And behold...

...they saw a bright star in the east!
Alright, so that photo doesn't look one bit impressive. But that was one bright star I saw this morning and it was in the south-east, which is roughly where Bethlehem is, right? To a tired, desperate-for-some-cheering-up mind like mine at 6a.m. that was enough of a reason to feel all christmassy and symbolic all of a sudden. (For a short while only, admittedly. Then reality kicked in.)

Thorough googling taught me, of course, that it wasn't a star at all, but none other than good old Venus bidding us a good morning. And she isn't supposed to be the star of Bethlehem, either, that's Jupiter they say. But I'm not too much bothered by facts.

Meanwhile, this morning's clear, starry sky changed its mind big time and turned my window street scene into this:


Or this, depending on the camera mode...


Thank God I don't have anything better to do than mess about with stuff like this!

And the streets ain't for dreaming now...

Just what gets stuck in my head on a lazy, grey Sunday like this...

Ich hab ein zärtliches Gefühl...

Nach dem Adventskaffee letzten Sonntag stand tags darauf noch ein Teller mit Plätzchen im Lehrerzimmer, die eine Kollegin und ich so lecker fanden, dass sie recherchiert hat, welches Kind sie mitgebracht hatte.
Ihre Sherlock-Holmes-Künste waren auch von Erfolg gekrönt. So berichtete sie mir, dass es ein Junge aus meiner Sechser-Englischklasse sei und sie ihm aufgetragen habe, doch mal bei der Mutter nach dem Rezept zu fragen. Er ist ein kleiner, dünner, extrem quirliger (ADHS lässt grüßen), zappeliger, wilder, liebenswerter Junge mit schwarzen Haaren und dunklen Augen, der aus dem Irak stammt und da wohl in früher Kindheit so einiges durchgemacht hat (Die Klassenlehrerin erwähnte mal nebenbei etwas von einer Autobombe, die direkt neben ihm... Frag nicht.).
Jedenfalls brachte er mir heute ganz stolz folgenden Zettel mit, den er sich von Mama wohl hatte diktieren lassen:



Irgendwas zwischen Lachtränen und Rührung hat mir die Schrift fast vor den Augen verschwimmen lassen. Ich hab die Plätzchen vorhin gleich versucht nachzubacken. Aber gegen die Backkünste seiner Mama komme ich natürlich nicht an...

About that flamethrower you asked Santa for...

...And then there was that little First Year boy with the big, brown eyes, who yesterday during break took a deodorant and a lighter and, just like that, set fire to two Third Year girls' hair.

They were extremely lucky - their faces weren't burned, and miraculously none of their completely synthetic clothes caught fire. "Only" their hair was thoroughly singed and one girl's eyelashes a little bit, too.

Why did he do that, you ask?
What do you mean?
I'm sure Calvin would understand.

Kinder, stellt die Stiefel raus...

"Wenn es raschelt im Haus heute Nacht,
still und heimlich, dass niemand erwacht,
sind es ganz bestimmt keine Mäuse,
sondern viele, liebe, kleine Nikoläuse..."


Der 2. Advent ist nun nicht gaaanz so friedlich und entspannt wie der 1., aber nun, was will man machen? Ich hab's ja immer gesagt: Augen auf bei der Berufswahl!
Heute ist der alljährliche Rabbatz und Budenzauber aka Adventskaffee bei uns in der Schule und damit herrscht seit Wochen Ausnahmezustand. Die komplette letzte Woche war die Turnhalle gesperrt, zu Dekorations- und Aufbauzwecken und nicht zuletzt für die 5-10 Gesamtdurchläufe und "Generalproben", die es offenbar braucht, um 100 Fünft- und Sechstklässler und ca. 50 Chorsänger auf Linie zu bringen. Was an besonderem Reiz dadurch gewinnt, dass je drei aus fünf Lehrern sowas von ganz offensichtlich absolut keinen Bock auf diese Veranstaltung haben und mit Arbeitsscheu und Gemaule für so richtig konstruktive und besinnliche Stimmung sorgen.

Sicher, mir fällt auch was Entspannteres ein, als am 2. Advent aufgedrehte Kinder im Schach zu halten, um dann anschließend mit zwei Kolleginnen und 6 Schülerinnen das Geschirr von 300 Kaffeegedecken per Hand zu spülen... Ich könnte zum Beispiel den Kuchen, den ich grad gebacken und gleich abzuliefern habe, mit ausgewählten Leuten selbst essen.
Andererseits weiß ich aber auch, dass diese Chaosaktion für unsere Kleenen da heute das Highlight des Jahres ist. Dass sie mir die nächsten Tage mit strahlenden Augen, gestärktem Selbstvertrauen und (gefühlt) fünf Zentimeter größer entgegenkommen werden, weil sie gemeinsam etwas geschafft haben und dafür Lob und Applaus bekommen haben.

Da wäge nun jeder selbst ab, ob es die Sache wert ist...

Rodent update.

Tadaa! I proudly present the real Fritz! Dad managed to catch a few snapshots of him, and dutifully forwarded them to all his daughters (and who knows who else...).


Awwww, look at him - isn't he cute? That shiny fur, those black, curious, beady eyes, the fluffy ears... And so self-sufficient, too! No bother at all. That's my kind of pet...

Dicke, rote Kerzen, Tannenzeigenduft...

What a perfectly nice, peaceful start into Advent this has been! I spent it home at my parents' and did nothing much except sit around, eat, drink hot ginger tea and go for walks in the winter sunshine.



Oh, and my parents have a new housemate!
A red squirrel has chosen the flower box just outside our kitchen window to build its nest ( a drey, or so I've just learned) in. Right amongst the faded geraniums! Alas, so far he has been far too quick for us to catch him on camera. He scuttles across the roof, then nimbly climbs down the wall, stops for a second by the window frame to look inside and then vanishes in this brown ball of dry grass, where he rummages around for a fair while, trying to get cosy before eventually going to sleep.
They named him Fritz.
Which is fair enough I guess. But putting those walnuts on a plate on the inside windowsill for decorative purposes - really, Mum, that's just plain cruel!

Worüber man nicht sprechen kann...

...darüber soll man schweigen. Nur soviel: An einer katholischen Schule kann man durchaus auch "a god friend" haben.


Ich hab's ja immer gesagt: Die Medien sind an allem schuld.

Morgen ist Elternsprechtag. Himmel, schick Schokolade! (Und 'nen guten Dolmetscher.)

Autumn flashback.

In memory of those autumn holidays when we were, what 14? 15?, and me and my sisters were home alone for a couple of days and you stayed over at my place and we spent the days listening to this one record over and over again at full volume in the living room (and, come to think of it, Smashing Pumpkins: Siamese Dream, what a weird combination) and discussing our crushes at lengths, whether we thought they looked our way earlier that day across the bumper cars at the local fair, whether we considered it possible that they might actually call us at some stage, and, quite possibly, be the ones we should marry. (I think.)
So this one's for you, Julia!

"The fool who escaped from paradise will look over his shoulder and cry,
sit and chew on daffodils and struggle to answer why..."

The Cat knows best.

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

Petulant blog.

Oh, woe betide me, I've angered the beast!
For some reason blogger is very unhappy with me and, consequently, I with him/her/them. I'm sure it's something I've done and I'd happily repent for my sinful ways, if only I knew what it was!
I have the sneaking suspicion it was something about the format of the quote I copy/pasted into my last post, because afterwards my blog title wasn't centred any more. But I deleted the post and wrote it all anew in this here user interface (or whatever it is called). The title is back to normal, but there are still a number of things that don't work any longer:
- The button for choosing the font is gone, along with the buttons for grouped style, right-aligned, index points etc.
- It doesn't even adopt the font, alignment etc. if I copy/paste text from a word document.
- When I upload a video, it dutifully uploads but cannot play or even display the video afterwards.
- Uploaded pictures only appear in some html-code Chinese. They seem to turn up as pictures in the blog, however, when published (or at least in the preview).

Anybody out there who knows how to solve this? What do I have to do to placate the beast?

Life on a paper napkin.

And while we're busy chasing high aims... I'm sure I'd be a much better person if I could realize in my own life even the tiniest bit of what this quote has been trying to tell me for years:

"The only dream worth having, I told her, is to dream that you will live while you're alive and die only when you're dead.

- Which means exactly what? (Arched eyebrows, a little annoyed)

I tried to explain, but didn't do a very good job of it.Sometimes I need to write to think. So I wrote it down for her on a paper napkin. This is what I wrote: To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty in its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget."

Arundhati Roy - The Algebra of Infinite Justice

Post postscript.

Apparently I'm not the only citrus-fruit-obsessed person out there:


We all need a goal to which we can aspire. Developing just that attitude is mine. Finding such contentment in small things, internalizing that lightness. Lightness, mind you, not shallowness. Resourcefulness, not arbitrariness. My, my, what a lot of "nesses"...

Today, I'm proud to say, I've been pretty good and stuck to my training plan. I complained only once - over a headache at lunchtime - and tried to focus on the nice things of the day. (I also probably annoyed everyone around me by going on and on about how I vowed to think positively henceforth.)
Well you know what they say about pride and falling, the proofs of puddings and the way to Tipperary - I'll doubtlessly have a much harder time sticking to this fabulous positiveness thingy tomorrow during the 1001 minibattles with my favourite adolescents. But I guess it's like building stomach muscles, or babysteps onto the elevator...

I think that merits a new post label.

Satsuma Season.

Today I had my first satsuma of the season.

However, trying to share this mindblowing event with you has inadvertently thrown me deep into a bewildering pool of nomenclature. (And I might be using the word "inadvertently" quite wrongly here. Possibly "nomenclature" too, but I've always wanted to use those, and who's to know?) See, it's difficult enough in German, but the shady nuances between "satsuma", "tangerine", "clementine" and their various subcategories are quite beyond me.
So I went with the alliterative most charming one and decided I had one of those.

I've always loved the process of peeling a satsuma. Ever since I was a teenager. No matter if I was walking through the winter forest, crying my eyes out over my first heartbreak or just killing time during yet another awfully boring science class, I've always found it very soothing and focussing to concentrate on just that one task of peeling off the skin, dividing the fruit in half, picking off every last bit of white ...um... stuff before finally popping a piece into my mouth...

Anyway, it was delicious.

Kindred Spirits.

"...But I admit my thoughts verged on the profane. And I have such a cold in the head - I can do nothing but sniffle, sigh and sneeze. Isn't that alliterative agony for you? Queen Anne, do say something to cheer me up."

L. M. Montgomery
Anne of the Island

Which she dutifully did.

...'til bad ones go by.

So you think I should just blog again.
Well, fair enough, and I'm honoured that someone is checking in here after all. But, you see, it's kind of tricky too, because it is November after all, peak season for whinging and moping and "the autumn of our discontent". And for some reason lately I seem to be having the same conversation with various dear people over and over again:
The one about how you seem to spend your life wishing for things to pass (like terms, exams, heartbreak, dreary workdays...them especially). And you've come to realize that if you spend your whole life wishing for things to be over, then very likely one day you'll find that your life is, in fact, over. And you spent it lamenting the would-have-beens and wishing for things to be different.
What a scary thought.

No, honestly. As scary as they get.
But, sadly, the epiphany didn't bring the remedy in a pretty, oldfashioned doctor's bag. So I had to devise my own training program.

• Step 1: Think happy thoughts. (Bahahahaaaa. See, that cheered me right up!)
• Step 2: Refrain from punching people who suggest you simply stop whinging and get on with it.
• Step 3: Only tell people how you really feel if you think they actually want to know. (This should include Mental Note 3a: If your singing coach/colleague/piano teacher asks you how you are, they are probably just being polite.) Which should lead up to
  
• Step 4: Cut down on your daily complaint allowance. Gradually, mind you. Going cold turkey might have unforeseeable effects!
• Step 5: Oooh, I dunno. Any suggestions? Oh, I know! Find loopholes! Investigate how often you may miss classes without being thrown out, then hatch a cunning, sly plan in which you distribute your "missing classes" evenly throughout the semester (whilst allowing for real illness and parent-teacher-days). This should reduce your weekly workload by at least three hours.
• Step 6: Try to put things in perspective. I don't mean to get all sanctimonious on you, but some of the things you complain about are actually quite a luxury in someone else's eyes. Like being able to study and learn new things and...ah, see, I knew it would come across all sappy. But there it is.
• Step 7: Eat well. Get some exercise, all that.
  
• Step 8: Do nice things. If you can possibly find the time and energy. (Obviously this is the bonus track on the list.)

As for this blog here, I guess it should mean that I should make an effort to find some cheerful things to post about. Every once in a while. At least. And wait for the healing effects of the power of suggestion. For the ugly truth I guess I can still refer you to last year's posts...

P.S. I could have told you I have a bloody awful headcold and still a pile of 30 English papers to mark, but that would have been against Step 3 and 4, so instead I'll virtuously adhere to Step 1:

Picky.

"For I cannot find
among these pale roses
a flower that resembles
my red ideal."

Was machen wir?

Und damit wären wir mal wieder in der Saison der Durchhalteparolen angelangt.
Noch 8 Wochen bis Weihnachten! (Hm, nicht soo motivierend...)
Nur 6 unvorbereitete, Hammerdidaktik-Schulstunden bis zum langen Wochenende!
(Na, schon eher.)
Vielleicht am allerbesten was Allgemeingültiges:

Good Fridays, Bad Tuesdays.

Ah, see, I knew I was onto something by posting songs instead of everyday trivia:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, there's no news tonight, so here's some music!"
(Well, let's just pretend there wasn't - we'll all be that much happier for it.)

If there's somebody out there...

...Ah, go on, throw in another one for good measure. This is from the same album as the last one, and, oh boy, did I love it! I know, I'm pretty weird that way (well, I certainly didn't think so for a long time, but people have corrected my error since...), but I used to pore over my dictionary for hours on end until I had looked up all the unknown words, I wanted to drink in the lyrics and soak the words right up, then listened to the song over and over again until I knew it by heart.

So, if you have 8:47 to spare, listen to me, just hear me out and spare a thought for the would-be-philosopher, sceptical-yet-expectant, angst-ridden-but-unshakeable teenagers you and I once were.

The Russian princess.

Today, for want of energy and original thoughts to share, we continue the popular series of all-time favourites, as selected by me, obviously. Triggered I guess by the first hint of frost in the air today, the general melancholy nature of autumn in general and Mondays in particular, by something my sister said or simply randomly thrown at me by the terribly cluttered hard drive that is my mind, we seem to have stranded in that not so far-flung corner of my soul called adolescent weltschmerz. So, thanks Fish, for providing the soundtrack.

Viva la vida.

I don't really feel like writing much lately and wouldn't really know where to begin anyway. The last two weeks have been brimful with all kinds of music-related stuff, some of them good and inspiring and some of them not so much so.
Also, that stupid feeling of foreboding from two posts back was and still is totally justified, especially now with uni and school crashing down on me with combined force once again.
If only they hadn't destroyed all the Time-Turners in the Department of Mysteries of the MoM!
I'm so not looking forward to the next few months, but since that is an unwholesome and not altogether serviceable thought, I will stop blathering on about it and simply shut up.

Instead, here's some of my favourite kids (once more) singing one of my favourite songs.
Yes, much better.

Truce be told.

How very comforting to know that days such as yesterday, brimfull with whinging and self-loathing and discontent, can still be followed by mornings like this!

Waking up to a turquoise-turning-pink dawn,
winning the short but fierce fight against the lazy devil inside me,
walking through still silent streets in time to be one of the first to enter the swimming pool,
taking long, even strokes through the cool water,
watching the first rays of sunlight dance on the ripples,
casting thousands of flickering miniature suns onto the blue tiles...

Later, miraculously, there was a coffee stall right outside the swimming pool as I came out, placed there very circumspectly by my favourite cafe and luring me over by playing David Grey. So I had a fresh, buttery croissant to compensate any sustained calorie-loss and walked home through the golden October morning.
Apparently, the weather was quite lovely yesterday as well. Must have somehow escaped my notice.

"And all the clouds that low'r'd upon our house
in the deep bosom of the ocean buried."

Richard the Third, Act 1, Scene 1, 3-4.

Wishy-washy.

I wish life was easier.
I wish I was a lot better at taking it easier.
I wish I was lighter-hearted and much, much more energetic.
I wish I wasn't trapped in this stupid lethargy.
I wish that for once I was able to actually do and tick off those chores and tasks that have been cluttering up the to-do list in my head for ages and ages and are colluding to form this venomous ball of foreboding in my stomach. (And rightly so.)
I wish I would do all this stuff and then, miraculously, feel just so much better about myself. Clean, organised, deserving...something.
I also wish university regulations and course-allocation lottery mechanisms weren't such a bitch.
I wish I had the money to hire a cleaner. And a PA, specialising in looking for and finding misplaced documents, filing/throwing away unneeded paperwork and dealing with any kind of contact with bureacracy and other grown-up, cringe-inducing stuff.
I wish I wasn't lying on my bed right now writing this but sticking to my mental schedule instead and very simply folding away those three-and-a-half loads of dry laundry that have been living on my sofa for, respectively, one, two, three weeks and a half. Other people do it, too, you know. I've seen it happen!

I wish I wasn't kidding myself every single day. And buying it, too! What a nutcase! At least other people have the decency of being screwed over by someone else...

The soul dweller.

The way Mary Fons manages to capture those thoughts and feelings that have been lurking in the deepest corners of my soul, waiting to be set free by a spark of eloquence but in my case always - quite soberingly - stopped short by inability, never ceases to amaze me.

I love you.

Oh, man.

I can't sing praises enough of Vocal Line, and quite honestly wouldn't do half as good a job at it as they do anyway. Also, I've been feeling lousy again all day, so my eloquence is somewhat shaken. So I will let them speak for themselves, or rather sing for themselves 'cause that's what they are best at. Inevitably, the videos and CD don't even come close to the sound of the live performance! It's been one of the best concerts I've ever been to and I did my very best not to give the photographers in the row in front of us a few well-measured sharp kicks in the head for repeatedly clicking during quiet parts. And this one, timeless classic I find is well worth listening to even when you're sweating and doubling over with stomach cramps...

What a pain in the a..

I would like to file a complaint:
For twelve days now I haven't been able to eat anything that didn't come straight out again in some bizarre way (no, not that way, the other way). I'm struggling hard here to edit out all the too-much-information bits, so imagine this first part a good deal longer and more detailed, if you will.
Suffice to say, it's not good. And it's certainly no fun. Eating being one of my principal hobbies (and I'm rather good at it, too, if I may say so myself), I have no talent whatsoever for asceticism and dieting and it's getting me down. Also, it leaves me unfavourably short of energy, which is always a bonus when trying to keep in check 30 adolescents.
But what I hate most is the way it's messing with my head. Every time I tentatively eat something I start watching my body for the immediate effects, scrutinize every tweak and twinge and subsequently formulate a new theory, because, let's face it, a regular gastrointestinal bug should surely have been on its way out by now?! So, what else can it be? I've so far been trying to cut out dairy products, then added a gluten-free diet to that for good measure and a couple of days. I really cannot recommend either, but you definitely shouldn't opt for doing both at the same time. Doesn't leave much except maize and rice to fill you up, especially if you've already abandoned fruit acids (what are the symptoms of scurvy, by the way?).
Anyhow, none of the above theories so far truly stood the test of time, or rather, food. So yesterday I carefully ventured back into the terrain of "normal" food (white bread, pasta, grilled chicken, watered-down juice) and was thrilled when it seemed to go down (and stay down, bahahaa... oh, stop it!) well. Until... I had a few pieces of shortbread earlier... So, here we are, back on square one, possibly headed for Lactose Intolerance Valley, calling at Bellyache Town and Cramp City Central.
Great.

Oh, and yes, I have actually seen two doctors about it, who weren't overly fazed at the time, but I guess I just might have to drag my sore ass down to the GP's again on Monday. See if he's intrigued now.
The queen meanwhile is not amused.

The unmitigated fabulousness.

There are a number of people I have adored, revered and cyberstalked so thoroughly and intensely over the years that I feel I know them better than most of my friends and relatives. Or rather, I have that sneaking suspicion that we could really hit it off, become the best of friends if only we could meet and I on that occasion managed more than a few pathetic morsels of awestruck, simpering gibberish.
One of these people is Stephen Fry. And truly, if only! He's the most intelligent, funny, humble, heartbreakingly spot on, entertaining relater of witty anecdotes and profound insights alike I can think of anywhere. Ever. Well, he's just all round lovely and gorgeous and I wish I had a tenth of his intellect, creativity and energy. As it happens, I also think I would fit in perfectly with his circle of friends. I really wouldn't mind grabbing a bite with Emma Thompson, Hugh Laurie, Dawn French and all the rest from time to time... So if you guys read this, gimme a shout - I'll drop over for a quick lunch any day!

Ohrwurm der Woche.

Über Nacht kamen die Wolken
und ich hab's nicht mal gemerkt.
Schon sind am ersten Straßenbaum
die ersten Blätter verfärbt.
Ich will immer so viel erleben
und verschlafe doch nur die Zeit.
Und kaum dass ich einmal nicht müde bin,
ist der Sommer schon wieder vorbei.

element of crime

Summer days driftin' away...

I've been struggling how to sum up my summer holidays, both for myself and when asked by others. It's just so much easier when you can reply something like "Oh, I went to Croatia. Simply marvellous, I can tell you! The weather...I heard it's been rainy back here? And the clearest, most turquoise water you might imagine...!"
But what is there to say about spending more than 4 weeks back home-home, doing nothing in particular?
Actually, contrary (well, that's me) to that short post at the end of July, I all in all had a great time. Once I had grudgingly accepted that I wouldn't be going anywhere much this summer, let alone anywhere near the sea - one of the main bonus effects of staying at my parents' being not having to pay for food or anything else for a month, thereby trying to contain the chronic leakage in my bank account - I actually settled down far too well and enjoyed doing, well... nothing much. Extremely relaxing!
So here are some favourite nothings:

There were strange sights to behold. Never underestimate the creativity triggered by the scrap found in a farm yard in rural Lower Saxony... Note the octopus in the bucket.

Another favourite sight of mine: Having the local outdoor swimming pool all to myself! Yeees, well, the grey clouds may be a hint as to why no one else was there, but that's really the only weather condition inducing my swimming-pool-misanthropic self to actually go. (I spent the best part of those four weeks practicing not to let those battleship-I-always-swim-in-lane-8-pensioners ruin my good mood...)

Well, definitely a favourite, this one! Instant moodlifter!

Of course, there was still plenty of time for hanging around...

Ah, yes, come to think of it, I did do something useful after all! I had the honour of being my mum's technical assistant for these 30 little actors' school musical production called "Life in Space". I must admit I was truly impressed by their fantastic memories and their goose-pimples-inducing energy when, arms linked, they bellowed the final chorus together. The songs were stuck in my head for weeks...

But somehow...
No other picture captures the mood of this summer for me quite like this one:

"A new shirt to mark the annual parish fair."

The business sense, the composition... oozing the quintessence of Lower Saxony... Perfect!

Perspektivwechsel.

Hach nee! Da quengelt man so gemütlich innerlich vor sich hin, dass man doch ins Freibad will und es ja aber immerzu regnet und nicht mal die Bonner Hallenbäder geöffnet haben und einem da doch tatsächlich die Hände gebunden sind ob des Besiegens von Schweinehunden und anderen übellaunigen Fabelwesen...
Und dann meldet der Aus(rhein)landskorrespondent aus der Heimat plötzlich sowas hier:


Das verdirbt einem doch das schönste Selbstmitleid!
Aber so schnell lass ich mich nicht abspeisen. Ich find schon noch was zum Nörgeln:
Da verbringe ich über vier (!) Wochen in der heimatlichen Kleinstadt und wann kommt das Hochwasser??? Klar, wenn ich grad wieder weg bin. Die Wochen davor hingegen passierte... quasi... so gut wie... Naja, davon eventuell ein anderes Mal mehr.
Tauschen mit den Leuten im blauen Haus und drumherum will ich nun aber auch wieder nicht. Ich hab neulich ja schon die Krise gekriegt, als ich eine kleine Pfütze auf meinem Laminat sah und ein undichtes Fenster vermuten musste! (Wenn der Argwohn erst gesät ist...) Die Vorstellung, dass alles, aber auch alles, was einem lieb und teuer ist, unter Wasser und Schlammmassen begraben ist... Uuuuh, nee. Da würd ich meine Steuerkarte und mein Abiturzeugnis ja erst recht niemals mehr...
Das ist so ein weiteres beliebtes Szenario für schlaflose frühe Morgenstunden: Was würde ich aus der Wohnung retten, wenn es brennt?/Wie würde ich mich aus der Wohnung retten, wenn es brennt? (Stichwort Holztreppenhaus)/Was würde ich tun, wenn durch Sturm nachts das Dach einstürzt?/Was, wenn der irre Nachbar nochmal vor der Tür steht?

Aber vielleicht muss ich vorerst das Hochwasserszenario doch noch nicht in meinen persönlichen Horrorreigen einreihen. Ist ja doch eher unwahrscheinlich im Dachgeschoss.

Amen to that!

Mind you go easy on those mind-altering drugs, kids!

And then, out of the grey, something pops up to brighten up even your dullest, darkest day...

Approach at own risk.

Think rainy day meets cabin fever meets PMS meets an overdose of family meets an underdose of friends meets homesickness for Ireland meets longing for a holiday (anywhere by the sea really) meets chronic skintness meets white-hot jealousy for everyone else going on holiday.
Yep, that sums it up nicely.

500 (or so) days of summer.

So you wake up on a glorious Sunday morning (well, noon rather) to sun rays warming your feet, swifts screeching, church bells ringing and as you're blinking and wiping your eyes you think: "Ah, well!"
You get up, take an iced coffee from your fridge, take a sip, open your window...
...And creepy, ugly guy across the street is watching hardcore porn again.

Ah...well.


Totally unrelated:
Why it was a wise decision to leave my bike at the institute during that thunderstorm the other day, take the tram to the station instead and not cycle through the alley and park my bike in its usual place, which is this:

Ah, summer, gotta love it!

Speaking of which... That movie... It was one of those films where I saw the trailer and fell in love with it. I was 100% sure that it was going to be one of my favourite films of all times once I'd watched it. So sure that when I happened upon the DVD in a shop the other day, I had to buy it straight away. (Yes, I'm weird that way. I am familiar with the concept of video rental, theoretically, but certain films... I need them on my shelf, available at all times. Just my rodent hoarding mentality I guess.)
So, I watched it. And it's great. No, really, it is. I love it. Will definitely watch it again. Sometime. It's everything the trailer promised. Does exactly what it says on the tin. It's just...
It is exactly like the trailer. Just longer.
And the incurable romantic inside me was shouting at the screen for a last-minute happy twist to the story... But again, that's just me being weird that way. It's the old battle between wanting to watch good films, but at the same time wanting nothing too realistic because, let's face it, I can (and do) have sordid reality right under my nose every day anyway.
The makers of the film are probably laughing their heads off right now, because it seems after all to be made exactly for people like me. Dead-on.
So I better watch it again.
Or... here's a crazy thought: join the other people out there in that...thingy...reality.

I'm a huge fan.

Obviously, it's too hot for anything much.
Like working.
Let alone coherent thinking.
In lieu thereof (ha, always wanted to use that in a sentence!), random, fleeting pictures are rotating inside my brain, like the flickering blades of my newly acquired fan:
Practicing the piano for the recital on Wednesday while trying to ignore the sweat drops running down my temples and my back...
Ice cubes clinking in pint-sized glasses of passion fruit spritzers...
"Windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a non-existent breeze..." (that's actually a quote from Harry Potter 5)
Sending our pupils home at 11.30am every day because of the heat (way over 40°C in some classrooms)...
The wonderful, wondrously cool air-conditioned air inside the supermarket...
...And the wall of hot air you seem to walk into when you eventually have to leave it again...
Football and popsicles and more football and more popsicles and more piano practicing...
The droning of my fan that, after only 9 days, seems to be complaining of excessive labour when all I seem to get out of it is the same old hot air, only slightly stirred - I might as well sit in front of my hair-dryer...
Meeting friends and sitting under sunshades and trees outside "our" Italian restaurant, deliberating which pasta dish it is to be today - until the waitress arrives and we order, invariably, what we always have...

Yeah, so altogether I guess it's not too bad.
If only there wasn't that gnawing knowledge down below that I really should get down to cramming for those end-of-term exams in music theory...
But really, it's impossible. I mean, see above.

Right, time for another cold shower!

Offside in sight, inside out of sight.

True, I haven't been on the talkative side lately. For starters it's that time of the year again when the usual suspects are making more demands on me and my time than I care for. It's rolling-the-dice-time for the summer term reports and the inevitable heaps of last-minute tests. At the same time, it's the hot (indeed, haha) phase at university too: exams, recitals and more recitals looming just behind the next World-Cup-flag-adorned corner. And again I'm at that point where my body is gently trying to tell me that its battery is worn down. I feel like an old woman in the GP's waiting room the way I find some new ailment to complain about every single day. When really I'm just tired.
Then of course I have my work cut out trying to follow as many football matches as possible. Quite time-consuming that. And it turns out it's pretty hard to concentrate on finishing even one straight sentence here when every 35 seconds the commentator in the background is raising his voice in that drama-foreboding way that makes me switch over again and again to watch those Portuguese lose in the round of sixteen.
Oh, and in case you were wondering (or not): Yes, it's just about as hot up here under the roof as you might imagine. Not a sweat drop different from last year.

So, it's a matter of trying to hold on to as many brain cells as possible in this heat. When really all I'm waiting for is this:

Signs.

Well, since we'll all be better off not mentioning today's football match, here's something I came across just now that I'd love to share with you:

There she goes.

Wow, look, it's exactly one year since I started this little blog here!

Who'd have thought a year ago when I sat down and started messing about with it on a Thursday morning to get out of writing that paper that it would still be alive and kicking today?
I know, I'm light years away from posting every day, or even regularly, but I still enjoy writing when I do. And although I mightn't have much of note to say all the time, I do like skimming over the old entries every now and then to look back on what kind of moods and phases I've been through, what weird stuff was on my mind this day or that, which feelings went, which remained.
Also, I still don't really know who is or isn't following my wanderings. Well, that is, I do know of a small handful of people who look in on me here fairly regularly, which I appreciate a lot, bless them (or you, rather)! I don't know if there are or aren't any other people who might have landed here at some point by accident or on purpose. However, while I certainly love hearing that someone has read and enjoyed something I wrote (I'd be lying if I pretended I didn't, so go on and post that comment! ;-) ), it isn't the main reason I am doing this. As far as that is concerned, nothing much has changed since that first ever entry of mine.

So, happy birthday, little blog!
And to you who's apparently read thus far: thanks for sticking around!

Wer fliegt mit nach Polen?

Wir wussten ja es würde nicht lange dauern, bis der Tag kommt: Der Tag, an dem die Sonne knallt, alle Welt begeistert nach draußen stürzt, ihr Wohnzimmer in den Park verlagert und nur so verkorkste Sensibelchen wie ich sich verschwollen-verquollen-verschnieft in der Bude verkriechen, weil draußen der Feind herumschwirrt. Willkommen in meiner Heuschnupfensaison. Dabei hatte ich mir so fest vorgenommen, sie dieses Jahr einfach zu ignorieren. Hat ja auch super geklappt ein paar Wochen lang - ungefähr genau so lange, wie "meine" Lieblingsfeindpollen noch nicht flogen...

Davon abgesehen: Die lieben Eltern haben mir gestern ihr (fast) neues E-Piano gebracht und mein altes, klapperndes für sein Gnadenbrot im heimischen Wohnzimmer wieder mitgenommen. Ein Klavier ins Dachgeschoss rauf und das andere vom Dachgeschoss wieder runtergetragen ergibt lustigen Muskelkater - interessanterweise in den Beinen, weil meine olle Treppe so toll angeschnittene Stufen hat, dass man nur in Trippelschritten...egal:

Ein Klavier, ein Klavier!

City centre, before sunrise.

This is what I wake up to these days, at 4.40 am, mind you. A carpet of complete silence strewn with a dozen different melodies. I can't tell them all apart, but there's always at least one blackbird among them, sitting right above my head on our television antenna. Shortly after that the first car doors are slammed, engines started up. But for those 10 minutes or so, the city belongs to the birds alone.

A mirror for the sun.

Once again summer's here.
The swifts seem to have arrived over night and are once more shooting past my open windows like golden arrows chasing the last sunlight.
Down in the street, in a pub a few houses down the road, a rock band is playing what sounds like some wild cross between Guns'n'Roses, Jamiroquai, Thin Lizzy and The Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Also, my fridge is bursting with a load of strawberries, cherries and grapes that I bought at the farmer's market earlier.
So things ain't so bad tonight.

Let's go get lost, let's go get lost...

Safe and sounds.

As of today I am proud owner of a security lock on my front door, aka my bedroom door, well, you know the one. Three cheers for my landlord who installed it without charging me extra, at least that's what I think so far... Anyway, the door is "upgraded" and I even figured out how to unlock that bloody thing again after I had slightly overenthusiastically tried it out.
So that should sort out that silly someone-might-get-in-here-anytime feeling that's been sneaking up on me lately.
Too bad though that I didn't get a soundproof door instead, because I'm afraid the odd jumpiness is really down to the fact that in this house you can hear the slightest sound someone else makes. I'm fairly used to that, of course, only that now, since that D-G incident, whenever I am, say, in my bathroom, using the hairdryer and I hear a faint creaking that I can't instantly locate, my heart misses a beat. I freeze like a frightened rabbit caught in a car's headlights and have to actively convince myself that it is in fact okay to move again. And I truly am not the scaredy-cat kind, if I may say so myself. This is so annoying.
Anyhow, with that lock installed, at least now I can tell myself that whether weirdo guy be outside my door or not (and, to be fair, he hasn't shown his face up here since then), he won't be able to come inside my flat. Also, that should he appear up here again, our landlord will kick him out (that friendly reminder should be in the post by now). This might sound harsh to you, it does a bit to me too, because that guy probably can't help behaving the way he does. But still, he scared the life out of me and it makes me feel better knowing that he's been reprimanded.

I hate being so jumpy. I love my flat and I intend to keep on loving it. So there.

Food for thought.

Monday morning.
A colleague just sat down next to me, wide-eyed: "D'you know one of my Third Years? (We'll call her) Jenny? Well, she was sitting in my class this morning as usual and at one point said she wasn't feeling too well. I told her to have a drink of water and wait and see (the way you do) and went on with my biology class. Some minutes later one of the girl's friends asked me 'Is it normal to feel queasy after an abortion?' Because, you see, it turns out Jenny had been having an abortion on Friday, that's why she wasn't feeling too great."
Jenny's fourteen.
Another colleague came up and said "Did you know (again, let's call him) Tom's grandma died? You know, he had been living with her since he was small because his parents rejected him. Now we don't know what's to become of him. I don't think he's fully realized what's happened yet."
Well, you can say that again. That 13-year-old boy had been sitting in my class that morning as always, had smiled at me in his special, awkward way and complained about having English in order to get some kind of reaction, some attention, like every morning.
I tried to recall my own behaviour and just prayed that I hadn't made any stupid, thoughtless remarks towards him. Which is silly, because something is always going on in these kids' lives, so you can't really spend your time tip-toeing around them. But still, when you're reminded of their fragility like that, you wish like mad you weren't among those who made things worse for them.
There are more "incidents" like these of course. One of "my" pupils has been admitted to the psychiatric hospital on account of countless intestinal obstructions without apparent physical causes - and now, after 8 months of finding nothing the experts finally hit upon the words "abuse" and "rape". She won't be coming back to our school whenever all this is over. If it's ever over.
I don't know.
It's just that things like these are difficult to stomach with a recently upset stomach and without fair warning and a good night's sleep.

Wer bin ich und wenn ja, wie viele?

Im Seminar über Neue Musik im Musikunterricht sollten wir heute - in Hinführung auf die Musik Arvo Pärts und mit Hilfe von Metallophonen und Klavieren - Glockengeläut darstellen. Als Improvisation in der Gruppe sollten möglichst viele Charakteristika nachempfunden werden: Tonhöhen, Klangfarben, Intervallabstände, die minimalen zeitlichen Verschiebungen durch unterschiedliche Pendelzeiten und die damit verbundenen sich stetig wandelnden Zusammenklänge...
Hinterher bemerkte unser Dozent, dass eine solche Aufgabe bei Kindern oft zu einem überzeugenderen Ergebnis führe, weil uns Musikstudenten zu sehr der Kopf im Wege stehe. Wir reflektierten zu viel über das Richtig und Falsch und verließen uns zu wenig auf das Ohr und den Bauch. Wir würden zu zögernd und kritisch mit unseren Instinkten umgehen und uns von Fragen bremsen lassen wie

"Wie viele Glocken bin ich eigentlich?"

In der Tat, eine Grundsatzfrage.

Status update.

Since some of you were sweet enough to worry about me, here's a quick news flash:
I've just come back from our staff trip to Esslingen, which couldn't have been better timed. I've never ever been so glad to leave this flat as on Thursday morning. Actually, I was at the station half an hour early... Anyway, it was great to get away and be able to tell my story and regain some kind of perspective during the course of the day. I admit, I was quite shaken and fragile all day Thursday - and what the shock hadn't done, the lack of sleep certainly did - but it was alright. Seriously, isn't it strange how a bit of daylight makes all the difference?
Today I eventually got hold of my landlord and, lo and behold!, he was really friendly and understanding. He promised to speak to some person about how to best secure my door and that he'd also try to get in touch with Downstairs-Guy (i.e. slip a note underneath his door because apparently D-G has neither a phone nor does he answer the doorbell) and let him know that if something similar should happen again, he might have to give him notice. Which is kind of him, but I hope it won't give D-G a grudge against me...
Anyhow, that's how it stands. Of course, nothing is going to happen security-wise for a couple of days at least, and all the helpful hints about blocking the door handle with a chair/broomstick only ever seem to work in movies. But nevermind, they would've been no use anyway, only given me a (false) sense of actively having done something to protect myself.
As it is, all is calm so far. He's home, but not doing anything spectacular - quite like the two years before Wednesday, as I'd like to remind myself.
I hope my mind/ears/heartbeat won't be playing tricks on me when it's time to actually go to sleep.
So there you go. Big, big girl in a big, big world and all that...

Fear.

Never has a post label been more appropriate.
I can't believe what just happened. I can hardly breathe. I'm still trembling all over. The clicking of my laptop keyboard is making too much noise. He might hear me and I can't listen for him properly.
Those were the scariest 20 minutes of my life just now. And counting.
I had gone too bed quite late (what with all the packing and cleaning up before going away for the long weekend in the morning). And I was for some reason not sleeping very well, not very tight anyway, because at some point (round 2.20 a.m.) I was woken from a strange sound outside my door. And I mean right outside my door. [In case you don't know, my flat doesn't have a hall - the bedroom/living room/kitchen door adjoins directly to the landing outside. And the door is not like a proper outer door, either, just a normal bedroom door. Also, my flat is the only one under the roof, so no one whatsoever could have had any business there at that time of night.] And there was someone right outside it!
You wouldn't believe how quick your pulse can rise, from resting to sheer panic in less than three seconds! My mind was racing, I didn't have a clue what to do, I just got up and tiptoed to the door in the dark, mindful not to make the floor creak. I don't know what I thought I was doing, but I quietly pressed my hands very hard against the door lest he tried to force it open. And I held my breath. And listened. I could hear a male voice murmuring things, over and over again, I couldn't make out any words. Then he touched my door, a scratching sound, a soft touch on the door handle (but he didn't press it down), then I heard my cupboard on the landing being opened and shut (there's mainly shoes in it), more murmuring, whispering...
I thought I was going insane. I thought maybe I should talk to him, tell him to go away, but I was way too scared. I managed to grab my phone without actually moving my feet and clung to it as if it could save me. But I couldn't dial or speak, could I, 'cause he would've heard me! He wasn't ten inches away from me with just that thin piece of wood between us... So I waited. And listened. And waited. Finally, finally I heard him slowly walk down the steps. Mind you, just one flight of stairs, that's how I knew it must be that weirdo from one floor down. Only then did I manage to move and go to the bathroom and dialled 112 from there. I didn't know what else to do.
FYI, I told my story and they told me to dial 110 instead to get through to the police (yes, a more sober mind would've figured that out beforehand). So I dialled again, told my story again and the woman promised to send round a patrol. I tiptoed back, clutched both phone and mobile, sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Again. And listened. And tried to figure out how to let the police in, because when they came and I answered the intercom, we realized that the downstairs door was locked, so I couldn't buzz them in. They couldn't get to me! And I absolutely couldn't open my door, walk past the weirdo and open up for them, no way! The officers got slightly impatient - and who could blame them - but then one of them had the idea that I might throw my frontdoor key down to them out of the window.
That worked, thank God, and when they came up, they actually met the downstairs guy on the stairs, he had been waiting/hiding/whatever inside his landing-toilet. One of the officers talked to him (I only heard "There was a misunderstanding") for a while, the other came to me. Misunderstanding indeed! What a freak! The police officers both thought he was a total nutter,too. (No kidding?! I'd suspected as much.) Apparently he told them some story about how he had wanted to ask me (at 2.20 a.m.??) if he could use my washing machine at some point....??? I repeat, a total nutter. But that doesn't make it any less scary. They stayed and talked to me for a little while, said I was to ring again if he bothered me again, then left. And they were nice and understanding and all, patted my shoulder before leaving, but that guy downstairs is still there, right?! And he lives here and I live here and this situation is somewhat...let's say disconcerting.
No way in hell am I going to go to sleep tonight!

What a nauseating realization: I am not at all safe in my flat. I'd noticed before of course that my door is a joke - even I could kick it in if I wanted - but I'd never ever thought... I don't know.
So I'm not safe.
And I'm no good in the face of danger.
I simply froze. I didn't even dare to make those three steps to get my mobile for fear of him hearing the floor boards creak. Which they would've. It's an old house, that's how I knew there was someone outside my door in the first place. The creaking on the landing.
I can't defend myself.
And I'm cut off from everyone else, from possible helpers, from any escape route, if he is blocking the staircase. I should buy a rope and keep it somewhere. I should also ring my landlord first thing tomorrow and ask him for a better door, or at least a security bolt.

A big thank you to those two police officers who came and didn't tell me I'm crazy. This clearly goes on the list - you know, that same list that reminds you to always wear clean underwear in case you're ever in a car accident or something: Always wear proper pyjamas and keep your flat tidy in case you ever have the police calling round at 2.30 in the morning.

But they are not here now, are they? I can still hear him moving around downstairs, creaking floorboards, the latch of his door clicking shut (with him inside, I hope). I don't dare to even lean back, ready to jump up, heart beating, at the sound of him coming up the stairs again. Or any sound really.
The stuff of nightmares.
...
It's been quiet downstairs for a while now.
I think.
I'm almost sure he's gone to bed. Almost, but not sure enough to sleep myself. My ears won't let me.
Please, God, anyone, let morning come soon...

Picture it, if you will.

As I was informed earlier by Deutsche Bahn, today apparently is December 26th, 2029.


My, my, where did those 19 1/2 years go? What did I miss? Honestly, I'm trying to wrap my mind around it, but I keep drawing blanks. Can you see yourself? Where will you be? And is where you ended up a place you now think you'd want to be? But maybe the idea itself of ending up somewhere is counterproductive (the whole the-journey-is-the-reward thing, lahdeedah...)
Still, seriously, try to picture yourself. Do the calculations. Try a couple of scenarios on for size.
The few things we know for sure (well, quite) are that it's going to be christmas, Boxing Day, shortly after dark:
Where will you be?
Who will be with you?
And who won't?
Will you be alive?
Will you be healthy?
Will you be content?
Happy even?
Would you rather be somewhere else?

And do you really want to know beforehand?


"...either way it's okay you wake up with yourself"

Mayday.

So much to tell, so little time.
Feels like these days I'm only ever stopping by at my place to wave a quick hello to the dust bunnies (who feel quite at home at this point - I should start demanding rent money), drop one bag, pick up another and head out again.
So many things that don't get done.
Then again, so many things that did and do get done and would deserve their own blog entry if only I wasn't so damn tired - they've been written, rewritten and posted in my head already, such as:
- the first of May at home, those "merry" groups of people with birch-branch-adorned pull carts to wheel their beer crates through the countryside - and the memories of outings past... ;-)
- the Stockhausen concert at the Cologne philharmonics last night... Ah, I guess it's just as well I'm so tired because I'm lost for words anyway. Just listen to this. And this. And this. And don't you dare rustle or twitch in your seat, breathe too loudly or, god forbid, cough (!) into the silent parts!! And before and after the above, make sure you listen to this. (Extra merit points for those who can spot the anthem that is being quoted here.) And obviously this. (And again we play spot-the-anthem!) Only in reality the whole piece lasts 43 minutes. And they played it twice. (Yes, my thoughts exactly!) No, really, to say it with the words of Friedrich Baer in Little Women: "It's an experience."
Indeed. Without doubt.

Hurz!

Der lange Arm des Gestzes.

Die Klassenlehrerin der 7. Klasse, die ich in Englisch habe, ist seit den Osterferien in Mutterschutz. Wie zu erwarten war, drehen etliche Schüler der Klasse nun extrem auf, testen, wie weit sie gehen können, was passiert, wenn das Alphatier nicht mehr da ist, ob es Konsequenzen gibt bei Regelverstößen. Das übliche.
Eine Regel, die die Kollegin für ihre Klasse aufgestellt hat, lautet, dass niemand in Trainingshosen zur Schule erscheinen darf. Das mag zunächst seltsam anmuten, hat aber durchaus seinen tieferen Sinn. Doch das können die Schüler besser selbst erklären. Letzte Woche liefen nämlich an einem Tag gleich fünf der Jungs in Jogginghosen auf. Leider hatten sie nicht eingeplant, dass die Klassenlehrerin durchaus noch häufiger in der Schule vorbeikommt... Da war dann Schluss mit lustig. Erstaunlich, wie das mit der Prägung funktioniert (Pawlow und - wie hieß noch der Typ mit dem Gänseküken? Ah, Lorenz - wären begeistert). Als die Jungen ihre Lehrerin über den Hof kommen sahen, ist ihnen regelrecht die Kinnlade heruntergeklappt. Zwei von ihnen waren den Tränen nahe.
Wie dem auch sei, kleine Sünden ahndet eine Klassenlehrerin sofort, so dass ich euch die Hintergründe und Details in schriftlicher Form präsentieren kann. Ich hoffe man kann alles lesen, wenn man zur Vergrößerung auf die Fotos klickt.

Wie lernen: Jogginghosen haben kein Style.

So, hier wird's schon komplexer. Kleiner Verständnistipp: Es gibt tatsächlich gar nicht mal so wenige Schüler, die in den Klamotten zur Schule kommen, in denen sie auch geschlafen haben. Woher die Lehrer das wissen? Oh, da entwickelt man so'n Gespür...

Die Kurzfassung hat natürlich auch ihren Reiz. Vor allem für den, der den Aufsatz schreiben sollte...

Ich weiß, ein Schmankerl für Graphologen. Falls ihr aufgebt, hier die Schlüsselformulierungen: "das kommt assi rüber" und "weil ja nicht jeder wissen soll, dass wir Hauptschüler sind". Was für eine ernüchternde, wenn auch treffende Selbsteinschätzung.

Tja...