Awkward.
I would consider myself reasonably athletic. Running, jumping, climbing trees (no makeup, though) don't cause me that much difficulty. What I am not, however, is particularly coordinated or graceful. Let's be honest: I'm awkward and clumsy. I usually don't make it entirely around corners and doorframes, instead catching my hip, shoulder, or elbow on said corner and bouncing off. My legs look like someone has been beating me with sticks. I usually have at least one bloodied knuckle or cut on my hands from catching them in doors, stuck between books, falling down. Sometimes I'll be bleeding and have
no idea why. Bit disconcerning.
Last week I ran myself over with a book truck (cart for books). It wasn't too bad, except for the part where I was bleeding into my shoe. But since then I have managed to step on my own ankle (in exactly the spot where I am misssing significant pieces of skin) at least five or six times.
We have chairs with attached desks. About every time I stand up I jostle either my desk or my neighbors, usually knocking something off, breaking something, or otherwise causing mayhem. I feel like a bull in a china shop.
So my goal is to learn to dance, somewhere, somehow. Then perhaps I won't be so uncoordinated. Dancers are supposed to be
graceful, right? Or else I can just get a dunce cap and (when not hitting it on the tops of doorframes) save myself the embarrsassment of constantly hitting things and looking like an idiot--I'll skip that step, start out looking like a tool and hopefully the clumsiness will be unnecessary...
Compulsive Repetitive Interjection Disorder
Compulsive Repetitive Interjection Disorder (CRID) affects nearly eight of ten Americans under the age of thirty. Characterized by frequent interjections of a specific, often irrelevant phrase (e.g. "like", "you know?", "right", "know what I mean?") into regular speech. Also known as "Valley Girl Syndrome," "Teenspeak," and "Irritating," this disorder is characterized by some researchers as a vocal manifestation of a fundmental lack of self-confidence, as most of said interjections tend to ask for affirmation or inject a degree of uncertainty or doubt. CRID differs from Tourette's Syndrome in that there is no medical or psychological basis for it whatsoever, although both may involve the interjection of obscenities, evidenced by the prevalence for "the F-word" among CRID sufferers.
Example:
"I think [like, you know?] the U.S. policy towards Europe has [like, you know?] been greatly [like] changed because of the European Union [right?]. I mean [like, you know?], we were used to dealing with multiple governments [like, you know, right?] and now all negotiations must go through [like, you know?] a single [you know?]authority in some instances [right?] and remain [like] bilateral or multilateral in others."
This individual has a severe case of CRID. He is unable to complete a normal sentence without the interjections, much less a complicated or otherwise higher-level thought. This disorder can have serious consequences for his future academic career, tending to set listeners on edge. For his personal advancement he should consider therapy which, though costly and psychologically taxing, may be the only solution to an otherwise socially debilitating condition. And since he sits next to me in class, I'm not exactly unbiased.
Sometimes...
...you wake up really hungry. Or at least I do. So you and your bed head, at some ungodly hour of the morning, James Bond your way to the kitchen, avoiding the sneaking floorboard, checking for enemy agents before entering the kitchen. You don't turn on the light, oh no, that would be too obvious. You have a craving of some persuasion, perhaps chocolate--though this affliction seems to have skipped me, though the rest of my family and friends suffer greviously--perhaps ice cream, perhaps pickles, cheerios, mayonnaise--the possibilities are as numerous as bacteria on room-temperature beef, constrained only by your imagination, the contents of your fridge/pantry/whatever and the fact that you actually don't usually know *what* the hell you want. So you take the Smorgesbord (which, incidentally, just means 'bread and butter' in Swedish) approach. Two pickles, a square of chocolate, a handful of granola, some leftovers, maybe a scoop of ice cream. If you're nice, you don't double-dip utensils, though in the end (assuming this is your house) you've probably exchanged so much bacteria with whomever else lives there that it doesn't matter anyways. But everyone knows, food tastes better eaten over the sink at 2 AM. Or is this just a personal problem?
Image courtesy of Mandy Burnham
10 simple pleasures...
Thanks
Sermina for the tag.
10. thunderstorms
9. music--preferably live, even more preferably if I'm playing
8. animals
7. meeting or talking with interesting people
6. foreign languages
5. running
4. good food
3. nature, specifically oceans and mountains
2. sunrises/sunsets
http://www.photohome.com1. enjoying the moment
I'll go ahead and tag
my dear Aldreas but I don't think he'll get it.
Confessions of a would-be trophy wife
My father and I went to see a concert together, and decided to grab something to eat before heading in. He went for the deli; I explained how it worked and headed off to get a salad (which I did eventually acquire, after an issue with my debit card and an attempt on my life by a ramakin of balsalmic). In my absence:
Deli man: ..and mustard and mayo?
Father: yes, please.
Deli man: and who was she? (waving in my general direction) Your wife?
(if I had been there, I would have been relatively uncomfortable at this point)
Father: er, my daughter.
Apparently this was followed by some sort of compliment, such as prompted my father to say, upon my return: "You should have gone to the deli. The guy thinks you're hot."
Definately an odd conversation...
Sailing...
[[Some day there will be music to go with the lyrics...]]
Your eyes have seen a thousand oceans
your ships have sailed a thousand seas
and when you're lost and lonely
you'll sail back home to me.
Remember when
you and I, we were
what we were, what we were
and we
had the strength just to be
a path apart is what we're walking
and though there's no need for talking
one day soon you'll sail back home to me.
Your heart has shadows, secret places,
forgotten faces and memories
and when you're lost and lonely
you'll sail back home to me.
You thought you saw the future
But you saw only what you wanted
and when you're lost and lonely
you'll sail back home to me.
Remember when
you and I, we were
what we were, what we were
and we
had the strength just to be
a path apart is what we're walking
and though there's no need for talking
one day soon you'll sail back home to me.
Your hair is white,
your eyes are bright
the wrinkles on your face
a thousand stories tell.
I knew one day you'd find me,
leave it all behind and be
the wiser sailor
no longer setting out to sea.
Remember when
you and I, we were
what we were, what we were
and we
had the strength just to be
a path apart is what we're walking
and though there's no need for talking
one day soon you'll sail back home to me.
The western wind is speaking,
scattered secrets blowing in the breeze
and when you're lost and lonely
you'll sail back home to me.
Your eyes have seen a thousand oceans
your ships have sailed a thousand seas
and when you're lost and lonely
you'll sail back home to me.
Judgment
I like to judge people. Perhaps that phrasing is misleading: I tend to judge people, forming an opinion on them based on certain observed characteristics, and I like that people can be categorized neatly. Except they can't. Again and again I'm confronted with people who, upon getting to know then, end up being significantly different from how I had pegged them.
And the best part--I mean this both facetiously and seriously--is when you have The Conversation. You've met someone, nice enough person, you talk a little, Hi, how are you, What music do you listen to, Do you like cheese, Do you have siblings, that sort of thing. You don't pretend you really know this person, but you're starting to. And then it comes.
The Conversation is a phenomenon you only get with new friends. Old friends just have secrets or revelations, and if you're any kind of friend at all, you work through any issues and get on with your lives. The Conversation only comes when your new friend has a history or a secret he or she thinks could be a deal-breaker, as far as friendship is concerned. And he or she, straight up, wants you to know about it, to see what kind of friend you are right from the outset.
It takes a phenomenal amount of courage. Not only to have a history or a secret, but to own that history or that secret, and most of all to share it with someone you like but don't know if they will reject you outright. For all you know, opening up can just result in being judged and shut out.
The thing about The Conversation is, at least for me, that I have to stick it out to the end. It doesn't work to hear part of the story. As I sit there, listening to someone--often a new acquaintence, but someone I like and would like to know better--pour out his or her soul, I have to restrain my judgments pending more information and reflection. His or her eyes flick to my face, guaging my reaction, quickly skipping away to contemplate some point on the wall, words chosen so so carefully, eyes back to me--like an open window into this person, for once, largely without barriers. The hands usually clutch one another nervously, or play absently with some nearby object, words coming in fits and bursts.
And I, for my part, don't try to understand. The initial revelation hits me like a bucket of cold water but I try to keep a grip. I don't shut them down, I don't make a petty excuse to cut and run. I don't have to watch the walls go up in their eyes, see the fake smile they save for rejection. I don't repay their trust in me so crudely. Instead I stay, sit and listen, hear them out. Usually by the end of the conversation, I have a better picture of this person, their flaws, their strengths, their personality. And I usually realize that there is a lot to this person for me to like and respect about them, not the least of which the respect shown him- or herself and me enough in coming forward with these personal skeletons. Ultimately, it isn't the past that matters to me, but this person's attitude towards the future.
After it's over, like sun coming out from behind the clouds, we're closer, far closer than we otherwise would be. There is always a reason I liked them to start with, and they obviously liked me enough to open up, and at this point, we are friends. There is trust, now, and respect. I don't often have a secret to share in return but I do my best to offer a little bit of my soul, a picture of who and what I am, things I don't share with just anyone.
It's possible to be friends, true friends, without The Conversation. Trust is built through time, through confession. In this case, this person offers up trust: their faith in me as a person, that I won't spurn them based on this secret or history, jumpstarts this process, places us several rungs higher than we otherwise would be at this stage in our acquaintence.
So to all of those people, none of whom probably read this, who have given me a piece of themselves: Thank you. I'll try to be worthy.
The Fox...
So my day started out with a 3-point, $100 ticket for failing to follow through with a left turn and a Tetnus shot, continued with three hours of non-air-conditioned class and four hours of work. But that's not the point.
The point is, I went to a concert at the Fox, a local venue with cool bands. As I'm not 21, I expected simply to be relegated to the kiddie pool, often a separate section for minors. But no. They defaced my hands, both of them, with big black Vs, and they
took my ID. They confiscated the bloody thing, promising to return it at the end of the night if I behaved myself and didn't make an over-21 buy me alcohol. Wierd.
Anyways, so you know how you can turn around and watch the rest of the audience during a movie, and they're completely enraptured, sitting there with slightly opened mouths and a vacant expression? Going to concerts is like that, only better. First off, people dance. That, as I will get to in a minute, is entertaining in and of itself. Then there are the remaining audience members. And the band itself can be quite fascinating.
The guy who opened was a Denver kid who quietly took the stage with just a guitar. He had a nice face, an easy smile, and a slightly threatening hairdo. Sitting alone on the stage, particularly enhanced by the slight backlighting, his eight-inch curly hair provided an interesting silohette. When he introduced a song he always repeated the title, as if to himself. "This one is called 'She Comes and Goes," he said, "she comes and goes..." And he smiled to himself, and began.
And then he picked up a guitar. And played like nothing I have ever seen or heard. For those of you unfamiliar with guitar, there is a way of playing it where you pick various strings with your fingers, James Taylor-style, with a varied and multilayered sound. This guy sounded a lot like that, but he managed it somehow with a flatpick. Amazing. His guitar style was absolutely fantastic, his fingers dancing like an Irish stepdancer on amphetamines.
So he was pretty awesome. His name is Rob Drabkin. You should check him out, somehow.
But he was only a third of the show, in my opinion. The other third was the headlining band and the audience.
The headlining band was a local-boys-made-good duo, playing bass and guitar. The singer had a sharp, cutting voice, his brother similar though less so. They had fantastic harmony, great style, playing rock-folk-blues type music. And the bass player was something else. He could take breaks like you've never seen, faster than many guitarists. At one point he was so intense he literally attacked his bass, using thumps on the instrument body as percussion, punctuated by dazzling runs, chords, and all sorts of crazy stuff, like nothing I'd ever seen or heard. It was
intense.
It wasn't that packed, not like I'd seen before. I stood at the railing at the first tier, fending off small talk from the guy next to me (waxing eloquent on the merits of two-stepping). The couple in front of me, a long-haired brunette and her shinyheaded, glasses-wearing boyfiend. She looked friendly, nice enough, he as well though a bit shy and reserved. She danced, he didn't, but tapped time on his girlfriend's derierre. One guy up near the front was really into it, dancing back and forth (and I mean that--his style consisted mainly of swaying from one foot to another). Two youngerish girls up by stage left looked like their grandmoter had just died of a knitting accident. One woman accompanied two youngerish boys, she starting to dance almost immediately, the boys looking somewhat embarrased by their tie-dye-clad chaperone. A gentleman, otherwise well-dressed, had tatoos around his ankles that looked like he had been attacked by a pack of Sharpie-wielding four year olds. And then there was the Dancing Dude.
I'm pretty sure he was on something; at one point I saw him doubled over, doing something suspicious with a lighter. But otherwise he was cra-Z. He was doing disco-inspired breakdancing (think Michael Jackson without the freaky surgery, bald, short, with glasses), complete with moonwalks, much organized flailing. He had about a 10 foot clear space on the dance floor. I wish I'd've taped him. YouTube would've loved it.
The moral of the story is: a) avoid kids with Sharpies, people who dance like maniacs, and the Boulder police; b) instead of pillow punching, try bass playing; and c) it's all about the hair.
Americana
The real basis for American-German relations:
- graham crackers
- peanut butter (very hard to come by; instead, they have Nutella, which is basically the best thing ever for chocolate lovers)
- a loofah (this took considerable discussion to discern the person was actually requesting a loofah and not a hairy sponge)
- ranch dressing (does not exist, once again)
- tortillas (mexican is just not something they do over there)
- keychains, commemorative
- bumper stickers and fridge magnets (odd, but I guess it makes sense)
- CO postcards
- books in english
- junior mints and oreos
Conversely, things I have been asked to bring back from Germany:
- chocolate (the Germans, according to them, have the best chocolate in Europe and it is certainly cheaper--postage costs more than the chocolate. The $2.25 bar at Peppercorn's? 0.60 euros)
- Kloessel (dumplings)
- Dutch cocoa (strangely hard to get here)
- Griess (Semolina) also hard to find
- Wine
But the best of German food (in my opinion) doesn't travel well:
- Cake (black forest, Donau waves, eclairs)
- Bread (if you haven't had German bread, French bread, or Italian bread, you haven't had bread. If you have, that squishy white stuff they sell at safeway tastes like sawdust)
- Turkish food (more kinds of olives, olive oil, Fladenbrot, Doener--Gyros-like things
- Cheese (this ain't France but French and Italian cheese is relatively cheap, at $2-5 instead of $5-10 here)
The Adventures of Marlow: The Extra-Ordinary Day
One day Marlow was feeling extra-ordinary. Not in the sense of feeling special, but in the sense of feeling particularly, especially, and, above all
unusually ordinary. This sounds like an impossible proposition, as being specially ordinary is itself extraordinary, in the sense of being special.
As you might have guessed, Marlow was, by this point, feeling rather confused. Marlow, unused to introspection of any sort--that required extraordinary (in the sense of being special) effort--confused being confused with being unhappy. And when he is unhappy, Marlow likes to make himself a cup of tea and a hot fudge sundae (two scoops, one peppermint, one raspberry, with whipped cream, sprinkles, and
two cherries), and sit in the garden and watch the grass grow. Once he had drunk his tea and finished his sundae (after carefully looking around for passerby before licking the sundae dish) he felt a good bit better. He had forgotten why he was unhappy (confused) and whether or not it was possible to be extra-ordinary (in the sense of being unusually ordinary) and ordinary at the same time, and instead remembered that he liked butterflies and dinner parties. And pickles.
As this day was a particularly extra-ordinary day (in the sense of not being ordinary, although implying no particular weight of destiny or value beyond, well, the ordinary) Marlow decided to Do Something Different. This decision is often followed by a blinding flash of inspiration akin to walking headlong into an inconveniently located dangly thingy (at this point his imagination got bored and returned to its habitual place in a cobwebbed and slightly musty corner of his consciousness). Marlow, in honor of his particular love of butterflies, dinner parties, and pickles, would host a dinner party and invite the butterflies. And serve pickles.
Marlow set about preparing his feast. First, he cleaned his house. Feather duster and rag, soap and bucket, broom and mop, he set to it. Marlow does this sometimes when he can't think of anything else to do, which is often. His house is therefore very clean, so it didn't take long for him to accomplish this feat. Which Marlow's House appreciated. Once he finished cleaning, Marlow proceeded to plan his menu. As he had no desire to go grocery shopping, Marlow decided to plan his menu in accordance with the contents of his pantry which, unfortunately for others but quite fortunately for Marlow, contained largely pickles, cherry sauce, a bit of cheese, and a third of a loaf of bread almost stale enough to eat. These were all Marlow's favorite foods, making menu design simple and Marlow drool delicately (Marlow is a
cultured pig, with, his Mother to thank, above average table manners) in anticipation.
In order for one to have a dinner party, one needs guests, so Marlow made sure to make particularly--this was no ordinary dinner, after all--pretty invitations. He decided butterflies would very much appreciate flowers, so he plucked a few blossoms from the woods and only ate a few. To these he tied a bit of string, some pretty bark, and a bit of colored paper with the carefully lettered
Dear Ms. Butterfly,
Mr. Marlow and Marlow's House would be honored by your presence,
This very evening
at 6 o'clock pM
He was unsure how exactly to convey his invitations (6 should suffice). He sat and thought about this for awhile. Marlow's House had some suggestions, but Marlow didn't hear him, and so Marlow had to think about it all by himself with no help from his House. Eventually he came to the conclusion that, seeing as the butterflies often frequented the meadow, that would be the ideal place to leave the invitations. So he carefully picked them up (resisting the urge to eat the bark and the flower), conveyed them to the meadow, and deposited them on a stump in the middle.
But lo! it was already 4 o'clock, and Marlow had much to do. After all, the table was still to be set, food prepared, drinks arranged... an extraordinary (in the sense of being different from, and in this case superior to, the ordinary) evening requires extraordinary effort, and he'd best get to it...
..::to be continued...
The Adventures of Marlow: The Beginning
Marlow was a pig. A potbellied pig, to be precise. He was not particularly large, nor particularly small, nor even particularly potbellied. He possessed no magical powers, average intelligence, modest hobbies, and manageable ambitions. In just about every way that could be measured, weighed, evaluated--if devices existed to measure happiness, empathy, or any other emotion--Marlow was what one could, were one to be generous, describe as 'normal'.
Yesterday Marlow decided to go grocery shopping. This is always a big event, shopping, and he always waits until his house is completely empty of food before going, until he is tempted to nibble on the doorframes. In fact, some times he does nibble and nobble a bit, but only on the door to the upstairs linen closet, where no one ever looks, since he hasn't any linen and seldom any guests. He is often disappointed in himself when he does this, but he very much dislikes shopping so it's a close call.
Marlow lived in a house. It, like Marlow, was a normal house, of average size, relatively well-kept. It had a front yard and a small back garden where Marlow attempted to grow vegetables, and despite the fact he was a pig he managed relatively well. The house was red, the trim was white, the windows curtained, the mice well-behaved, the street quiet. Marlow was relatively content with his house.
Marlow's house enjoyed being Marlow's house. It didn't have a name, unfortunately, because it was unable to tell Marlow it wanted one. It would have liked to have been called Harrison, or perhaps Bingham, or maybe Alderford. But since Marlow never understood it when it tried to talk, Marlow's house just stayed Marlow's House. It didn't mind so much when Marlow nibbled on the upstairs linen closet. It had lots of closets, and was happy to share. Marlow took relatively good care of Marlow's House, told it stories some times.
..::to be continued...
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Endings
If I had a ton of money, I'd travel the world. Don't doubt me, I mean the whole thing. Give it a go, imagine, just for a moment, what it'd be like. Even you, or especially you. Unusual desire, I'm sure, or is it? I want to see, to feel, to taste, to know, to experience, to learn. Not just something, everything. Gone are the days of my youth, yet not past. Time can't catch up with me because I'm seeking out time, chasing her, stretching her, extending her, enthusiastically seeking to eke every last iota of experience out of each one of her seconds. Sounds tiring, and it is.
Sometimes I lie in bed (it is still dark) and the thought (or perhaps a dream? who knows) crosses my mind (do they have crosswalks? did the thought look both ways first? someone should hold its hand) that perhaps I should (could)(want to) just stay there (breakfast) and enjoy (coffee) lounging around (sunrise) for awhile (breakfast), but other thoughts (hungry hungry hungry have to pee) keep intruding (get up, you lazybones) so I give it up and get up. Past about 5:30 I can't really sleep to well, so I might as well get out of bed and get on with it. In the end I end up witnessing some incredible sunrises. Sometimes the clouds are purplish orange, sometimes the sky is clear and on fire. Even I can enjoy images of fire, when it has to do with mornings and not with forests or houses.
Image by Adrien RobertSo I digress. Sometimes I get distracted. Don't blame me, I do the best I can, but it's not always easy to stay focused on one thing, one theme, one book, one song, one person, one experience. Ending up scattered isn't a path I'd recommend, but it's the one I've got. Travel is what I wanted to talk about, seeing the world, expanding horizons, all of that stuff. Funny, how trite cliches sound, yet they really do seem to be the best (says who?) way to express the concept, or at least they are often the first ones to enter your consciousness like an overeager door to door salesman. Not what you expected, eh? Happy to be of service, or at least enjoyment.
Time to cut out. Think you understand why this paragraph was so strange? Even you won't get it without help, so I'll give you a hint. The last letter of every sentence begins the subsequent sentence. Even I'm not this ADD, leastways, not usually. You hae a nice day now.
Good things
picnics
butterflies
grass
iced tea
conversations
socks--cute ones, fuzzy ones, crazy ones
sleeping
stars
meteor showers
presents
giving presents
running
being physically exhausted
sunrises
sunsets
being awake for sunrises, and happy about it as well
berries
fruit off the vine
cobbler
chocolate cake
indian food
books
paper
comfy chairs
fireplaces
good hot cocoa
cappuccinos
croissants
good honey
wine
really good cheese
pasta
tiramisu
hiking
mountains
trees
things that grow
wildflowers
songbirds
creeks and streams
people
music
playing music
writing
reading
listening
paychecks
compliments
your favorite pair of jeans
shoes that fit perfectly
fuzzy slippers
coffee
tea
japanese food
dressing up/looking nice
playing dress up
going to the theater
concerts
posh dining
travel
art museums
train rides
plane rides
arriving
cuddling
not understanding the language
hugs
gelato
gateau
card games
board games
mints
licorice
horses
camping
kisses
the moon
eclipses
fresh flowers
herbs
growing your own vegetables
a cool breeze on a warm day
thinking
conversations
not having to have a conversation
unawkward silences
jokes
funny people
nice people
cute old people
enthusiastic old people
people who smile or nod when you pass
people who ask how you're doing and actually mean it
bookstores
used bookstores
cafes
bakeries
people watching
hands
eyes
expressions
doing someone a favor
having a favor done for you
people who hold doors open for other people
polite people
being responsible
being totally irresponsible
living alone
not living alone
succeeding
aceing a test
not having to take a test
doing something well
animals
fuzzy creatures
comedy
mushrooms
foreign countries
foreign money
towers
old buildings
old cemetaries
horses
smiles
bagels
baguettes
good delis
flowing water
ice skating
cheerios
kids
swimming
water slides
spontanaiety
destinationless drives
old, fast cars
mustangs (cars and horses)
curvy roads
scenic roads
destinations
meeting new people
finding old friends
getting to know someone
watermelon
public transportation
friends
acquaintences
strangers (sometimes)
iced coffee
swimming pools
lawns
mowed grass
barbecues
sitting and reading
comics
the smell of books
chocolate (in moderation--at least for me)
Eddie Izzard
movies
foreign languages
understanding said languages
not understanding said languages and getting around anyways
art
live music
things made of wood
wood shavings smell
ball pits at mcd's or chuck e cheeze's playplace
minigolf
thunderstorms
clouds
rain, particularly when the weather is warm
singing in the shower
hearing your favorite song on the radio
old, favorite movies
family
long, languous meals with friends or family
brunch
singing with the radio
air conditioning
not having everything air conditioned
scented soap and body lotion
clear skin
funky tan lines
the beach
smell of sunlotion
seashells
the sound of the sea
dogs
cats
custard
babies
cute children
ice cream
balloons
ice skating
paddle boats
waterfalls
hiking
interesting bugs
cool wildlife
rocks
sailing
running
having gone running
smoothies
corn on the cob
relatives
being a houseguest
having a houseguest
when said houseguest leaves
the city at night
being totally alone
rowing
Bubble...
It's weird. You see them, hundreds of them, probably thousands of them, all going the same direction (occasionally one splits off; pity the poor bastard who tries to cut across traffic). They follow the flow of traffic, busy, hurrying, oblivious. Like a school of fish. Or like a giant pile of those little plastic capsules that in the grocery store contain costume jewelery and at college contain condoms.
Why the little plastic things, you ask? Good question. If the hypothetical you sat on a hypothetical bench at the side of this hypothetical flow and observed this phenomenon, you would see hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, each encapsulated in their own individual sphere.
My guess is eight of ten people wandering by has either an iPod or a cell phone stuck to their ear(s) like a disease (or a younger sibling). These lil gadgets which mummy and daddy just had to buy for them create a sort of force field, isolating each individual from the flood of humanity. This is not a personal space type of thing (you do end up accidentally groping your fair share of strangers, headphones or no), not like sitting on a bus reading a book so no one will talk to you (admit it, you're eavesdropping on the bloke and his girlfriend in front of you, arguing about their [....]). No, this is the fuckoff-don't-even-think-about-talking-to-me-we- aren't-even-on-the-same-bloody-planet type of exclusion. The cellphone people, they charge on by like a rhino on laxatives, totally immersed in their conversations. They'll run you over, they will. And the dude on the ipod is jamming out over there, but his headbanging is a danger to himself and passerby.
I think it's sad. It used to be, you pass someone, you smile and say hi (at least in the US--in Germany, you avert your eyes and trudge on by, perhaps deigning a stiff 'Goten Morgen!' on special occasions). Or hihowsitgoin? which almost passes for an actual question but in whose answer you're not interested anyways. But you acknowledge the other person exists.
Try the new XYZ7000 Digital Music Player! Holds 5,000 songs and transports you to your very own reality, free from all that annoying static and distraction (formerly known as the person you just jostled, the person taking your order at a restaurant, the person who just said hello, the person talking to you).
se féliciter
In the course of my morning, and my attempt to decipher the first Harry Potter in French as a means of avoiding the disturbing imagery of Elfriede Jelinek, I came across the word 'se féliciter' which is a verb, reflexive, of course, meaning 'to congratulate oneself'. It got me to thinking, though, about self-congratulation. This could be a positive thing: a means of self-affirmation, of recognition of one's accomplishments. A negative side exists as well: pandering to one's ego, unduly lauding success often at the exclusion of failures, egoism. I suppose the distinction lies in the degree to which one congratulates oneself and the purpose in so doing.
For instance, I may recognize the accomplishment of having gone running this morning prior to coming to work. I am proud of this because it means I am taking care of my health and exhibiting some form of discipline. Anyways, I view it as a good thing that I went running. I am not too concerned with whether or not people know about it, so my celebration of this fact is a personal thing. If I view this as a 'well done, mate, keep it up,' this self-congratulation is a way to reaffirm a positive behavior and inspire myself towards continuing said behavior and, thus, positive and useful (always a plus and often, perhaps erroneously, used interchangeably). If, however, I use this as a reason to feel superior, that my existence is worth more than that of the average mortal because I Go Running Every Morning, this is bad. It is bad because my self-congratulation has changed from an internal practice to an external practice; it is a determinant in my behavior towards others. By harping on about running, I can also ignore (either publicly or privatly) the fact that I drink too much coffee and that I am somewhat excluded--by virtue of schedule, personal choice, and commitment to Living Responsibly--from activities I may or may not enjoy but nonetheless would prevent me from spending evenings watching movies by myself.
Which isn't bad, really. Either Bad in a platonic, essentialist sense, or bad in a socially-determined judgment of preference. Throughout my life I have had to learn how to deal with other people in various situations, in school (and what an array of Other People!), living with my family (being normal is overrated), at work (many of these Other People are ones whose proximity I would rather measure in light years than meters), with my other family (now I realize normal never existed). Last year, living in the middle of nowhere, I had the opportunity to entertain myself and did. And enjoyed it. And forced myself to go make friends because I sat around the house too much. Somehow, though, since going to college, I have discovered the entertainment and enjoyment to be had in spending time with other people, and I have somehow acquired the opinion that being with other people, whatever the situation and activity, is inherently preferable to being by oneself. Thus: I have forgotten how to be alone.
Much of this is, I think, due to the fact that I am soon leaving and have started Leave Taking Behavior. I am, at least in some cobweb-filled, underwatered corner of my soul, saying goodbye already to the people, places, and things I love in this town. I am realizing that the first several months in Germany will be lonely; I will be transient, spending five weeks travelling, more or less alone, six weeks in one town, then the eventual move to my 'permanent' residence. Where I will know no one and have to make ('find' in German) new friends. This is not a huge problem for me, and will be perhaps the fourth time I have had to start from scratch, as the saying goes. But the beginning is never fun. Hopefully, I won't sabotage my remaining time (now that I have a life I love) by presupposing the future. Congratualtions, self. You've done it again.
