Best Day Ever, or, How I Learned To Be A Plumber

I caught a few interested looks as I strode into Lowe's. Not many women venture in unaccompanied, and they are usually innundated by (overly) helpful salespeople convinced we females don't know a hammer from a hacksaw. Here is probably not the appropriate venue to clarify that not only do I know the difference, I am also capable of using bandsaw, drill press, and sander without supervision. But not too many 21-year-old coeds in leather jackets (they match my aviators) spend their saturday afternoons at the hardware store, so I'm not surprised.

I put my purchases on the counter: a plunger and 2 liters of Drano. My witty comment: "You can tell how my day is going...." Delivered, of course, deadpan. There is perhaps no better way to evoke absolute pity and disgust than by saying, "...and then my toilet overflowed."

I'll spare you the, ähm, gory details, but suffice to say that I managed to put down the insurrection of both my toilet and my bathtub, and am left only with a recalcitrant auto to thwart my desires.

.:.:.:.:. .:.:.:.:. .:.:.:.:. .:.:.:.:.

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'd 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 a cloud
There's nothing you could never do to ever let me down
And remember that I’ll always love you

--"A Minor Incident" (Badly Drawn boy)

.:.:.:.:. .:.:.:.:. .:.:.:.:. .:.:.:.:.
(Ausrufzeichen)
Hast du es gesehen?
Habe ich was gesehen?
Mein Buch. Ich hab's hier doch hingelegt.
Nee, ein Buch habe ich nicht gesehen. Worum ging's?
Ist das wichtig?
Könnte wichtig sein.
Wie, könnte wichtig sein? Das soll dir helfen, mein Buch zu finden?
Wieso soll ich dein Buch finden? Was habe ich damit zu tun?
Weil ich dich gefragt hab!
Und ich hab gesagt, ich weiß es nicht, wo es ist.
Du brauchst dich nicht drüber aufzuregen!
Ich reg mich doch gar nicht auf!
Doch, tust du!
Was willst du eigentlich, dass ich sage?
Wo mein Buch steckt!
Ich hab's nicht verlegt, vielen Dank!
Wenn mir zu helfen dir so schwierig fällt, brauchst du dich nicht drum zu kümmern!
So meinte ich es auch nicht!
Wie meintest du es denn?
Vergiss es.
Mein Buch will ich aber nicht vergessen!
Brauchst du auch nicht. Du sitzt drauf, merk ich gerade.

.:.:.:.:. .:.:.:.:. .:.:.:.:. .:.:.:.:.

This just in...where to begin
Grin and bear it, it's bare and grim
Adoration, titillation, I'm the victim now
Because she's figured me out
She lights my candle, she has a handle on me
It's going well but I'm scared as hell
That she'll figure me out
She thinks it's sacred to be naked
But I don't care, 'cause she's had me there
You see she's figured me out

And I wanna shout at the top of my lungs now
But oh my god if she hears me she'll come running in...
These are my hands, these are my faults
These are my plans
These are my nasty little thoughts
I wrote 'em down for you to contemplate
At a later date

Well the word is out, what's it all about
Doubtless shady, no shadow of doubt
In moderation, this sensation would be fabulous
But she's figured me out
She's in my shower for an hour
She's just washin' and wonderin'
And trying to figure me out...

And I wanna shout at the top of my lungs now
But oh my god if she hears me she'll come running in...
These are my hands, these are my faults
These are my plans and these are my nasty little thoughts
I wrote 'em down for you to contemplate...

It's a little bit of something that I feel...
Oh man, I just can't deal...
And other than this distance that has covered me
Can't you see that you have smothered me

Well, you're not there, just stay out there
Just when I was on to something else
That's when she figures me out
--"Washin' + Wonderin'", Stroke 9

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Wie kann man schlecht drauf sein, wenn die Sonne scheint? Nur ist es leider immer noch arschkalt.

Lagebericht Februar:

Colorado ist unheimlich schön, und dort gibt es tatsächlich Winter. In dem es regelmäßig schneit. Aber weil es Colorado ist, kann es die Woche drauf wieder 18 Grad sein. Man gewöhnt sich irgendwie dran, aber jetzt ist so ungefähr die Zeit, wo man sich wünscht, der Frühling würde sich gefälligst beeilen. Hier gibt es aber keinen Frühling, nur immer einen wärmer werdenden Zwischenstopp, abwechselnd Winter und Sommer.

Ein Semester ist schon hinter mir. Da war wirklich viel los, da hatte ich sieben Profs zufrieden zu stellen und auch die Bewerbungen für Grad School und Praktika usw. schreiben und verschicken. Jetzt habe ich ungefähr 60% von dem, was ich damals hatte. Ich hab wieder Zeit für Unterhaltungen, gelegentliche Kaffeetermine, Stammtisch, usw. Ich verteidige meine Freizeit, und mir ist so gut wie nie langweilig. Ich nehme viele Sachen auch lockerer, das Nichtstun gewöhne ich mir an, obwohl ich eigentlich immer was Wichtigeres oder Interessanteres zu tun habe. Fast 30 Stunden arbeite ich, um mir Geld anzusparen, damit ich den Sommer mit vielem Nichtsmachen und Rumreisen verbringen kann.

Bis Mitte März muss ich die Abschlussarbeit geschrieben haben, die steht jetzt bei 80 Seiten und wird wahrscheinlich 120 Seiten lang sein, wenn sie fertig es. Es handelt sich von der wirtschaftlichen Reintegration ehemaliger Soldaten in Angola. Meine Lust am Thema verschwindet langsam, aber ich bin schon auf der Heimstrecke. In zwei Wochen gibt es einen Model-EU-Planspiel, und in März einen Model-UN-Planspiel, woran ich teilnehmen werde, Luxembourg und Madagaskar jeweils vertretend. Danach Ferien, Verteidigung der Arbeit, drei Wochen ugf., und Abschluss. Jawohl. Bin durchaus heiter drauf und genieße wirklich sehr die Zeit, die mir noch bleibt. Hab schließlich keine Zeit zum Trübsein, und es gibt auch nichts, worüber ich trüb sein sollte, auch wenn ich es lange Zeit war. Hab endlich einen Mitbewohner, der die Miete zahlt. Ich plane Reisen und Träume für Europa, will nach Ägypten, nach Indien. Nach einem Rennrad träume ich mir, und werde wahrscheinlich eins hier kaufen und dahin bringen, denn die sind teuer drüben. Einen Macbook muss ich auch noch kaufen. Viel zu tun, kaufen, erledigen, schaffen, machen.

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Yes a heart will always go one step too far
Come the morning and the four corners I see
What the moral of the back story could be
Come with me, go places

And a heart will always stay one day too long
Always hoping for the hot flashes to come
For the glue to dry on our new creation
Come with me, go places

Come head on, full circle
Our arms fill with miracles
Play hearts, kid, they work well
Like classics play aces
Stay with me, go places
Once more for the ages

Yes a heart should always go one step too far
Come the morning and the day winding like dreams
Come the morning every blue shade of green
Come with me, go places

Come head-on, full circle
Our arms fill with miracles
Play hearts, kid, they work well
Like magic, play aces
Stay with me, go places
Once more for the ages

Come one now, come all ye
This story breaks free here
Tales from the back pages
From somewhere, Encida
Deus ex machina
Good morning, Christina

Come head on, full circle
Our path blocked but sure we'll
Make records, then set them
Make copies, win races
Stay with me, go places
Once more for the ages
- "Go Places" - New Pornographers

Weiterlaufen, die Zähmung

Beim laufen zieht er das linke Bein etwas nach, als ob etwas mit der Hüfte, die er eines Tages sicher wird ersetzen lassen müssen, nicht stimmt. Vor zwei Wochen ungefähr errichte er die 40, eine Zahl, die er mit einer gewissen Furcht und auch etwas Stolz betrachtet. Geschafft, so weit. So leicht war es auch nicht, so viele verpasste Angebote, Verluste. So viele Wege gab es, die er nicht gegangen ist; einen von denen ist seine damaligen Frau gegangen, weil sie ihn als zu verschlossen, zu kalt empfand, sie kriege schließlich nichts davon. Seine Verhältnisse zu seiner Tochter war wieder relativ gut geworden, die Streiten und das Geschrei lagen auch in der Vergangenheit. Ihm hat es zu lange gedauert, herauszufinden, was im Leben wichtig war. Darum eben das Laufen. Schließlich möchte er nicht mit 45 an Herzinfarkt oder immer lahmender Fettleibigkeit sterben, wie die Frau aus der Zeitung. Die Zeitung liest er jetzt auch, eine gewisse Ahnung von der Welt will er jetzt haben. Ein später Anfang. Too little, too late? Er läuft weiter. Die Hüfte beklagt sich, ein leises Murren der Zukunft, die er vermeiden will. Zu spät ist es nicht, noch nicht. Nur weiterlaufen kann er, vielleicht einige der von ihm verursachten Verletzungen etwas heilen, weniger Fehler zu machen. Mehr kann er nicht, mehr muss er auch nicht. Seine Tochter kommt heute, und sie wird auf ihn stolz sein. Weiterlaufen.

......................

Man hat sich gesehen, irgendwo, irgendwann, im Bus, im Geschäft, auf der Straße, auf den Weg nach irgendwohin. Man blicke sich an, überlege sich ein Gespräch zu wagen. Zu Wagen, sich aufs Spiel setzen. Das Wildpferd muss nicht erschrocken werden, man nähere ihn von der Seite, langsam, aus dem Augenwinkel betrachtend. Bis man die Hand sanft auf die Flanke legen kann. Nicht erschrecken, sich nicht bewegen. Muss gezähmt werden, sanft. Das Herz pocht, die Herzen pochen. Blicke austauschen, sich nicht in die Augen schauen. Mund aufmachen und Wörter kommen raus: geschafft, erstmal. Gezähmt ist sie nicht, sie lässt die Annäherung aber zu. Eines Tages wird das alles lächerlich vorkommen, jetzt ist es aber von alles andere beseitigender Wichtigkeit.

The Epic Adventure, or Why I Hate Driving In Winter

It was a snowball day: plans slipping from their appointed spots on the calendar, rolling into one another and taking the next and the next and the next down with them, collecting and accumuating, getting big enough to build stuff out of, or at least smack you upside the head. Intentions of going to my morning classes faded as I weighed driving into town in the snow, parking, and walking around against sitting at home, working on my thesis, and sipping coffee. You can guess which one I picked....

So after a hot lunch--no tupperware for me today--I set off for my dentist's appointment. I'd been having toothaches off and on for the last month, and a couple times so severe that I couldn't sleep even doped up on painkillers. It was snowing pretty good, so I left myself an hour and a half to go an hour's distance. The roads weren't bad most of the way, and I took the windy city route--and got lost only once--in order to avoid 93, a winding road across exposed prairie where tractor trailers frequently tip over and windy blizzards shut down the road.

Everything was fine until I hit C-470 going south, another exposed road. As soon as I passed the exit, traffic came to a complete halt, a three-lane parking lot. As I considered my options and my eighth of a tank of gas, a fire rescue vehicle edged along on the right shoulder, followed by an ambulance. Horn and sirens announced the arrival of the fire truck, which somehow expected to get past three lane parking on the left shoulder. The driver in front of me began gesticulating wildly, a physical "what do you expect me to do??" which didn't change the fact that the truck still needed to get by.

So we sat. Mindful of my limited fuel, I turned off my car and sat reading my book for about twenty minutes, listening to my music and not begrudging the time, as I was relatively ahead of schedule. And soon enough, traffic began moving again, more than five feet at a time. I turned the key.... and nothing happened. My battery was dead. Meanwhile, the cars behind me began edging around me, and I became the traffic hazard in the middle of the three lanes.

What to do? I could try rolling the car, jumping in and putting it in gear, but I was more or less on the level and in traffic--and in snow. So I get out and walk back to the car behind me, and ask him to please kindly lend me his battery so I can jump start my car. Five minutes later, I'm on my way, and arrive at my appointment only five minutes late despite the half-hour delay.

I explain to the Dr. about the toothache. He opens my mouth and peers inside:

"Oh."

?

"I shouldn't say 'oh,' I guess," he continues. "But I know what the problem is. Remember those wisdom teeth I suggested you have pulled? You have a big hole in one, and it's almost down to the nerve. Don't chew on it, or you could break it."

Oh.

Well, that just worked its way up my priorities list....

I pay my $25, take my perscription for antibiotics in case it gets infected, fill up my car, and head off up to the mountains to see the 'rents, normally a 20 minute drive through a beautiful, snow-covered canyone past icicle trees.

Traffic crawled all the way up the canyon. Apparently they didn't feel the need to plow, because the roads basically consisted of a giant pile of slush forming a small burm over the median, to dissuade you just in case you fell like passing. A semi chaining up didn't pull all the way off the road, which narrowed traffic to one lane and caused the jam. Each time I started moving again, my car would slide sideways a foot or so. Kind of like ice skating, with the potential of doing hundreds of dollars of damage if I managed to F it up. I could feel the stress creeping in, settling between my shoulder blades, increasing with each slippery patch as if someone were weighting my shoulder blades. On the inside of some of the curves, real-wheel-drive cars lay scattered like the toys of a three year old with ADD, left where they fell, unable to make it up the hills and around the corners. You pretty much needed an all terrain vehicle to make it up. In one curve, where there were already three or so cars stuck, I felt my car sliding inexorably towards the parked cars, closer closer closer.... but we pulled through. Every time I drive up there in the winter, I remember the one time which left me sitting sideways on the median after having practically impaled my car on a street sign, because I felt it necessary to pass a semi pulling a tractor.

Möchtegern

Once upon a time, there was a closet on which dreams hung on hangers. The closet was in the back of an empty room, behind the old reading chair under the window, across the hall and up the stairs from the summer kitchen that's now a sunroom. You could take out different dreams and try them on, but very few of them fit and most of them were years out of date, out of style. You kept hoping for new dreams each christmas, but all you ever got were the left-overs from your brother or worse, from your sister. So you bought the materials, and now you sit and make your own.

..............................

Meine Güte! Ich habe die Wende erreicht! Ich merke das schon, wie meine Ansichten sich änderten. Ich blicke auf die Zukunft und sie kommt mir nicht so fern vor. Von den zehn Monaten, die ich hier bleiben sollte, sind sechs schon vergangen, liegen schon hinter mir wie Fußstapfen. Wochen vergehen jeweils schnell, sind abzählbar. Bald wird es Zeit, den Flug zu buchen, zu planen. Hier muss noch einiges geschehen, Besitze müssen neue Besitztümer suchen. Gepäck und Geschenke müssen organisiert werden.

Ich bin der Meinung, mich wesentlich geändert zu haben. Mein Lebensverlauf, von der Highschool aus zu sehen, ist deutlich, nachweisbar, nachvollziehbar. Verglichen mit dem letzten Studienaufenthalt in CO, dessen Zeit sich jetzt wiederspiegelt aber geändert mir ein Déjà-vu-Gefühl hervorruft, bin ich anders. Ich nahm damals das Studium und mich selbst sehr ernst, habe allzu viel Zeit mit Hausaufgaben verbracht, und mir den Deutschlandaufenthalt organisiert.

Deutschland war---unbeschreiblich. Es gab eine Konstellation, ein Zusammenkommen von Tatsachen, Leuten, Ereignissen, jeder oder jede einzeln zufällig oder bemüht mein Leben bereichend. Ich kam mir sehr klein vor, und die zu überwindenen Hindernisse kamen mir wie Berge vor, groß, unverzeihend. Im Nachhinein kann ich stolz sein, was erreicht worden ist.

Ehrlich gesagt--es ist schließlich relativ bekannt--wollte ich nicht zurück. Ich ahnte, dass sich die Welt, die ich in FR hatte, sich nicht wiederholen würde, vielleicht überhaupt nicht mehr existieren würde. Ganz alleine im eigenen Land war ich, in derselben Wohnung von damals, mit dem selben Auto und Job und teilweise mit den selben Freunden. Es war wie in einer Zeitlupe. Ich war aber nicht dieselbe Person.

Am Anfang gab es Schwierigkeiten und immer viel zu tun. Ich habe mich selbst für die Meisten zu verdanken, meine wäre-gewesens nicht ausreichend, um die Gegenwart gefälligst besser zu gestalten. Ich lief die selbe Strecke, tausendmalig, in der Wiederholung die Antwort suchend bin ich gleicher Wegen gegangen. Und tatsächlich ergab sich Unterschiede, in den Schritten fand ich Nachdenken und Erleichterung, Erleuchtung und Hoffnung. Meine Erwartungen von mir, vom Leben, von Freunden, vom copain, sind mir deutlicher geworden.

Es hat mir viel Spaß gemacht. Ich hatte und haber immer was zu tun, von Hausaufgaben und Lesen bis hin zu Partys, Kaffeestündchen, Dates, wenigen Kochabenden, Konzerten, MUN, Tangounterrichten, Spaßhaben und Mistbauen. Ich möchte mich schließlich bei denjenigen bendanken, die mein Leben bereichert haben--Freunden, Bibliothekskunden, (Möchtegern)liebhaber, Professoren, (Möchtegern)mitbewohner, Fremden auf der Straße.

L'été en Europe

I may or may not have some time to kill next summer. And where better than in Europe? Theoretically, I will likely have between the end of May and mid August to amuse myself. We've already got a Balkans tour in the works, to Istanbul and back via Croatia, Slovenia, hopefully Budapest and Prague. I'd like to go somewhere I haven't been. Some ideas thus far:

- get an internship somewhere cool (looking less likely, but still possible)
- go to Spain. I was way too busy the last time to enjoy much. I'd love to go to Valencia, Sevilla and Grenada, Biarritz and San Sebastian. The latter because of an Isabell Allende book.

- Morocco-- cheap flights from Basel to Marrakech, €100 round trip
- bike tour, if I had my preference it'd be through the loire valley in France. Denmark or Holland could be fun too. Belgium would be great as well. But I'm good for anything, and would love to go for a week or so at a time


- backpacking in switzerland. Either hut to hut or with tents and all that jazz. I have the boots and the pack....
- a sailing trip. If my "family" is even going.



- Baltics: Riga, Talinn, perhaps back via Warsaw and Krakow. I don't remember if I still know people there or not...
- go to Austria. I was only in Vienna once, for four days, and that was three years ago.
- Paris. For the third time. I'd also like to see the Pyranees and the Dordogne. Andorra would be awesome too.
- Greece. It's far, I know, but it would be worth it.



I think I can manage some multi-day trips, perhaps a combo bike and rail trip around France or somewhere. Need to check up on me little bike and me little bank account to see how much of this is possible. But if I go places where I can get there and back for about €100 or less, sleep with friends, in tents, or otherwise on the cheap, it should be possible to do a couple of these.

Paper bird et al.

Seine Hand, die hinter seinem Rücken flachliegend an der Gürtel gedrückt war, bewegte sich, langsam, etwas zitternd und völlig unbeachtet. Die Finger schlossen sich, ballten sich, um sich wieder aus der Faust zu entspannen. Langsam schritt er voran, die eine Hand selbstbewegend. In der anderen hielt er ein Buch vor sich, den Flur entlang langsam lesend und schreitend, verträumt und vom Buch verfangen.

................

It must have been around 11, or close enough that you wouldn't care. The place was pretty packed, surprising perhaps for this time of night. It was Friday, after all, but it was also a restaurant and not just a bar. Happy hour are two of the best words out there, and our happy hour took the form of four expertly prepared and discretely decorated rolls, four divided by eight divided by three. Pickeled gourd, rock shrimp, salmon, avocado, and cucumber, shielded in rice and carefully wrapped in nori, dunked in wasabi soy and separated by slices of pickled ginger. Each one a mouthful, a mix of tastes both strong and subtle, sensations and textures to tease the tongue.

................

On my way to breakfast this morning I almost fell down the stairs, and did something to my ankle. It's got two hours to get better before I go for my run :(

................

For the measely price of $5, we went to a concert at the University. The first band was already playing as we walked in. They were good, but they were bad. I won't make any claims about my musical knowledge, so forgive my somewhat uncertain definition. The band played something I guess you could call electric blues or light jazz, but to me it sounded like elevator music meets guitar hero. The guitarist and bassist were both excellent musicians, but for one of the few times in my life, their music just left me cold. We were happy when it ended, as it had literally actually almost put us to sleep.

The next band was a quartet called Golden Brown, consisting of a doghouse bass, guitar, cello and lap steel guitar. They sounded a bit like the Be Good Tanyas with new-age influences, had lovely vocals and basically did a beautiful job.

After much staging and rearranging, sound checks and dial-twisting, we were treated to the unique music of Laura Goldhammer (see video below). She's a one-woman show--though this time she played with the bassist and guitarist of the previous band--who makes animations to which she performs live. She reminds me vocally a bit of Joanna Newstrom, but also did a smashing version of Feist's Secret Heart. She switches off between guitar and banjo, with or without her own percussion. It was, simply put, amazing. Watch the videos.







The last band, and the headliners for the evening, was a Denver group called Paper Bird. While you're reading this, go open THIS PAGE in another window and listen to their music. I'm pretty sure I saw these guys playing outside on the lawn one of the days this week; it's not that often you hear absolutely stunning vocals paired with banjo and trombone. They entered with fanfare and proceeded to do an a capella piece. Phenomenal singers, all three. Their music is a mix of a capella, barbershop, swing, and folk. Listening to them just put me in absolute awe of these girls and guys. Their singing and harmonies are impeccable, their style and musicality simply astounding.

As soon as they began to play, someone down the row from me began twitching wildly in his seat, throwing himself backwards and forwards as if traumitized. The band, who is apparently familiar with him, invited him and anyone else who wanted to dance to come up to the front and he leapt from his seat where he proceeded to take the entire right-hand aisle. His arms windmilling, he danced--well, I might add--in apparent total ecstacy, flinging all limbs in all directly, wildly and spinning, caught completely by the music.



Live music, for me, just transports me off to somewhere distant and I kind of drift away on a little mental raft.

bin ich ein Falke?

Ein komisches Vöglein bin ich. In der des Vaters schwarzen Jacke verhüllt kämpfe ich gegen den Strom, den Wind. Mein Schal--den Hut vergessen worden--über den Kopf, ums Gesicht gewickelt, nur die Augen und Nasenspitze gucken hervor, dem Schnee entgegen. Mir selbst komme ich lächerlich vor und mir ist immer noch kalt. Schnee häuft sich schon auf den Schultern, den Haaren, unerwartet und unerwünscht. Der Sturm, der ohne Vorwarnung von den Bergen Richtung Küste gedrängt ist, schüttet Schnee, wabert und bläst und wirbelt. Meine Schuhe sind Nachweis des am morgen noch wolkenlosen Himmels, füllen langsam mit Schnee. Die Kälte klettert mir die Beine hoch, Richtung Hüfte. Obgleich ich mir die Füße in Plastik verhüllt hatte werden sie trotzdem kalt. Mir bleibt nichts übrig als voran zu kämpfen und auf eine heiße Tasse zu hoffen.

Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen,
die sich über die Dinge ziehn.
Ich werde den letzten wohl nicht vollbringen
aber versuchen will ich ihn.

Ich kreise um Gott, den uralten Turm,
und ich kreise jahrtausendelang;
und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm
oder ein großer Gesang.

Rainer Maria Rilke

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?

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