The first stage is denial

She saw the ad online somewhere, probably one of those really stupid-looking little blurbs on your email or somewhere that no one ever clicks on, except people do, or else they wouldn't be there--businesses don't run on optimism. Anyways, the product was certified and guaranteed and moreover recommended by several popular TV shows--and available at the drug store. So the next time she was at Murray's she found the little blue box and bought some. You know, just to try 'em.

They were little patches that you stuck onto your hip or your arm, giving you a badge like that of a recent ex-smokers. The package promised first results within a week, and she was excited to see what happened. After all, it was perfectly safe, or they wouldn't have been allowed to sell it. The package promised five a week, and she actually would only need maybe two weeks, maybe three before she got where she wanted--no extra work involved, no foregoing, no exertion of any kind. In fact, exertion was discouraged, which was fine with her.

And it worked. By Thursday she thought she could feel a difference, felt lighter, livlier, not so weighed down. By saturday she was borrowing Lisa's dress, Lisa, who was at least two sizes smaller--ok, the dress was still to big for Lisa, and a bit tight on her, but whatever.

By Tuesday she had to go shopping, which she did every Tuesday, and Monday and Friday and Saturday and Wednesday and Sunday and Thursday--but she was edging towards the rack of 'smalls', gingerly feeling the patch at her waist. That spot was a bit tender, but you can't have everything, and compared to months at the gym this was nothing.

By Friday she wasn't feeling hungry; an added bonus, making this all the much easier. She didn't have much farther to go before she was perfect, just another week or two. Sunday she passed on ice cream with Sonia, looking at the other girl with a mixture of pity and slight disgust. "Ice cream is the last thing *you* need," she joked, turning away, not noticing that Sonia didn't think it was funny.

Wednesday she didn't feel like getting out of bed. Nauseous and weak she lay there, remembered having read something about side effects. Temporary ones. Friday wasn't much better, and by Monday she was down fifteen, perhaps twenty. Her hipbones jutted out of her skirt and she wore them proudly as long as they hid her patch, and the bluish-purplish bruise that had been there for the last several days.

Thirty down. She was astounded at how well they were working, the little patches. She decided she'd done enough, and stop wearing them. But within the hour she began to feel as if she had been blown up to twice her normal size, and she stuck on another patch and immediately felt better.

Forty-five. Ordinarily she'd be proud of the fact that the size 0 hung loosly from her frame, but to be honest, she couldn't get up the effort to care. She didn't actually have the energy to to anything at all, and though she had resolved to stop using them, after much exertion she managed tiredly to pull back another wrapper of another patch, and to try to find a spot on her body not bony and bruised. Her skin felt loose and listless, but it didn't matter, she was skinny, she was beautiful. She pulled back the wrapper and stuck on the patch, waiting for the exhilirating rush. And she disappeared completely.

DISCLAIMER: I just found this in the archives of my blog, and it is, 100% honestly, a thought experiment. I think I wrote it after seeing a few emaciated pictures of unhappy otherwise well-fed Americans (equally applicable to other OECD countries) who starve themselves to be thin, compared to pictures of emaciated children in Africa who just don't get enough to eat and die of malnutrition. How is it that the US (and some large portions--no pun intended--of the rest of the world) suffer from obesity, and in other places people starve? Here's a new diet plan: spend less on fast food, send the money somewhere where people need it. Even better: stop subsidizing American and European agriculture, make us pay a bit more for food so perhaps we eat less, and allow all those subsistence farmers a market for their goods.

A conversation

Subtitle: let's not kid ourselves.

What you say (what you mean)

A: Hi (hi.)
B: Hi! (hi.)
A: How have you been? (haven't seen you in a long time and have no idea what's happened to your life.)
B: Pretty well, thanks. Yourself? (well, my boyfriend/gilfriend just left me and I need to find a new place to live ASAP. I hope your life is worse than mine, so I'll feel better.)
A: Doing just fine. (except I'm broke and have had the flu for two weeks. But your lot sounds worse off, so there's that...)
B: Good to hear. Crappy weather we've got. (I can't think of anything to say.)
A: Yeah, no kidding. Hasn't rained like this in weeks. (I can't think of anything either.)
B: Supposed to get better tomorrow. (Ummmmm.....)
A: Yeah, we'll see. This rain sucks! (Ummmm......)
B: Well, I've got to run. We should catch up sometime... (This is getting awkward, so I'm bailing. Let's not have this conversation again any time soon.)
A: Definately. I've actually gotta run too, but I'll drop you a line sometime. (Yay, an exit. Don't wait for my call.)
B: Excellent! Yeah, well, take care! (Glad that's over with!)
A: You too! (Finally got that tosser off my back!)

Why is it that we default to talking about the weather when we've got nothing to say? I don't even buy the argument of weather as the lowest common denominator--why do I write about the weather to penpals or friends far away? It has no actual relevance to anything whatsoever, and why can't we just say what we're thinking?

Spiegelein, Spiegelein an der Wand...

Es ist ein bisschen schwierig mich auszudrucken. Ich wollte es nicht sagen, konnte es nciht sagen, brachte es einfach nicht fertig, den Mund aufzumachen und dir zu sagen dass ich gehe. Und wie. Ich verlasse dieses Land und diese Stadt und diese Straße und diese Wohnung und dieses Zimmer und ich werde, höchstwahrscheinlich, nie wieder zurückkommen. Ich sage das so, so beiläufig, so nebenbei, weil ich es mir jeden Tag eingeübt habe. Ich saß, seit zwei Wochen saß ich im Wohnzimmer und habe es vor mich hin gesagt, habe der Luft vor mir gesagt, ,ich gehe’. Es dir zu sagen ist etwas schwieriger, denn im Gegesatz zur Luft, also im Gegensatz zu mir selber, hast du etwas dazu zu sagen. ,Nein’ hast du dazu zu sagen, also dagegen zu sagen. Du willst nicht, dass ich gehe. Sagtest du.

Bei ,nein’ kann es nicht bleiben, so einfach ist diese Sache nicht. Du verstehst mich nicht, du willst mich nicht verstehen, das Einzige, was du verstehst, ist dass ich dich verlasse. Dich verlasse ich nicht, also nicht mit Absicht, aber da du mit diesem Zimmer und dieser Wohnung und dieser Straße und dieser Stadt und diesem Land auf Ewigkeit verbunden bist, gehörst du zwangsläufig zu den Sachen und Orten und Leuten, die ich verlasse.

Ein Geheimnis habe ich für dich, eingepackt und eingeschweift wie Lebensmittel, wie Fleisch, das nicht verderben soll. Mein Geheimnis soll auch nicht verderben, also darfst du es nicht auspacken, sondern aufbewahren für immer und ewig und mindestens bis nächster Woche. Ich sage dir nicht, was drinnen ist, denn es ist ein Geheimnis, oder? Ich lege es dir hin neben dem Waschbecken. So. Siehst du? Genau da. Vielleicht hinter dem Wasserhahn ist besser, oder im Schrank? Vielleicht vergisst du es, wenn ich es in den Schrank stecke—ich lass mein Geheimnis hier neben dem Waschbecken.

Wir kennen uns seit zwei Tagen. Oder zwei Wochen. Oder zwei Jahren. Mir ist nicht so ganz klar, ich nehme es mit den Daten nicht so ganz genau. Du weiß das, nicht wahr? Wir haben uns nur zufällig kennengelernt, zwei Einzelpersonen, die jetzt Zweipersonen sind. Oder so ähnlich. Zwillinge sind wir, denn wir sehen uns sehr ähnlich. Wir sind sehr ähnlich: gleichaltrig, beide mit braunen Haaren—meine sind links gescheitelt, deine dagegen rechts—und mit leuchtenden, blauen Augen. Sommersprossen haben wir beide. Darüber bin ich froh, denn die anderen in der Schule machen sich über meine Sommersprossen lustig, und es erleichtert mich, dass du meine Last auch teilst.

In letzter Zeit, zumindest seit der Schule wieder angefangen hat, sehen wir uns seltener. Früher sahen wir uns morgens, abends, mittags, manchmal vor- oder nachmittags. Manchmal sahen wir uns mitten in der Nacht, manchmal trafen wir uns mitten in der Nacht, wo der Mond vom Fenster über meiner rechten—deiner linken—Schulter uns beleuchtete.

Jetzt ist es aber morgen, es ist der Morgen, an dem wir diese Wohnung, diese Straße, diese Stadt und dieses Land verlassen werden. Wir fahren mit dem Auto, hat Mama gesagt. Ich will aber nicht, aber sie hört nicht auf mich, sie sagt, dass wir gehen müssen. Es ist Zeit, dir zu sagen, dass ich gehe, aber wie gesagt, gerade das fällt mir jetzt schwer.

,,Peeeeeeter!” das war Mama. Sie ruft mich. Sie steht schon vorne, vorm Haus und vorm Auto, und wartet auf mich. Nur ich fehle, und sie ruft nach mir. ,,Peter!” sagte sie wieder. Sie steht hinter mir, hinter dir auch, und lächelt mir zu. Sie ist nicht böse, aber sie wird böse, wenn ich nicht mitkomme.

,,Mama, ich will nicht gehen,” klagte ich, wimmerte ich, aber sie begann trotzdem mich—dich—langsam aus dem Badezimmer zu zerren. Ich sah, wie du dich wehrtest, aber sie war kräftig und stärker. Fast warst du aus meiner Sicht verschwunden, da schreite ich dir, wie aus der Ferne: ,,ich muss gehen! Ich komm nicht wieder. Es tut mir Leid!” Und ich sah auch, wie du mit offenem Mund mir auch etwas zu schriest. Ich habe dich aber nicht gehört, nichts gehört, überhaupt nichts.

,,Peter, wir müssen gehen,” antwortete Mama. ,,Ach, was soll’s,” sagte Mama. “Ich werde es nie verstehen, wieso du ständig im Badezimmer stehst und mit deinem Spiegelbild redest! Aber wir müssen los!” Und als sie mich noch einmal zerrte warst du weg, verschwunden.

Remember remember November november

I haven’t written much recently, as I haven’t really had much to write about. I am, after all, a grad student, and my life is marked by the boring monotony of readings and seminars that seem to take up 95% of my waking hours. To be fair, I spend a fair amount of time trying to make myself work, which is more or less directly euivalent to the amount of time I spend reading webcomics and checking facebook (because, you know, something might have changed in the last 30 seconds). It’s a bit pathetic, really, but the lure of shiny pictures and contact to the outside world is a bit hard to resist.

I have to admit, I really hate the library. Coming from a (former) librarian, that’s a harsh statement, but I’m quite anti-library. Even when I worked (read: lived) in one I still couldn’t stand the place and was nevertheless constantly there—but only to work. I cannot study in a library; library, to me, speaks of dusty books, poor lighting, sterile environment, uncomfortable chairs and a dearth of electric sockets. Compared to my desk at home replete with surround sound speakers, coffee maker and the opportunity to take walks in the fresh air, I can’t imagine under what circumstances I could be induced to leave my little 8th floor sanctuary.

In addition, the library has a certain air of frantic desperation to it which I find offputting (mostly because it gives me a guilty conscience). Everyone is frantically doing something, buried in readings, meandering lost through the stacks (why do no two libraries use the same cataloguing system? Am I spoiled by the American 2-option system of a) Dewey or b) Library of Congress?) or taking constant coffee breaks. In fact, I am quite sure there are several people whose coffee breaks exceed the time they spend studying. Mostly, my life right now just makes me want to go AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!
It’s obvious I don’t get out much, and I like complaining.

Occasionally, however, I do manage to make it off my butt to go do something. Satuday we went to a concert at au Chat Noir, a bar in Carouge, which was featuring a brass/funk. It’s the kind of thing which is either amazing or ridiculous; you either love it and you dance, or you hate it and you leave because there’s no middle ground. Of course, the place was almost empty, and we joked it was a private party just for us (we were what, 10 people?) and as the crowd trickled in, it became a mix of us and people twice our age.

The band consisted of seven-odd frenchies in their mid 30s acting like they were in their early 20s, playing tuba, saxophone, drums, drums, trombone, turntables and banjo, playing stuff ranging from uptempo funk to big-band rap with jam riffs. The kid playing the turntables was slight and rather scrawny, and like anyone I’ve ever seen do ‘tables he bobbed back in forth almost hypnotically with the music, hunched to one side, one hand turning and one hand flicking switches. The frontman was as ridiculous as they come, a saxophone player who looked about ten years older after taking off his hat and hoody, dancing along to the music and eventually leading the band off of the stage and into the crowd where they played jam-style. It reminded me of the soccer games this summer; at one point everyone (including the band) would crouch down and the pressure would build and build and the music would crescendo and speed up and everyone would leap up and jump up and down. After all of that I just had to go home, but everyone else stayed out and the night apparently turned into a minorly epic odyssey, trying to find some bar that was open, rescuing a drunk guy trying to walk to Annecy in the snow with no shoes, etc.