be important in May.



Much of last winter and spring were a blur. It seemed to be a delicate mix of workaholism, sleep deprivation, and a crazy social schedule. Most people described me as the crazy american, and wondered as to the secret of my success (in case you're wondering, it's called "not sleeping"). It helps that I was out jogging at 8 AM. Even my valiant (then) boyfriend, runner as he is, gave up on that one.



I met some really fantastic people. I didn't hang out with Americans, only meeting one about a month before I peaced out of there. My roommates, my friends, everyone was German...or so I thought. Everyone spoke flawless German, but one was born in Macedonia, one in Indonesia, one was half Iranian, or from Luxembourg, or Indian, or or or. Dinner conversations were always interesting, and if I brought a work colleague home it would be in English and Spanish or French as well as German. I miss that and them more than I can adequately express.



I had to leave all of that behind and return to the country of my birth. Despite my fears, I actually had friends and have made several more. Between work (15 - 20 hrs a week) and school (20 hrs a week) and activities (5 hrs a week), I was a) never home and b) didn't sleep much (see above). As far as a) is concerned, for those of you who have followed my roommate woes, this was perhaps not unintentional.
I've had a lot of fun this semester, and did well at school, so I suppose it works out well. Then again, I did end up with a stress-induced skin disorder after finals, so perhaps this wasn't the best strategy ever.

Enter 2008. I thought about resolutions, and I came up with a couple, rather pathetic ones:
(1) be on time. This was my resolution last year, but it bears repeating, as my punctuality has been slipping. Me being punctual is about equivalent to a souffle: difficult to arrange and contingent on many factors.
(2) learn to tango. Classes on Fridays, hell yeah. Bonus points for attractive argentinians.
(3) learn a new language. Looks like it's going to be spanish, though I would jump at the chance to learn russian or arabic.



I'm not bothering with any of the typical ones like going to the gym every day or stopping smoking, as neither of them are particularly relevant for me. Perhaps I should take up smoking so I will have something to quit.

I wonder where I'll be next year. After May I am done with CO and the US for awhile, and depending on my school and work situation for the coming months, will probably be getting the hell out of dodge faster than you can say "nonstopflightfromdenvertofrankfurt" while hopping on one leg. If I am lucky, someone will pay me to go to school. If I am not lucky.... well, I have no plan B, just three versions of plan A. I always have friends whose couches I can crash on should worse come to worse. And I can always get a job, though that may be easier said than done, particularly with restrictions for foreigners...

So best of luck for you all in 2008, in life, in love, in whatever else you do. Make some resolutions, try something crazy (skydiving, anyone?), expand your horizons. It'll be worthwhile, I assure you...

The Quiz

from the Swedish band Hello Saferide: The Quiz (comment: if only it were this simple...)

You look nice alright
and I like the way you nod after everything I say
like it actually means something
to you

And I like your record collection
Townes and Jens with a hint of Rickie Lee
And you’ve cleaned up the bathroom, made a really nice soup
but a bit too much sci-fi in your shelf with DVDs

But there’s some things you need to know about me:
I’m weak right now, real weak right now
I need proof before I dare to open this heart
so I prepared a quiz for you:

Would you freak out if I said I liked you?
Do you walk the line?
Is your IQ higher than your neighbour’s?
And is it very much higher than mine?

Can you sleep when I grind my teeth?
Do you look away if I slob when I eat?
Will you let me be myself?
Can you at all times wear socks?
because I’m still scared of feet

Do you talk in the middle of Seinfeld?
Do you read more than two books a month?
Do you get racist or sexist when you’ve had a few?
Is it fine if I make more money than you?

Have you slept with any people I work with?
Is there anyone you’d rather wish I’d be?
Do you still keep pictures of old girlfriends?
Are they prettier than me?

And if I’d fall, would you pick me up?
If I fall, will you pick me up?