aim higher, think bigger 2

Consent (not condescending). He said yes. He is d'accord. Green light. Now I wait for the days to pass until I can begin. There is light?

no entry

- And will you write him the letter?
- I don’t know.
- Why not? Hey, what is there to lose?
- Nothing… Oh, I don’t know.
- So, why don’t you?
- I don’t know what to write. Isn’t it a bit silly, all this?
- No, it isn’t. Look, shall we practice a little?
- I don’t know.
- Don’t know what?
- I mean, I’m not sure this is a good idea.
- Just tell me what you would tell him, and then you’ll see if it sounds silly.
- You think that’s a good idea?
- Come on, don’t make such a fuss. It’s only a bloody letter.
- Sure. It’s just a fucking letter. Ok. …
Dear… no, that sounds stupid already. I think I’ll leave out the name bit.
“I have been thinking about you a lot, recently. There’s not much I want to say, really. Only, that I kind of wish you would have known me as the person that I am today. That I had been given the chance to show you how I changed. Not because you wanted me too, you were well too wise for that. (But I only realised that later.) More, because you’ll never know me as the person I’ll be for the most part of my life. I feel sorry. What for I don’t know.
I think I only want to let you know that I miss you – in many ways. I feel so helpless. I feel like a porcelain doll that has a fissure. A sudden stir and I will break. You left me in that state, and that I did not understand. Why did you leave me when I was but a small, submissive, stupid doll? Couldn’t you have waited a little longer? Given me a chance?
But this is not the time for mulling over the past. It might seem a little strange to put it like that, but I think I got over you. I miss you, your advice, your company. But I know I’ll manage on my own.
Today, I was going to town by bus. We were driving past the crossing where I had to change to tram; I looked to my left and saw it coming down the hill. Impatiently, I waited for the other passengers to get off. I was last. I started to run. The tram stop is three hundred metres from there. The tram was already closing its doors as I turned the corner. I kept running. The light indicating that it was about to leave began to flash. I didn’t believe in what I was doing anymore, but I kept running. It had been snowing last night, and the pavement was still icy. I kept running, mad girl in short skirt and high heels, running for her life. I didn’t know what else to do. I got closer, slowly, though I could hardly breathe anymore. I just kept running. My legs started to burn. I kept running. Finally, the driver opened the doors again. I got on the tram and found myself facing a lot of old grumps staring at my little breathless self. I shrank, and for a moment I considered feeling ashamed for the state I was in, for running for a tram when I could have just as well taken the next, for holding up the traffic. Then something in me shouted no! and I stared back – calm and smug. Fuck yous. Fuck you all.
That is all I have to say, really. There’d be a lot more, but I don’t think it will be of interest to you any longer. Thank you for being there when you were. You were important to me. Forever yours…”
- That’s it?
- That’s it.
- And you think that will bring him back?
- No, it won’t.
- So, what’s the point in writing, then?
- No point.
- Will you post it at least?
- I wouldn’t know where to.
- Look him up, then.
- It won’t help. No directory for these places.
- What did he do? Emigrate to outer space?
- Kind of.
- Kind of? Stop fucking me about.
- I don’t.
- So what’s your frigging problem?
- He’s dead.

aim higher, think bigger 1

strange elatedness got hold of me the resolve to dare what i never thought could work i feel like kicking something sit down and write this application be successful outdo them all whatever they thought i'll show them they were wrong not meant to study too lazy no stamina well fuck yous me in the embassy british council management would that work ever ever ever work could i do that could i aim higher think bigger than the rest is ambition driving me towards a goal or is it simply eating me up shut up they cannot hurt me can they will they will rejection hurt and is it worth not trying will anything hurt more than this year has it worn me out or made me stronger the knowledge that i'm the one to hurt myself the most is it enough to face the world complicated big tempting elating overflowing with things i'd never thought i'd know will it work will i work is fear an excuse for not trying won't i have to try some day anyway and why not now i will aim higher think bigger if i have my brother's consent or not am i too set on the idea of a career am i too set in my own ways my state of mind to change shouldn't this be the time for a little optimism isn't it time for a little optimism shut the fuck up i feel driven towards what i do not know something i have to get somewhere once i get there it'll all amount to nothing i know but just shut up i feel driven it'll drive me insane

fool-proof

And the sun sets around 15:35. The cutout of a tree behind the window stretches to the sky, sad and sorry, seemingly aware of the futility of his endeavor. The window ends, thus he must end. There is no outside world that is not caught in a frame, preserved behind glass, sterile. Venturing out into the lifeless cosmos of the streets, I unconsciously anticipate the smell of disinfectant. My world is made up of squares. House: square. Window: square. Garden-gate: square. Upbringing: square. People: square. Adaptation or extinction. And, I implore you, which is which? Conformism or stepping-out-of-line, yet again. If you look at me, am I a cutout reaching for a sky that is nowhere to be seen?
The system is fool-proof. The escape is but in my head, and once again the notion of ‘mental exile' takes another connotation.

i want out and i want a drink

Nothing more, nothing less.

shopping, no fucking

This is my desk. This here, this is a full ashtray. It sits there in a free spot on the light-brown veneer. The rest of said desk is not to be seen. Covered in paperwork, paper, work. Paper I work on. Paper I should work on. Paper I have worked on already. Paper I will simply ignore until the third reminder to hand it in within the next two weeks reaches my otherwise empty letterbox. I love ignoring the paperwork. Although it costs me money - mainly the alimony my father's employer has to pay me since my father died - it stills gives me a feeling of self-determination. There's also a lot of litter on this desk. Sometimes, I confuse litter with letter and throw it all away - with the result that another reminder lies on the kitchen table. At this desk I sit and wonder.
I met up with Chrissie today, after uni. We were to go shopping for presents, and shop we did. Being at a loss what to get our 'beloved ones', we decided we'd just go with the flow, see where it takes us and buy whatever we thought appropriate. However, we soon found that where other people shopped wasn't exactly what we were looking for, so we headed to the alternative quarters of town and pestered the shop attendants in the little boutiques. 'Oh, I love this, but it's so fucking expensive.' 'Look at that, man, who'd buy that shit?' 'I guess I'll have that for Spanish Ana, she's into stationary as well.' 'I've no frigging idea what to get my mother. She'll be cheesed off anyways, so I could just as well go for something cheap.' 'You mean cheap or inexpensive? Cheap they have galore, whereas for the latter...' Many an angry looks we got, but somehow it felt good to behave like a teenager again. In the end, all the hurrying and pushing and shoving and chatter and pointless remarks of other shoppers annoyed me. And what I came home with were some tidbits and the news that I'll have to pay 325 Euros for a pair of glasses that suit me. Merry Christmas!
Shopping. What do I get out of it? Nothing much, except for the mundane pleasure of spending money I don't even really have. I find it satisfying to be able to say: Hey, I'm living off a minimum of money; in fact, when all's added up, I have less than the average single on the dole, and still I can afford decent clothes. See, you're not lacking money; you lack a sense of dress. I am cheap, I admit it.
What do others get out of it, especially around Christmas? Why do they push and shove as if every item in the shop was there only once? Why the hurry, why the aggression, why so rude? What makes them tick?
There used to be a time when I didn't understand why people would go shopping at all. I wore what I found in the cupboard and that was it. These times are past. Ever since I've been on medication I've grown increasingly... mediocre? I've turned into a fashion victim and cannot find anything bad about it. Sometimes, I feel the argument brought forth by women with too many shoes, namely that shopping is as relaxing as it is addictive, contains a grain of truth. Though I find it is more a short-lived relief, a release of tension if you will, it has something to it that so far I've only found in habits generally considered not too healthy. Put it that way, I've exchanged sharp objects and alcohol for a corduroy skirt and white pills. I am still not sure if this was a bargain.
What makes people tick? With regret, I have to confess that I do not know - nor probably ever will. Someone once said to me that he always feels bad when passing a beggar in street because he doesn't give him any of his change. In short, he was conscience-smitten. That could be helped if he'd part with some coins. Now, I for my part also feel bad when I pass a beggar in the streets. I feel bad for not feeling bad about the fact that I don't give them any money. I simply don't care about them. They don't matter to me. Does that make me a bad person? Does it make me a bad person to gleefully walk past some poor sod while I am all wrapped up in the warm flood that follows any kind of self-mutilation - be it of the body or of the purse? Does it make me a bad person? Did I just assume my purse was a part of me? Does that make me, apart from already being a bad person, does that also make me a bloody capitalist swine? And will I be allowed to just say yes and move on?
I'm staying up way too late. I miss my lectures in the morning. I'm becoming far too outspoken in here. I'm trying to string my thoughts together, end up with loose ends, a patch-work quilt ripped apart. I think about shopping. No fucking for me. Do I feel bad about it? Does it make me think? I guess so.

window-shopping

I amble through the city-centre, I’m in no rush. Opening my eyes feels like watching a video on fast-forward, distorted voices hurriedstepsbarelyrecognizable faces. I choose my steps carefully; try not to step on the crack between the concrete tiles. Anything could break now, I could easily go to pieces any time. There is no certainty, it is just a feeling. I watch my feet, watch the lower half of the shop windows and see the reflection of a hundred feet hurrying over the wet and mucky floor. The green fur-boots that walk beside me make me ponder whether surrealism has become reality, or whether it is just reality that has turned surreal some minute between the last glass yesterday evening and the ringing of the alarm clock. I feel I’m being distracted by my own thoughts and come to a momentary halt as I try to regain my balance. Then I continue sluggishly stumbling, carrying on my deliberate, foolish dance. I look out for the green fur in the all the greyish buzz, but it’s gone. As I make my way, the loudspeakers on the roofs persuade the shoes around me to leave the muck and step into the hot air that showers down on everyone brave enough to pass these invisible doors opening/closing/opening incessantly (The thought crosses my mind that these showers disinfect your soul, helping you to let down your natural defences). I can make out the speakers’ noise, but the cotton-wool in my head stifles the words. I move through a world full of sounds and devoid of meaning. By the bus stop I halt and take a tentative look around. Less feet here. Holding on to the post of a traffic sign, carefully checking the position of my feet, I begin to raise my head. I sway a little, but I manage to steady myself. What had been a pair of beige suede shoes on the periphery of my field of vision now becomes a pair of legs wrapped in a dark green coat and a white handbag. I try to focus, lift my head a bit higher. Legs and handbag turn into a whole body, all dressed in this dark green coat; hips, waist, breasts, shoulders, all indiscernible, all one straight line. The last bit is the most difficult part. I raise my gaze even further, ready to close my eyes anytime. The face opposite makes my heartbeat stop for a second, then I feel my legs moving, involuntarily. It is just half a step backwards, but that did it. I look down, panic-stricken, and it takes me some seconds to realize, but yes, that face, that old lady’s face… that face with the innocent dark green hat matching the coat perfectly, that face made me step on the crack. The crack. I feel my knees weaken; feel sick, my stomach’s heaving, and I have to run, run. My feet hardly carry my weight, my terribly heavy weight, I’m concrete, I’m solid lead, but then I finally manage to move. I push myself away from the post, make a large step, and fling myself into the moving traffic. I catch a glimpse of my watch: 15:43, the bus is on time.

---
As if it were that easy.

wave

And then I get this feeling and it rolls over me like a gigantic wave… my feet are pulled away from under my body; I slam hard on the shore, sand scorches my skin, then the water pulls back and washes me away like a piece of flotsam. I am drifting, floating out to sea; the further out it goes, the calmer the waters grow until I’m merely bobbing up and down up and down like some misled yellow plastic duck. This feeling.

And when it washes over me, it urges me to leave everything behind, to lash out at someone, cut my ties, social, factual, imagined, real. And then there is something inside of me which I do not know and yet it is there; undeniably some kind of second self. And it rages and screams and despairs over the orderliness, the squareness of this life I lead, over the pointlessness, the passionless get-up-go-out-come-back-go-to-bed. And then…

I used to lash out; bloody hell! at least try to free yourself, for fuck’s sake. And when there was no one and nothing there, I would cut away the things inside me that tied me down. The ties itself I could never reach, but the something inside me was appeased.

Now, the medication straps me to an off-shore pole only yards from the saving, stinging sands. My hands are bound. No cutting away those ties. The wave washes over me, I feel its brutal force, but I am tied down and all it does is fill my lungs with water until I want to either swim or drown, but it never lasts long enough…

a mess

How to begin? I live in one of those council flats in Spon End – you know what it’s like, they’re all the same. Drab and dingy they cower against the grey serpent that is the ring road; both a reminiscence of the 60s futile strife for modernity carved in concrete. In one of these I live. The windowpane on the corridor is shattered, the staircase smells of piss, the air is stale and the colour on the walls is perished and coming off. When I moved in, they told me I’d even have an en-suite bathroom. What a joke, this is a one-room flat.
I worked the night-shifts down at the post office until they sacked me two months ago. Finding it hard to readjust, I usually stay awake at night and retire in the morning. Now that it is November, I hardly ever get to see daylight. I don’t mind. This part of town looks better in the dark, anyway.
A few nights ago, I must have overdone it a little. I’d been reading Murakami’s A Wild Sheep Chase, a book like a ceaseless drizzle slowly seeping through the layers of your soul until you feel all wet and forlorn. Suddenly, everything seemed pretty pointless. I was weary. Feeling incredibly tired, but unable to sleep, I resorted to my usual nightcap: a few painkillers washed down with cheap whisky. Next thing I remember is me lying on the carpet, fully dressed. The pile had left an imprint on my arms and face. Outside, it was already dark. I groped for the alarm clock – half eleven. Bloody hell! Drowsily, I got up and went to have a shower to get rid of the drugged feeling. After, I felt a little better. Taking a look in the mirror, it occurred to me that it had been days since I last shaved. I lathered my face, took the razor and damn near cut myself as the doorbell rang fervently – once, twice, thrice. I flinched and, muttering a few words I won’t bother to repeat here, shuffled to the door to peer through the spyhole. Nothing. Cautiously, I opened the door a little… and before I could say Jack Robinson (not that I had even tried to), there was a foot in the gap. The foot, however, was not alone. It belonged to a squat little man in a non-descript but rather ill-fitting dark suit. Without saying a word, the dumpy fellow pushed me aside and entered my room. I was too startled to object. My reaction will become infinitely more understandable if you consider the fact that I was but a very skinny lad who wore nothing but shaving cream and a towel slung suavely round his waist. The intruder, though, did not seem to take any notice of my unfortunate situation. He freely wandered – no, waddled (Did I just call him squat? He was more bordering on the obese, if I’m to be precise.) – about and took in his surroundings. His shoes left black stripes on the linoleum. This assault on my privacy seemed plainly absurd. Sheepishly, I cleared my throat.
“So, this is it, then” he exclaimed after a while in a high-pitched, shrieking voice.
“Er… this is what, exactly?”
“Don’t you feel ashamed?”
“Of what?” I asked, exasperated.
“Well…” He stretched the word, modulating his voice, high, low, high. He was obviously enjoying himself. “What have we here? A bowl of damsons, all gone mouldy. Three empty cans of coke, one of them full of cigarette butts. Seems someone did not do his chores for quite some time. An ashtray, teabags and chewing gum inside!” Triumphantly, he grinned at me. His chubby cheeks started to glow. “I dare say normal people would certainly use the ashtray for the ashes, don’t you agree?”
“I don’t think this is any of your bloody busi…”
“Ah, ah, ah.” He pointed his fat, small finger at me. For a moment, I was so confused that I lowered my head and stared at my hands like a little boy. “This place is somewhat of a mess, don’t you think? Worn underwear on the desk, a pile of records on the floor. And what is that there, on top of it?”
“A… a cup?” I stuttered.
“A dirty cup, to be precise. A very dirty cup. Grimy. With some indefinable residues of something in it.” He made a show of being disgusted. “What do we do with it?”
“Empty it into the toilet and sluice it down?” I guessed.
“So?”
“So?”
“I am waiting and I have a lot of time.” It was unbelievable – only it seemed very, very real. I couldn’t help it; my legs didn’t ask for permission, they just wandered over to the stack of records and then I also lost control of my arms: they acted of their own accord. Disbelievingly, I picked up the cup and took it to the bathroom. I had to get a grip on myself. The man followed me, delightfully watching my every move. When I had emptied the cup, he commanded, “And now flush.” I did. I really had to get a grip on myself. I considered my options. He was still inspecting the toilet bowl – probably, he was finding some fault with it as well. Furtively, I pushed one of my dirty socks that I had thrown on the floor when undressing towards the bathroom door. Then I gave it a good kick. It landed near the entrance, which was still open. Startled, the dumpy fellow looked up and went, “Ah, so you’re trying to hide something from me! A sock. Sweet. You should have realised by now that such manoeuvres do not get you anywhere. I even know about the porn collection you keep hidden so meticulously under your mite-infested mattress.” I flinched. What the fuck was going on?
“Nothing will escape my eye, not even this stinking, lousy sock.” He waddled over to the door. With glee I watched him take the bait. I cast my head down, looking all mortified. Elatedly, he beamed at me from below, then bent down to pick up the fugitive piece of clothing. With a lot of effort, obviously hampered by his weight, he managed to grab it. That was my cue: I streaked towards him and shoved him out into the corridor. He lost his balance. I smashed the door shut and locked from inside. Then, my heart still racing, I went to the bathroom to wash the shaving cream off my face. All the while, I heard him shuffle and groan outside. I sneaked over to my bed and burrowed in the sheets. I was scared out of my wits.
The first few hours, the bell rang several times. Then he resorted to knocking. After a while, it stopped. All this has been three days now. I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep ever since, not daring to move other than for taking a leak. Whenever I get near the door, I can still hear him tapping his foot…

---
Oh yes, I've sunk so low as to let you read my homework.

the untranslatable

Oh, I confess. I have been shamelessly neglecting this blog. Oh, and I repent. It's been a long time. The project with the brats has been cancelled. Neither were they really interested nor could they muster up the courage to give it a go anyways. Thus, more free-time and less theatre for me.
The reasons for me absence: manifold. October was a busy month. Finally, I went to uni again, and I loved it. Danny came over for a few days and I showed him around in Dresden. That was the last time I really drank alcohol, for some days after he left, I fell ill and it turned out that I caught a neat, little virus that caused hepatitis - now, I have to wait until my liver gets better. The doctors told me to refrain from anything that might be physically exhausting - obviously, they've left uni quite a while ago.
Other than still feeling tired, no news here. Well, I sort of mull over old friendships and acquaintances and come to the conclusion that there are few people left who really mean something, anything to me. Which I will take down as good and bad at the same time. My oldest friend, she never gets in touch. And I wonder, now that I 'forgot' her birthday (due to being in hospital), what is there between us other than an old bond of friendship long past its prime? A reminiscence of what once was and will never be again. We do not live in the same town anymore. We do not share the same circle of friends anymore. We do not have the same interests anymore. In short: we're living world's apart. And yet I am somewhat reluctant to do the most straightforward, honest thing: to say good-bye, thank her for what we were allowed to share and move on. I let it sleep; partly out of fear, partly out of nostalgia for a world that is now, with the death of my father, lost to me once and for all.
The Untranslatable, Heimat, home and a place where you belong wherever life might take you, is lost. She was the last link. She is the last link. And I feel sad, for even though I do not want to go back to where I came from, even though I despise this small-town life in the midst of small-town minds, the pettiness and squareness of things, even though... I still somehow did treasure the fact that I could have gone back, at least for day. Now, there is no place to stay, no tales of known places being told, no nothing. And I feel I am floating, drifting through this world, no strings attached. It is what I always wanted, what I longed for since I awoke from my childhood's dreams and took in with bewilderment the world that surrounded me. Now that I am finally there, the rejoicing in my new-found 'freedom' won't come so easily. I cherish my situation, I am well aware that now there is nothing, no one to hold me back, that my obligations are minimal... and still - naturally so, I think - there is also a feeling of loss, of ending, of letting go what once was part of me and is no longer. I realize I am cut off from what used to be my life-line, my last resort. The responsibility that goes with that still feels weird - in a good kind of way, an important kind of way, yes - but it can also be frightening at times.
Letting go and leaving behind - I always thought I was good at it. And probably I am, in a twisted and absurd kind of way. Few people I know cast away acquaintances or friends with as light a heart as I do. However, and this I realize only now, they hardly ever meant a thing to me - or if they did, I just brushed it off lightly and didn't think of it again. I know that life goes on, and I vowed to myself I'd keep up with it. This, however, is different. This is the last link to where I come from, where I've grown up, the last link to the group of friends that influenced me most.
I sort of came to the conclusion to write her a letter; in fact I already did. All I am waiting for is to find a good present for Christmas, and then this said present together with a not-so-christmassy letter will be off to Marburg. Or to her home address, maybe. If she gets in touch, so be it. If not, then I will say my good-byes quietly and on my own. Have a drink on her for the sake of old times, and enjoy the current that will take me where to I do not know. She's the last of the old tribe. She's the last who knew me before I had the chance to leave anything behind. I know she has always eyed my way with suspicion and maybe also a bit of fear – not that my way of living a life deviated from the ordinary, at least not that I am aware. I am curious as to how far old bonds reach.
There's a faint sense of sadness lingering in the air these days, but I feel this is okay. No damage done, no gashes here, no battles won.