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...