in favour of getting lost

In general, losing one’s way is considered an undesirable event. However, I feel that the opportunities of getting lost are widely underestimated. For instance, I took up riding the bike. For weeks I had been suffering from a backache that was due to too little exercise and too much hanging around. Thinking that if hanging around gives me a backache and puts me in a bad mood, I should maybe start getting some exercise.

I hate exercise. I hate jogging. I detest running the same streets every goddamn morning as if chased by a pack of wolves. Man made the effort of exterminating them more than a hundred years ago – at least in this part of the world. No need to re-capture the feelings of our ancestors in this respect. Considering this, I decided the national masochistic pastime no. 1 was not for me.

Riding the bike sounded a tad more acceptable, if only for the fact that it can be actually to go places that are too far away to go there on foot. Much to my dismay, I found that I had nowhere to go – else I wouldn’t have been hanging around so much in the first place. So I thought that maybe I could go explore unknown parts of the city. Although Dresden in itself is not exactly the biggest of cities, it still is big enough not to know all of it. The outskirts especially are places I rarely go to. I thus got my bike and off I went.

At first, it was pretty boring. I knew where I was, I knew what I would be seeing once I turned round this or that corner, I knew what kinds of people lived there. Then, however, I rode further than I’d ever been by either tram or car. Nothing exceptional there, though, so further and further I went. Houses, blocks of flats, shopping centres… After half an hour or so – I hadn’t realized I was going for so long already – I thought it time to head back. Since I didn’t want to take the same way I’d come, I decided to stray from my thus far straight route and turn left, and then right, and left again. I went straight on, then took another turn left. Thought I was heading back. Thought the direction was right. As it turned out a few kilometres further on, I was wrong.

I had no idea where the hell I was. Then, however, I found something real nice: an old village - right in the middle of the city. A few farm houses, a barn, a field, then a shopping centre with lots of small shops and boutiques. Suddenly I didn’t care where I was or that I wanted to be home by now, I just rode on. Past a pond, an old factory building, some neat and new semi-detached houses, through a little park surrounded by sixteen-storey blocks of flats… From road to road, the sights, smells, noises changed. The newness of things enchanted me – scents I hadn’t smelled since I was a child brought back memories long forgotten. It wasn’t about getting exercise of riding the bike anymore – it was about seeing how people live, about the snails on the road that I was trying to avoid, about everything but my legs that started to hurt. I didn’t even realize they did until I came across the route of tram no. 2 whose tracks led me back into known territory. As I reached home, I felt elated and somehow very calm – and quite hungry, too.

This was a few days ago, and since then I make a point of getting lost at least once per day. I don’t do it deliberately, for that obviously doesn’t work. I just ride on, and then – I can never exactly remember when – it happens.

When I was a child, getting lost was a lot easier. It was enough to just turn a few corners without paying attention to my surroundings and suddenly nothing looked familiar anymore. I knew I had strayed only a few metres from my usual route, but I couldn’t remember in which direction it lay. I felt a mixture of fear and curiosity, the latter usually gaining the upper hand. And thus the unknown slowly became part of my territory; it grew part of my inner map and was unknown no more. My world grew with every day and every time I got lost. Had I stayed within the boundaries, had I never left familiar grounds, I’d still be where I was when I was a five-year-old.

One can get lost in many ways. One can simply lose one’s way – and by chance come a across a bakery in a little frequented side street that sells the most gorgeous bread one ever ate. One can make the wrong decision, out of accident enrol for a seminar one doesn’t have to attend and find it relates to a topic one never found access to – and thus be able to hand in a good and insightful piece of work instead of one badly written. One can get lost in one’s thoughts when one should be mulling over a difficult question – and then find an unexpected answer to a problem long unsolved.

Chance has never been where I would’ve expected it – that is why it’s called chance. Maybe getting lost once in a while turns out a healthy experience – if only for the satisfaction of being able to find my way back. I am in favour of getting lost. I am in favour of going places that I haven’t been to before. Often enough they are literally just around the corner.

The ants got lost, too. After I demolished their trail by wiping the floor with vinegar, they ran around our kitchen in utter confusion. By now, they decided they had better stay where they were: outside and in our cellar. The kitchen seems to have become forbidden territory – except for under the sink, where I still come across the occasional ant trying to escape with a breadcrumb. They’re strong little buggers, they are. I guess they can have the crumbs as long as they stay out of the rest of the kitchen – at least until I’ve found a way to eliminate them all. Sometimes I feel like Sisyphus...

me, myself and i . . . and ant

Yeah, right, I shouldn't be drinking just because other people do - my hangover dutifully reminded me of that when I got up yesterday morning to go to a friend's birthday brunch - but it was soo nice. Really. Oh come on, just the one... two. Just give me the bottle, will you?

So, Friday was a really nice evening - rather: the part that I remember was great. The rest I do not... well, remember. I must've gotten home somehow, and the fact that 10 Euros are missing from my purse either means that one of my friends is a thief or that I didn't manage to find the right tram and got a taxi. Benevolent and trusting as I am, I hope for the latter. Anyway, it was a nice evening and it was for free, so I shouldn't be bitching. The only not-so-nice part was that one of my pals hit a friend of mine - female. I guess she sort of provoked him, but that's no good reason to go hitting people (else I'd be doing it all the time).

Why exactly did I emphasize she's a girl? Maybe because this 'I don't hit no woman, man'-thing is still lurking somewhere in the depths of my subconscious. Or, I just thought it important - which is probably not true. I, for my part, do hit women. When they deserve it (Means: when they hit me). I have to admit, though, that when I was younger I used to hit men, too. Lashed out at them occasionally for saying something stupid. Occasionally’s perhaps not the right word now that I think about it. In these days, I wouldn’t do that anymore. Turned out the guys are a lot stronger than I am, and besides, it doesn't stop them making silly comments. Only thing it did for me was that everyone at school believed I were a lesbian. Whatever.

My friend's birthday was nice. Breakfast turned into lunch into supper. It was superb, though I missed the 'warm' aspect of food. What really had me worried, though, is that I constantly find myself in social situations and feel forced to make small-talk. Or have others talking small at me. Problem is: I can't do that for shit. I'm abysmally bad at keeping a conversation going when I couldn't care less for the topic. Unfortunately, neither the weather, clothes, food nor recent movies count as interesting in my book. Maybe more so other people's mistakes, families and private lives (words which can mostly be used interchangeably). Theory, maybe. Even talking about computers is more compelling than the food-talk.

Food-talk: Oh, it's so delicious! (Better than the bean-salad, anyway.) How did you do that? (What on earth am I eating here?) Could you, oh please do, give me the recipe? (My mother-in-law's coming for a visit next weekend.) No! That's just potatoes, sweet corn and mayonnaise - really? (So that's why it looks as if it'd been already eaten) Mar-vel-lous. Do you use prefabricated mayonnaise? I never do - except for when I'm in a rush. (As I always am when you're expected - should maybe get yourself a watch, lady). My sister's doing a gorgeous potato-salad, too. She uses gherkins, soy-sauce and marshmallows. I always thought that a bit posh, but then that's just her... (She is a spoilt brat, after all.) But it's not too bad, really. (Still better than your bean-salad). Oh, and my mum finally gave me her recipe for her famous cherry-pie. It's so lovely. Family secret, you know. (I know yours is definitely not a cherry-pie.) Blah blah blah, gaag gaag. (Grrmph.)

Yesterday, as I came back, I went to our kitchen to fetch something to drink - and nearly caused collateral damage. Yes, I am at war. With the ants that have invaded our kitchen. Look, I come into the kitchen and nearly step on some thirty small brown insects. A frigging ant-trail, right from one wall through the dining room to the kitchen, where - they disappear into another small hole in the wall. I guess they've been living there for quite a while, but now decided to take a shortcut. Eh eh, no one, not even insects, lives under my roof and eats my food if he doesn't pay rent. That understood?

I spent some two hours cleaning the kitchen, hoping that the cleaning fluids wipe out the scent marks that mark their trail. It helped - for about three hours. I killed hundreds of them - it decimated their numbers, but won't do in the long run. My flat-mate told me they've been having the same every summer, but sorry, I won't have that. The stuff they're using is pointless: instead of the ants taking the poison to their nest and feeding it to their queen, they get stuck in it and die out of boredom. How in the good God's name can you make sticky bait for tiny little insects? How are they supposed to carry the stuff away? Rent a lorry and buy some gloves? Pointless.

sexual boredom

People seem to be searching for the weirdest things on Google. For instance, while I was trying to find out what the hell a 'Google Keyword Tool' is (You think it's self-explanatory? Yeah, just shut up.) , this said tool asked to enter a name descriptive of my webpage. Honestly, I wouldn't know how to describe it - I mean, it's neither necessary nor is it anything at all, it just is - and for want of ideas I thus typed in 'boredom'. I was offered, as a 'more specific keyword' everything ranging from 'philosophy of boredom' via 'boredom depression', 'boredom lyrics' (By the way, I know someone who writes these and seems to be serious about it. Hi Jim!), and 'beyond boredom' over to 'sexual boredom'. And now I cannot decide which would be most descriptive. The tool also named 'coworkers' and 'hate job' as search terms frequently combined with boredom. How does boredom fit in there? And should I file this thing here under 'sexual boredom'?

As far as I can see (Which is about 30 metres in all directions and even includes a tiny bit of sky), the sky is clear, the sun is shining, the air is ghastly hot, and yet rain has been falling up until three minutes ago and fierce thunder's still roaring - right above our house! We're an attraction now, we have a mini-thunderstorm. Huh - wait... Maybe I am the weather god. Yes! On thine knees, thou art not worthy of mine. Anyway.

Sexual boredom. I am tempted to say that I am totally unfamiliar with this phenomenon, but then again I'm too much of a liar already, so maybe honesty should be today's currency. I have been acquainted with sexual boredom of all kinds many times before.

I take it that many women are well aware of the existence of 'the generic/automatic fucker', thus termed not for his expertise in the field of love-making, but rather because of his firmly established routine that is not to be disrupted at any costs. Needless to say that this leads to rather unexciting moments, the fervour of which is one-side (meaning: from his side) since he is the one utterly convinced of his between-the-sheets qualities. Moreover, he is unable to bear (even the most constructive) criticism (“Honey, for a start, how about an ‘ah’ instead of ‘uh’? I always feel like I got lost in the rain-forest when you do that…”), which usually leaves his better half with a 'love him or leave him' attitude. Most of the girls I knew opted for the latter.

Then, there are those who are literally too stupid to fuck. Literally.too.stupid. It is not their fault, I guess, they are probably but a run-out model of nature - one of evolution's less successful sidesteps. I had the doubtful pleasure of having one of these specimens as my first 'real' boyfriend. Suffice it to say that my imagination and the actual (non)realisation of the act were worlds apart. In fact, after a while I thankfully preferred watching mind-numbing sit-coms instead of indulging in those other, equally mind-numbing activities. I didn't take it to heart, back then, for I thought that was the rule rather than the famous exception - it took me three years to find out I was wrong.

At the age of twenty-one, finally, I discovered that sex needn't be either something done by the book or not done at all. However, I had to put up with another problem: a male with something that might be called a rather strong cycle. Unfortunately, his is not in synch with mine, so that leaves us with about one week of the month in which ... well, you know. Anyway, that is not the worst, yet. My question is going out to all males here: Do you guys wash? I mean, thoroughly... every day? With soap and stuff like that? Because if you do, could you please drop by and convince my significant other that it really doesn't hurt or steal too much his precious time?

In my humble opinion, there are no better means to foster sexual boredom than neglecting personal hygiene. It's so nice to smell a freshly-washed, clean shaven young man. Unfortunately, in particular the young do not seem to take this soap-business all too seriously. Honestly, washing oneself is simply not optional when in a relationship - unless you have fetish for pulled-up sheets and lying back-to-face. Same goes for brushing one’s teeth.

I'm sure there are more archetypes of the human incarnation of sexual boredom, though I have to say I luckily never ran into one. And - that much I have learnt by now - if I ever do, I will make a point in running on as fast as possible, as far as possible. Because, honestly, it is simply not worth putting up with that. Probably the same goes for women, but my experiences there are next-to-nonexistent. I be excused.

So. I, the weather god have spoken. No unwashed younglings for me. No unwashed anyone for me, please. And stop the frigging rain, all the flies are seeking asylum in my room. Amen.

the remains of those days

Sitting in my new, my very own room, I admire the cornflower-blue wall in front of my desk. It is my very own blue wall. I love it. In fact, I admire the whole room. Its old art-deco cupboards, the shelves full of English books, the large desk with so much space to write and scribble on, my new bed. I do nothing but admiring my room while listening to Kerrang 105.2 on the internet to feed the mixture between homesickness and its antonym - it feels strange to be 'back' and away at the same time. Although I love this room, and even though the flat and my flat mates are nice enough, I don't feel at home at all.

Anyway, I've got a brand-new room with brand-new furniture. Why is that? Well, I spent the first month in Dresden looking for this room, and then I had to wait another month until I could move in. In the meantime, my father died. Just like that, he just died. Nothing spectacular, nothing unexpected, nothing dramatic. He is just gone. And that is what scares me most.

(June, 21st. The longest day of the year: bright and sunny, the sky a perfect picture - kitsch - steel blue and still clouds. Green meadows, golden fields, forests and the silvery rails. A perfect day, soft breeze, calm. The longest day of the year. His world stopped turning, his sun set at 9:41 am. The shortest of days for my father. Why is it that death seemed further away than ever before - everything was peaceful, serene. The country looked as if it had just opened its eyes, woken from a dead and dreamless sleep. The sheer beauty overwhelmed me as I sat by the window and thought of what he would look like - pale, shrunken, asleep perhaps? I've seen dead people before. Still, it felt strange to think of him being one of them. The sun shone relentlessly all day, same as the day after. The cool of the morgue seemed unreal, the neon lights and muffled sounds inside framed what would have made a model for a surrealist painting: The metallic walls, the tiled floor, the aluminium stand on which there was a wooden box laid out with white sheets. The dimensions didn't seem in place, the walls appeared to bend. In the box, the centre of everything in this weirdest of rooms, my father. Rosy cheeks, his beard dark once again, a few bruises from the machines and autopsy. I had hoped we would enter the room separately, each having the chance to take their time and say good-bye. But they all went in together, me following meekly, trailing behind. I stayed as they all left, wanted to say a few last words, but I could feel them waiting for me. I didn't dare touch him for fear someone might notice. I found myself incapable of phrasing those words I had mulled over on the train. I still do. Even at the funeral, which was yesterday.)

So, I inherited some of his belongings - mostly books and those afore-mentioned art-deco cupboards that my siblings didn't take. I cherish the books - we shared our passion for England and the English language. So, I found myself the owner of some really old furniture. Then, me and my boyfriend went to Oschatz - a small-town somewhere in the middle of Saxony - to pick up my stuff which I had left there in an unoccupied building for the time I spent in the UK. We went downstairs to the cell where my things had been stored. A cell, yes. It was a former StaSi-building - you know, the StaSi, those guys in the GDR who spent their time observing unblemished civilians for fear they might secretly show 'corroding tendencies' (strange translations for strange phenomena) - and they held those to be interrogated in these small cells in the cellar. In one of them were my belongings: study material, furniture, a fridge, an oven, most of my clothes and my mattresses. Much to my dismay, I found that it had all gone mouldy. Bugger me! I’d never seen the likes. Long braids of lichen and mould were hanging from racks and boxes. The stench was almost unbearable. I did what I could to save at least my books and my study material, and just left the furniture and everything that was beyond cleaning right where it was.

Then to IKEA it was, where I bought shelves and a bed and in general and as usual a lot more than I had intended to buy not to mention needed. My savings have been magically multiplied by the factor 0.5, and me - I'm having a brand-new room and I'm stuck in a country which no longer feels like I could the rest of my life in it. Someone please help me obtain my degree as soon as possible, I need to get out of here.

I spend my time doing nothing. I hang around. Wait for the time to pass, again. Probably, I should prepare for my courses, which, by the way, won't start until October. I'm so out of it, and I have no motivation or intention whatsoever to do anything that others would deem sensible. I doubt sense and equally objectified feelings - they just cannot be trusted. I feel manipulated. Each and everyone is talking 'sensible' right now, and all they want is me being satisfied with what I've got and preferably doing my studies in no time so they don't have to pay for me anymore (which they don't, anyway) or get their share of the inheritance. Bless y’all, dearest of all families.

everything's short notice

Just some short lines on a Sunday to remind me to replace this with a longer entry as soon as I've got a reliable internet access and more time than I do have now (and favourably a room of my own).

Thou shalt not listen to disgusting music or look at revolting pictures in my presence... Thank you.

hooker and ken

This will be my last post from Cov for probably some years - if not forever. I will have to make do without internet for some weeks now; however, I will try to write at home and publish from my uni, so I guess my move shouldn't interfere too much with this little experiment.

In dandy_assissin's livejournal I read about the documentary 'The Corporation', and thus decided to watch it myself. It was pretty interesting, but what struck me was a short clip of advertisement for Barbie. I guess most of us know the exaggeratedly curvy blonde whose world is as pink as her brains are plastic. I can remember a time when I truly loved my Barbies. I'd cut and dye their hair, let them scratch each other's eyes out, tailor my own clothes for them, let them have unprotected sex and lead a terribly reckless life - in short: I re-enacted the everyday intrigues and absurdities a 12-year-old is surrounded by.

Well, since the concept of homosexuality did escape my understanding until I was 14 and started reading Trainspotting and other highly educating literary works, the fact that my Barbies had sex implies that I was also the proud owner of 'a Ken'. In fact, I was the less proud owner of two Kens. Or, rather, two half-Kens. You see, that's when it starts to get complicated... so I shall start from scratch and bore you a bit before getting to the point.

My first Barbie (and the Ken to go with her) was a present from my sister, who is eleven years my elder and thus felt now that she turned twenty, she didn't need a Barbie anymore. I was nine, and didn't quite know what to do with this far too grown-up doll that wore terribly old-fashioned make-up. Mind you, I was nine, it was the early nineties, and this frigging doll looked as if she'd hidden from mainstream culture for at least a decade - which indeed she had. I didn't so much mind the make-up - it reminded me of my mum - as the fact that none of her clothes seemed to fit. This was due to my grandmother, a tailor who was always intent on dressing Barbies like her grandchildren: in dresses and skirts that would have made a potato bag look stylish. These dresses also introduced me to the phenomenon of bare breasts long before Janet Jackson did the same for the American public. There was one dress which had neither sleeves nor straps, so due to the afore-mentioned shape it'd slowly... give in to gravity. Not even Barbie's (back then not so) impressive bust could've helped it. Which again proves that breasts teach us something about nature's laws - one way or the other, sooner or later.

My Ken, however, never had the pleasure of running around bare-chested. He was a very particular specimen of a Ken: his waist was bendable. Unfortunately, the rubber-strap that connected the top to the bottom half eventually went the way of all that is mortal and surrendered to material fatigue. So in time, I found myself left with two half-Kens. It proved to be a blessing in disguise, however, as I was given another Barbie for my tenth birthday. Finally, finally the age of monogamy had come to an end!

The two halves (the top was Paul, the bottom Chris) freely swapped their girlfriends (Stefanie and Sabrina - named after two of my arch-enemies at school) and led a happy and promiscuous life. True, Chris had no brains and Paul a bit of a wimp, but hey! I was ten and had no understanding of the fact that brains and sex-appeal usually go together (although the correlation is not reciprocal).

What finally ended the merry adulterous existence of Paul and Chris was - who else could it be - my mum. She found out about my slight misconception of how it all works and probably decided that a threesome would be better than all hips and no brains or vice versa. Thus, she offered me to buy a new Ken if I threw away the two halves. I agreed, for I saw my chance to finally get hold of 'Sport-Ken', the ultra-flexible lad with fully functional knees and elbows. So Chris and Paul went and in came Steve. (He had no bendable waist, unfortunately. I guess Mattel had stopped making these allusions somewhere along the line, though I wonder why. Ever tried to spread Barbie's legs? Good luck, then. The poor lad's been given a dysfunctional girlfriend.)

Steve didn't last long, though. He might have been reasonably fit, but teaching him gymnastics was going a tad too far, I guess. He lost a leg. And I was left with poor impaired Steve and his harem. For the leg I had no use; even though my Barbies used to drive around in worn-out slippers and wed in Kleenex, there were limits to the imagination. My awareness of homosexuality might have been non-existent, but I sure as hell had listened to my class-mates who frequently discussed things such foot fetishism. It didn't sound very appealing, and who knew? Steve's leg might have been the first step on this ladder of a sexual-oddities career.

So, 'The Corporation' reminded me of my first Barbie, the two half-men, and the notorious Kleenex-wedding where the top half would pledge his troth whilst the lower half was making out with the bride's maid (I had a firm grasp on reality even as a child). I recommend watching this documentation, and who knows, maybe then you'd like to tell me whether you ever considered buying Mattel stocks...

As I was watching 'The Corporation', I also became aware of another very unsettling phenomenon in our neighbourhood. I usually fall back on the approved household remedy of watching TV when I can't sleep. Going to sleep quite often turns out to be an accomplishment - my body's tired, my mind's still wide awake. You probably know what I mean.

Anyway. Every night between 4.00 am and 4.45 am, I hear a horse slowly ambling down our street. Yesterday, it was 4.21 am. It takes about ten minutes from when I first become aware of its hoof beat until it is out of earshot. Tadack Ta-dack Tadack Ta-dack. Like a horse. But then again, it always occurred to me as rather strange that anyone would ride his horse through a residential area at 4.21 in the night. Who could it be? A cavalry officer returning from his secret romance - if so, why would he take his horse which is far too noisy to make an undetected escape? A headless ghost looking for victims - if so, why is he not in the city-centre where he is more likely to pick up some girls who are willing to lose their head to any passer-by? A lone horse looking for its cowboy - unlikely, since I am not aware that there ever where many cowboys in the Black Country.

Usually, I've always been too tired to get up and wait for the horse to pass out house. This night, however, I had enough of these idle musings and decided to take vigorous action. I jumped up and hid behind the curtain as soon as I heard the first Tadack Ta-dack - I hid just in case it might really be the headless ghost. And the waiting began. I heard the hoof beat approaching, its empty echo growing louder between the brick walls of the terrace houses. Then it was near. I peeked from behind the curtains, but...

What the hell? A hooker? I stared in amazement at this unforgettable image. A woman, dressed in what she probably considered a skirt. If it wasn't for the fact that any larger piece of cloth was obviously missing, I'd have deemed it a belt, but... The hoof beat was caused by her unreasonably high high-heels. I would find it difficult to even put these on, not to mention keeping my balance when letting go of the wardrobe I was holding on to before. She obviously had managed to leave her wardrobe - or whatever other means she might use to steady herself in the first place - at home and was now heading god-knows-where. On these said high-heels. The problem, however, was not her footwear; rather, it seemed to be a combination of heels plus uneven ground plus more than slight inebriation plus an inability to operate a mobile phone. Hilarious. It also explained the slight irregularity detectable in her walk - every fourth step she'd raise her glassy eyes from the display to assure she wasn't bumping into any parked cars as she staggered along.

Which leads me to my question: For a long time, I've felt an ardent desire to know why women choose to walk on high-heels. Maybe it is my ill-conceived notion of what is a turn-on and what isn't, but I simply cannot see the attraction in an inadvertently staggering woman that will in the long run greet you with a pair of crutches. Unless you consider her an easy prey, that is. It is also a mystery to me why some women choose to stumble through life in shoes that can be heard in a mile's radius, yet complain they don't feel safe at night.* It simply doesn't make any sense to me. I don't even find them attractive - and don't tell me I just don't appreciate a nicely dressed or pretty woman when I see one. These 'shoes' simply are a mystery to me, yet everyone in this country seems to wear them. I even found it hard to get hold of any shoes other than moccasins that did not feature at least six centimetres of heel. Good old Chucks excluded, as should go without saying. No matter how many English girls I asked, they couldn't come no with any good reason for wearing them other than 'But everyone does it. It's fashionable.' If you say so.

I'd still be delighted to find out why British women wear significantly more often high-heels than German women do. Is there any obvious reason? Where you trained at a very early age to walk on them without the help of your significant other? Did you ever break your ankle, got stuck in a gutter - I'm really afraid of that - or missed a bus or train because you just couldn't run fast enough? How do you survive eight hours at work in them - they see to me like the modern day equivalent of the corset. Please, enlighten me. I learnt so much about British culture during my stay here, but this is something I couldn't figure out yet. Much obliged for your answers.

A last good-bye from Cov, of which I've grown really fond over the months.

* It is my belief that anyone should feel and be safe, no matter what time of day and irrespective of his/her footwear, but as we all know, beliefs and reality sometimes are - quite literally - two different pairs of shoes.

ivory towers are for jumping

It's a lovely day. The sun is shining, the sky is a hazy blue, children are playing in the neighbour's garden; in short, it's lovely. Apart from the bugs, that is. They bug me, and they find my coffee as attractive as this stupid fly does find my perfume (What the hell do they do with this stuff?).

In a sudden bout of vanity, I've decided to wear but a T-shirt and my new, white (and extremely good-looking) skirt. I'm intent on getting a tan in one day - and I am quite aware that this attempt is as vain as I am. Even though the T-shirt is a bit of an unlucky choice - exposed arms mean but exposed cuts and scars for me - I hope that said exposure of skin to sunlight will have a positive effect on my over-all mood. The move just lurking around the corner, I will need all the energy I can possibly muster up to survive the following ten days. And I am intent on making good use of the garden as long as I still have it.

I feel somewhat sorry for leaving this house, my dear flat mate Alex, and my little snowman Ana behind. I've grown fond of our little 'threesome'. Still, I'm very much looking forward to moving back to Dresden again. To survive the sterility of Warwick University, you have to be carved out of a different kind of wood. Having the choice between being without a name in Dresden and being without a soul here, I know what I will opt for.

The neighbour's kids just tossed their tennis-ball over the fence and then politely requested in their language - which is not English, either - that I give it back. No need to say I didn't quite understand what those two cute faces asked me for as they appeared behind the fence - I hadn't seen the ball. However, as they repeated their request in English, the situation cleared up. God, they are cute; I'd adopt them readily, but I doubt my Indian neighbours would be too fond of this idea. Tough luck.

Adopting kids - or having some myself - wouldn't be a good idea, anyway. Apart from the fact that I consider myself far too young to take responsibility for a little soul's life and well-being (I hardly manage to take responsibility for myself right now), I still have an academic career in mind. Knowing that the over-all circumstances are not extremely favourable, and being quite aware that children diminish the chances of professional advancement in our culture, I shall refrain from the wish of reproducing. What am I talking about? I wouldn't even have a father for those kids.

This really bugs me. Our government complains that educated women don't have enough children, yet they do nothing to help (prospective) mothers to keep their job. I mean, honestly, the prospect of doing my M.A., maybe topping it with a Ph.D. and then arduously climbing the ivory tower seems less inviting when all these efforts were in vain because of one misguided - or lucky - sperm. I know a girl who does it - studying whilst being a full-time mother - but she only manages to get by because the father's a student, too. Both of them are still being delayed in their studies, they don't find the time to work at home, and I don't even want to mention their financial situation. Plus, she is lucky: she has a devoted father for their little daughter.

Granted, some people do it, and it seems to work. But I still wonder whether I'd be up for the challenge of being a mum and a super-achiever at uni. I doubt it. I don't even manage to achieve anything right now, and although I know this state to be only temporary, it still feels scary to even consider the double-strain these girls must be under. Maybe some of you did it and you can tell me how you managed (taking into account the educational system of your country)? It's not that I was seriously considering having a child, but I'd be interested all the same.

Ana gave me a cafetière for my birthday - it's so damn great! After drinking this dish-water (also euphemistically called 'tea') and this used dish-water (also euphemistically tagged 'instant coffee') for half a year, it's good to have some seriously strong, aromatic, freshly-brewed coffee. I'd almost forgotten how much I missed it in the beginning of my stay here. Soon, soon I will be back to Jan's heart-attack causing, pitch-black coffee and real bread. It's always the same, the first two weeks after being back from Germany, Alex and I find ourselves unconsciously refusing to eat the soft white stuff they call bread over here. Once in a while I venture out to Sainsbury's to buy some ridiculously expensive soft brown stuff and some ham which hasn't been reformed and cut into toast-like squares. The food... the food! Dear English, I love you and your country, but sometimes I wonder how you even managed to survive the first five years of your life - with all the ready-made stuff, the cucumbers only being sold in halves, and what not. It's a new world to me - and, I'm sorry to say so, not a particularly tasty one. Granted, your teas are better and fair-trade, your chocolate is gorgeous, the cookies are lovely, but the rest? Bland. I can't just live on cookies, chocolate and tea! Well, I guess I could - but the point is: I shouldn't.

I've tried to lay off the alcohol recently, and guess what? It works. The decision to only drink in company was a good one. Not only had I been drinking far too much, I was also beginning to functionalize the alc as combined medication for insomnia, depressed mood and anxiety. Certainly not a good idea. I've always loved drinking beer, both frequently and in large amounts, and while I always considered myself as an alcoholic in disguise, I never found that I had to make an effort not to drink for a few days. Yet, this is exactly what happened last week, and when I think about it thoroughly, I realize that it must have been January or December that I last spent two evenings in a row without drinking. By drinking I don't mean getting drunk - usually it is only one beer, but that doesn't really make a difference. So, I am intent to drink only whilst in company. Alcohol used to be a social thing, and that's what it has to become again, else it'd be missing the point. Since I don't have much of a social life at the moment and most of my friends rarely drink, I don't think I run the risk of continuing my drinking habits. My resolution for my twenty-third year of existence: I will think before I drink.

anyway

So here I am again, back from Dresden, back in Cov and dead unhappy.

On the morning of April the 6th I got on the bus, caught the coach, boarded the plane, bought a ticket for the train... and realized that a) the ticket vending machines never work when you need them and that b) I really truly love Dresden. The train slowed down a few miles outside the city, and suddenly I felt the trees and houses and spires grew more and more familiar. Then the train pulled into the station and it felt like home. From a hazy sky the sun shone on the houses and empty lots and the station building, and a gentle breeze rustles the trees that were yet bare.

Jan didn't show up at first, but an eventual phone call cleared up the situation: due to the flood in 2002, the station has several entrances, yet no main one - which always leaves me lost. The first days were a bit awkward, and I found it hard to adjust. To cut a long story short: I'm still not alright, but I know a bit better what I want and where I'm heading. (And I've got my Jan back... I don't know if this is a good thing, but it feels as if it was.)

Anyway, so what do I want? First of all, I have to get out of here. I still love England, love the language and do feel to some extent at home in it; still, and I knew that I was right as soon as I got off the coach, I have to get out of here. Too many things have happened that I cannot deal with. No need to go into detail, but I do know that I want to go back to Dresden as soon as possible. There will be enough time to think things through when I'm there.

Anyway, the trip yesterday was... interesting. Is it only me, or do you have the impression that people lose it completely as soon as they're on public transport, as well? It is amusing, no doubt about it; sometimes, however, I feel like all the weirdos take a day off just to pluck my already strained nerves like the cords of a guitar - you know, one of those the old bums in the precinct have. I feel fucked up, worn out and absolutely out of tune. Plus I had to sit next to very sleazy, greasy guy on the coach.

Anyway. On the plane I got a seat by the window. Right next to the left wing! (I'd like to see when the turbines stop. I'm not in for any surprises.) Some rows behind me were two Germans and a poor English woman I felt inclined to feel sorry for. The German guy - judging by his looks a complete nerd - obviously knew her, and his girlfriend instantly tried to make conversation. Fucking hell, you wouldn't believe it! How do the English stand a German accent? I mean, yes, I am German, but I don't sound like this. And I don't make every freaking mistake that one could possibly make. Ay dohn't sink sis is a proplem sat ve dohn't noh eatch asa. Oh please, please stop. And now that we're at it: don't talk so frigging loud, the whole plane can overhear your bloody conversation and I feel embarrassed, utterly ashamed that on top of not speaking English you have a horrible voice and you talk complete nonsense. Thanks. It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd been aware she was being ridiculous. But no! Ay sink (Why does every bloody sentence of yours begin with 'I think'?) my lessons vere very efficient (She meant 'effective', I'm sure.), becohse ay have learn Inklish very fastly. Yeah, sure. It wouldn't have been so bad, either, if she'd been the least bit humble. But no. No, my Inklish is krayt, I don't have to listen to anyone who tries to correct me.

Anyway, the flight is only one hour of the whole journey, and I slept a bit, so I guess I missed out on the most amusing part of their conversation. Judging by the reactions of the guy sitting next to me, he found her hilarious. The coach I intended to take was sold out, but someone didn't show up and the driver let me on. Strike! I'll be in Cov by 10pm! I wasn't looking forward to not arriving until midnight.

Anyway, the driver was a chatty guy and distracted me from my magazine. Good job, I always get sick when I read on the bus, but when I don't, the people on there scare the shit out of me. I need something to help me ignore the world. As we pulled in to Luton Bus Station, the driver announced we'd have a break. Unfortunately for smokers like me, it turned out we'd be forced to stay on the bus. As soon as the driver got off the bus to help unload the passengers' luggage, a man with a little child turned up and started bothering the driver. He wanted to get on the bus and claimed he had a valid ticket to Milton Keynes. He indeed had, but as the driver rightfully pointed out, this afore-mentioned ticket was a) issued by Virgin and b) for a train. However, the good man did not (and did not want to) understand the difference between a coach (you know, wheels on tarmac) and a train (you know, locomotive and rails). Besides, his ticket was for a train that had left 45 minutes ago, so the driver assumed that the bloke had just missed it and was now trying to get on anything going to Milton Keynes - and from then on to Liverpool, as he emphasized several times. Poor Liverpudlians. In the end, the driver called the police, but the guy buggered off before they arrived. Our driver (the lord have mercy upon his psyche) was on the edge, and his driving skills were somewhat impaired for the following twenty minutes.

Anyway, on the bus from the station to my house, I met my ex-flatmate. The one who was thrown out because her boyfriend tried to beat us up (silly little coke-head) and then smashed my window. She didn't even look at me - not that I mind, mind you. Look is all she can do: as a Spanish friend of mine and compatriot of hers put it, 'She is stupid even in Spanish.' Alright then. I still don't think that stupidity is a good excuse, but what will you if you don't have the wits to think of a better one?

Anyway, it's way too late now. I'd better go to sleep while I can.

Back to Dresden!

Since I will leave for Dresden tomorrow, I thought it'd be a good idea to give a short update today.

I've finally finished Rushdie's Midnight's Children, and was thoroughly impressed with its narrative structure. I found it hard to follow at times, due to my lack of knowledge of Indian history, so I guess I will brush up on that and then read it again in a year's time. Saleem, the narrator, also inspired to the title of this post. I just loved his cry "Back to Bom!", although Dresden doesn't sound half as good in this context.
Read the book if you haven't already. Now! You go to Amazon.co.uk and order. Go!

I've also run out of Murakamis. Sad but true. The only one that is still missing is Underground. I think one day I'll see whether I find some of his earlier stuff and read it all in chronological order. It seems worth it - although I will never be able to use it for my studies, much in contrast to Rushdie.

In fact, I've been questioning my studies, lately. Not that this was a new phenomenon, but before I've always tried to circumvent the hindrances that are inherent in our syllabus to do something that seems worthwhile. Somehow, I feel I'm running out of energy, and I cannot even bring myself to write an essay on a topic I used to be interested in. Right now, I hear from a friend in Dresden that they intend to cancel the focus 'Learning processes and teaching in languages for special purposes', and I'm starting to get really fed up with my university. These were not the conditions under which I began my studies, for feck's sake!

Tomorrow, as I already said, I will head off to Dresden for a few days. I have to sort things out in my life. I'm not sure that this is the life I want to lead, and whereas I will definitely finish my degree, I still have to keep my eyes and ears open, just in case an opportunity to get involved in a professional theatre should arise. While teaching at university is tempting, I have to consider that chances are low to ever get a job at a German university. Admittedly, chances are even lower to find a job in dramaturgy, but then again: Who knows? So far, there's always been a way to end up where I wanted to go, and I guess if I somehow get back my motivation, chances are that I actually might find myself in a job that doesn't bore the living shit out of me. If not, I can still work at KFC's. I wonder what a name-tag with Dr. Hannah would look like. Scary, pretty scary.

So, the plan for tomorrow is: bus, coach, plane, train, tram. Sounds good, eh? I love journeys. Not so much the arriving bit, but leaving and being on the road always feel good. I'm still a bit scared of flying, but it's going to be the sixth time since September now, so I guess I'll be alright. Anyway, coffee is the perfect cure: I've made it a rule to arrive early at the airport and drink vast amounts of the black stuff. Apart from the fact that I always used to be a coffee junkie, it has two side-effects: first, I can blame the nervousness on the intake of caffeine, and second the urge to run to the nearest toilet distracts me from the funny feeling in my belly. I've also made it a rule not to visit the porcelain god until having solid ground under my feet; it is easier to survive the landing and to have the motivation to get to the check-out before everyone else does when you really need a toilet. I am lucky; since I always travel with a large rucksack, it usually arrives before all the suitcases do. The bulky stuff always goes on last and is handed out first with easyjet.

Oh, how I look forward to seeing the station in Dresden again. How I long for the smell of the river Elbe. How I wish to see the weird skyline of baroque palaces and GDR-architecture. How excited I am to walk the streets of the Neustadt again. And how I anticipate the moment of seeing Jan at the station. True, he is only my ex-boyfriend (What a stupid twat I am!), but just talking to him in my mother tongue will take stones (or kilograms, just as you please) off my shoulders.

The plan for tomorrow is the following.
I'll get up around six, shower and brush my teeth (this time I won't forget that), dress and have a coffee. Then I'll pack the rest of the stuff which I still need tonight - the computer, for instance. Before I do that, I will shortly stick on Classical Gaz by William Mason, just to get me in the mood. Maybe I predict a riot by the Kaiser Chiefs, too. Then... hm. Then I'll check all the windows and doors, bring out the litter, and leave the house. Yep! Best part of a journey, always.
Take the bus to Poolmeadow Bus Station, get the National Express to Luton Airport, check in. Have loads of coffee and thrice as many cigarettes. Go for the ladies at least three times. Board. Wait. Wait more. Listen to the safety instructions for the n-th time. Wait more. Listen to the reason for the delay and then concentrate on not concentrating on the child behind me that keeps kicking me in the back. Get sick, blame it on the coffee. Hear the turbines start. Feel a rush of glee pulse through my body, feel the spirits heighten as we gain speed, wait impatiently for the take-off. Get sick again, ignore the pressure on my ears. Concentrate on not throwing up instead. Then wait for the moment to be trapped in the grey cotton wool, just to look forward to see the crystal clear, deep stainless blue sky again. The happiest sight I've ever seen, I just can't be sad when this blue surrounds me whole. Stare to the ground to try and figure out where we are. Enjoy the landing tremendously. Get sick all the same. Curse my body. Get off the plane, check out, show my passport thrice and argue that this is really me. Try to find the station, succeed in doing so after fifteen minutes. Try to purchase a ticket. Succeed in doing so after thirty minutes. Get myself a coffee and pass the rest of the forty-five minutes wait. Get on the train. Feel the paranoia welling up, check thrice whether a) no one looks at you, and b) whether this is really the right train. Ignore the fact it is the only train that stops there anyways. Enjoy the train journey. Get paranoid after half an hour I might have missed the stop, although the train will not arrive in another forty-five minutes. Listen to what is announced via the loudspeakers - decide that if it cannot be understood, it wasn't worth understanding. Then figure out that it was the announcement of Dresden Hauptbahnhof. Hastily grab my rucksack only to find myself standing on the aisle for another ten minutes. Get off the train. See Jan?

I bid thee farewell, dearest reader. If it was meant to be, we shall meet another time. I'll be gone.
Yes, I'll be gone. I'll be going home. Home is where the heart is, they say. I've lost mine to Dresden when I was thirteen. I shall never claim it back. The thought of this city puts me in high spirits for the first time in months. I am embarrassed to admit it, the thought of a good Saxonian pils brings tears to my eyes. There's the alcoholics for you.
So, good-bye for now. I'll get in touch as soon as I'm back.

the road leads where it's led

It is Sunday, and it is sunny. What a coincidence. Life is full of coincidences; I just never come across them.

When I woke up this morning, 13:13, I would have been delighted to see the sun shining through my window, but it was too late already. With disbelief I looked at my clock, it said (you name it) 13:13. The shops in England close at 16:00 on a Sunday, and I desperately needed to do some shopping. To cut a long story short: I had to hurry up. Quick shower, the towel once rubbed over the head, putting on whatever lay on the floor, then checking the bus timetables on the internet. Sunday - no buses. So I walked to the city centre to look for a calling card.

We do have a landline here in our house, but it only allows dialing free numbers and 999, which is why my flat mate Alex and I depend on those nice calling cards. All in all, they are not too bad, apart from the fact that it means quite a lot of typing: free number, pin, country code, the actual number. I always end up with thirty digit numbers, and I've noticed I've become far more careful not to make any mistakes.

Anyway, by the time I got to the city centre it was 14:47, and the phone shop where I usually buy the cards was closed already. So I ventured out to do the rounds in all available phone shops and newsagents in the precinct. From the first phone shop I was sent to the nearest newsagents, from there to another phone shop, and from there... you get the gist of it.

Half an hour later, there were no further phone shops or newsagents left, and frustrated I decided to walk to the bus station and take the next bus that goes in my direction. Dodging neurotic late-hour shoppers, I made my way through the Burges and past the old school. Then, on the right, a window caught my attention. An array of about twenty lists of different companies with promising names such as 'Voice of Africa' were on display, and one of them was actually for Europe. £5 for 222 minutes sounded like a fair deal to me, considering that I needed such a thingy anyways. So I stepped inside.

The moment I crossed the threshold, time started to reverse. It felt like stepping back into my childhood days when after school we'd all drop by the kiosk near the bus stop. It was always comparatively dark in there, and it was crammed to the roof with sweets, newspapers, magazines and lots of stuff that didn't seem to serve any special purpose. At the counter there'd always be some old Turkish men eagerly discussing politics with one of the owners. Depending on whose turn it was, they'd either talk a very basic form of German, or in their mother tongue. We didn't care; we came for the peach rings, the apple-flavoured snakes, and other sweet sugary stuff.

This kiosk here was exactly the same, the only difference being that the Turkish old men in their worker outfits had been replaced with Indian mid-50s in suits. The jabbering sounded very familiar, even though the languages being spoken were different. It made me smile; there is something about these places which seems to be an international phenomenon.

I asked the shopkeeper for the Euro Connect card, and it didn't take ten seconds for one of the men to interrupt me and suggest I buy the card of another company instead, for 'they are very good for Europe'. However, I can be a very stubborn person once I've decided on a purchase, so I gratefully declined and insisted on the Euro Connect. I managed to get the last one they had and saw I got the hell out of there, for no matter how much it reminded me of days long gone, I don't feel too comfortable around people in general, and it had become really packed since two old ladies had entered who pushed and shoved the men around to get to the fridge. Each bought four pints of milk, and I wondered why they didn't just go the Sainsbury's across the road. They must've had lots of money; prices in a kiosk are always ridiculously high - another international phenomenon.

On my way home, I had to wait for the bus for thirty minutes. Intent on passing the time, I nibbled on a slice of the soda bread I bought in the Sainsbury's and listened to two Eastern Asian girls chirping away in their language. I guess the monotony of German would send them straight to sleep.

Now I do what I have been doing for days, I'm sitting in my kitchen and waste my time on the net. My dad rang me up for the first time in weeks, but only because I sent him a text. He's not getting better, and it all looks as if they really had to put him on the list for a heart transplantation. But enough of that for now.

Tomorrow will be a day full of washing and cleaning. Tuesday I'll have to pack my stuff and try to go to sleep earlier than 5am, for the next day I'll go to Dresden for a few days. I missed it so much over the past ten months, and considering the state I am in, it doesn't seem a too bad idea to just hang out there for a while. Maybe see a doctor, the NHS is obviously a bit unreliable, but that's not news.