Today T., J. and I decided to take a tour of Berlin, guided by particular landmarks. At first we had the idea of splitting up and making the tour into a race. But in the end we decided to simply go together. So we took the bus and the U-Bahn to the main sights of Berlin and took photos of specific places with Gi.'s digital camera, always putting a small owl into the picture (though T. was sometimes worried about looking silly).
Here were our destinations:
* Staatsbibliothek at the Kulturforum
* Sculpture of Fighting Men at Kulturforum
* Statues of three generals of the Napoleonic Wars (Yorck, Blücher, and Gneisenau) beside the Deutsche Staatsoper, Unter den Linden
The statues were unfortunately surrounded by scaffolding for renovation, unlike the time that Joachim and I saw them, but the atmosphere in the small park was most agreeable. A wedding party was doing its photo shoot under the broad plane tree in its centre.
* Monument to Friedrich der Grosse in front of Preussische Staatsbibliothek, Unter den Linden
* Plaque to Max Planck in front of Humboldt University, Unter den Linden
* Berliner Dom
* Rotes Rathaus
The distinctive tower was hidden under white plastic, but we were intrigued by the sculptures in the big fountain in front. It consists of Neptune sitting on a giant shell supported by web-footed mermen entangled in a large net, with four naiads (?) sitting around the margins of the basin and pouring water from amphorae into it, and a turtle and a seal and a crocodile spouting water into the shell.
* Gendarmenmarkt
This square was pleasantly tranquil. I liked the buildings on it, though they are pretty massive. We sat on the steps of the Konzerthaus and took photos, and listened to two musicians play Baroque music at the foot of the building.
* Brandenburger Tor
When we approached the Tor we saw a large semicircle of people in front of it. In the middle of them there were three or four people dressed as Plains Indians, who were dancing and shaking rattles to the sound of a peculiar mixture of pop, highlands and native music. At first I thought it was funny to come across a bit of North America here in Germany, but then I was seriously annoyed at this travesty of Native American culture (also because I found the music so awful). As the annoyance mounted Terese took her time taking photos. The resultant emotions proved what I already knew; that the fiendish sides of my nature come to the fore when cooking or when travelling.
* Reichstag
When we approached the Reichstag we walked right into the fair that is being held in honour of the Tag der Deutschen Einheit (Day of German Unity), which is on October 3rd. Walking along the booths, the fragrance of grilled sausages was highly tempting, but we decided on waffles. Then we were disorientated until we found a bus station on the right side of the road and continued to
* Schloss Bellevue
Conveniently enough, it is located right at the bus stop. We gazed at it and Terese took photos, and a security guard came out of the doorway and gazed at us. Then we walked on to the
* Siegessäule
which very much impressed us. I had expected a pillar perhaps as tall as a tree in the middle of the road. Instead it has an enormous pedestal, with a deck on top where sightseers could stand, and in the large pillar itself there seems to be a winding staircase, by which one can climb to deck at the top, right under the statue of Nike (or an angel?). I also hadn't expected the richly coloured painting along the sheltered portion of the pillar.
But we decided not to approach the Siegessäule any further. There is a path leading into the Tiergarten, where a sign mentions an "Englischer Garten." I was immediately interested, so T. and J. agreed to explore. In the middle of the path there is the monument to Otto von Bismarck. That mighty personage dominates the scene.Below him to his left reclines the Sphinx; in front Atlas strains under the globe; Athena stands on guard to his right; and behind him powerful Hephaistos hammers away at a large but blunt sword. I think this takes hero-worship to a whole new level of ridiculousness.
After passing the monument we found a small enclosed garden, where boxwood and fuschias and white begonias flourished in the middle, under the cheerful gaze of a small bronze boy and his pony. Beyond the garden there is a peculiar modern black building with large office windows. As I told T. and J., it looks like a mausoleum. A policeman plus dog were patrolling outside, and security cameras were positioned at intervals along the tall, spiky black fence that enclosed the grounds. But one part of the grounds was also a grand park, which I very much wanted to enter (even though I was already in a grand park). But we contented ourselves with the roaming-grounds of the hoi polloi, and soon came across a delightful lake.
Then, however, it was already the evening, so we took the bus (or, rather, three buses) back to our apartment. We'll have to see the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, Schloss Charlottenburg, Humboldtschloss, etc., some other time.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
Tasteninstrumenten and Psychoanalysis
Yesterday Papa, T., J. and I went to the Musikinstrumentenmuseum at Potsdamer Platz, on the invitation of friends, to attend a guided tour of the keyboard instruments (Tasteninstrumenten) in that museum. We came quite early, so we first wended our way through the display cases and past the pianos lining the walls, and I tried to overcome an absurd nervousness about meeting people by focusing on the musical instruments. There were about twenty people in the tour. It began with a short lecture by a friend of my parents that carefully reviewed the history of Tasteninstrumenten, beginning with Pythagoras's monochord as well as the organ, and ending with the modern Hammerklavier. She described how these instruments worked, too, so that even I could understand (though I was still shaky in my grasp of the concept of registers at the end).
Then we roamed about the first floor of the museum, and a Herr R. played pieces that demonstrated the various properties of the old cembali, clavichords, etc. I like the sound of the early pianos very much, because even though it is metallic it is so fine and delicate and sharp. After all, bells are metal too. There was one early piano, however, that sounded like a barely audible cross between the twanging of an elastic and a guitar; Herr R. played the Fantasia in d minor by Mozart on it, and he really had to hammer down the bottom notes with his little finger in order to even produce a sound, which made it sound still worse. There was also a clavichord or cembalo (perhaps I should have paid still more attention . . .) where the body of the piano rose up above the keyboard in an elegant harp-like shape, which -- as Papa and T. said -- sounded the best of all.
Another nice thing about the early pianos was the painting of their cases. I think that music is greatly added to by atmosphere; I'm sure I could play Mozart much better if I were in the room of a palace built in the eighteenth century, sitting on a bright stool with curvy legs, with a painting by (for instance) Watteau on the wall, and acacias visible through a Neoclassical window -- and also an audience might enjoy it more. Even though, of course, that probably only helps if one intends to give an eighteenth-century-ish interpretation to the music.
Anyway, this morning I learned Russian for fifty minutes, writing a quiz on identifying the genders of nouns (I was tripped up by the animal names; "kangaroo," for instance, is masculine, not neuter -- which is nice, I think), then learning how to write the nominative plural forms of regular singular masculine nouns. This is part of my attempt to learn at home precisely as if I were still at university. If I hadn't woken up so late today the attempt might have succeeded as well as it did yesterday.
At around noon J. and I went to the Volkspark again. It's a sunny day, and the park was quite cheerful. The "Bucheckern" trees have already scattered their funny furry, spiky seed-pods over the ground, and the horse chestnut trees, whose leaves have shrivelled on the branches and turned a rusty colour, are dropping their spiky light green fruit which in their turn open to reveal the earliest chestnuts. Autumn is my favourite time of year, but I hope that summer will continue a while longer -- oddly enough, I think I've always liked autumn especially because it's the beginning of a new school or university year. But the beginning of the academic year is the most pleasant part, I find -- it all goes downhill from there, except if I'm in a class where everyone seems strange and hostile, in which case it generally improves in the course of the year.
At any rate, after I came back I told Papa that I wanted to begin reading about psychoanalysis, because I have the impression that it helps one to think more clearly and, of course, because it's really interesting. Then I asked what I should begin reading (this because I once began Sigmund Freud's Der Witz and I barely understood anything); Papa suggested Das zurückgebliebene Kind und seine Mutter by Maud Mannoni, and Selbsterfahrung in der Therapie: Theorie und Praxis by M. Masud R. Khan (both books being translations). I read the first chapter of the former book, which is about how mothers cope with having children with Down's syndrome (or, perhaps, rather don't cope). It was quite disturbing, because the author describes the deep crisis that the mothers experience, and how this translates into destructive behaviour towards the children and towards themselves. The author also states that a mother goes through her pregnancy expecting her child either to compensate for her own childhood, or to live out a similar childhood. When this child is born with a serious disability, this hope crumbles, and the burden of the mother's past unexpectedly returns in full force at the very time when she must also deal with many other things.
After reading this I wonder if it is possible to have children without seriously harming them because of one's insecurities. If I had children I think I would try to let them live their own lives as much as possible, and try not to emotionally exploit them, but I think that my habit of wallowing in insecurity, and my irregularly developed consciousness, would really make that difficult. But I imagine that an important rule when reading psychoanalysis is not to anticipate a problem, but simply to be able to identify it when it comes up, or else that problem or a similar one may artificially develop.
Then we roamed about the first floor of the museum, and a Herr R. played pieces that demonstrated the various properties of the old cembali, clavichords, etc. I like the sound of the early pianos very much, because even though it is metallic it is so fine and delicate and sharp. After all, bells are metal too. There was one early piano, however, that sounded like a barely audible cross between the twanging of an elastic and a guitar; Herr R. played the Fantasia in d minor by Mozart on it, and he really had to hammer down the bottom notes with his little finger in order to even produce a sound, which made it sound still worse. There was also a clavichord or cembalo (perhaps I should have paid still more attention . . .) where the body of the piano rose up above the keyboard in an elegant harp-like shape, which -- as Papa and T. said -- sounded the best of all.
Another nice thing about the early pianos was the painting of their cases. I think that music is greatly added to by atmosphere; I'm sure I could play Mozart much better if I were in the room of a palace built in the eighteenth century, sitting on a bright stool with curvy legs, with a painting by (for instance) Watteau on the wall, and acacias visible through a Neoclassical window -- and also an audience might enjoy it more. Even though, of course, that probably only helps if one intends to give an eighteenth-century-ish interpretation to the music.
Anyway, this morning I learned Russian for fifty minutes, writing a quiz on identifying the genders of nouns (I was tripped up by the animal names; "kangaroo," for instance, is masculine, not neuter -- which is nice, I think), then learning how to write the nominative plural forms of regular singular masculine nouns. This is part of my attempt to learn at home precisely as if I were still at university. If I hadn't woken up so late today the attempt might have succeeded as well as it did yesterday.
At around noon J. and I went to the Volkspark again. It's a sunny day, and the park was quite cheerful. The "Bucheckern" trees have already scattered their funny furry, spiky seed-pods over the ground, and the horse chestnut trees, whose leaves have shrivelled on the branches and turned a rusty colour, are dropping their spiky light green fruit which in their turn open to reveal the earliest chestnuts. Autumn is my favourite time of year, but I hope that summer will continue a while longer -- oddly enough, I think I've always liked autumn especially because it's the beginning of a new school or university year. But the beginning of the academic year is the most pleasant part, I find -- it all goes downhill from there, except if I'm in a class where everyone seems strange and hostile, in which case it generally improves in the course of the year.
At any rate, after I came back I told Papa that I wanted to begin reading about psychoanalysis, because I have the impression that it helps one to think more clearly and, of course, because it's really interesting. Then I asked what I should begin reading (this because I once began Sigmund Freud's Der Witz and I barely understood anything); Papa suggested Das zurückgebliebene Kind und seine Mutter by Maud Mannoni, and Selbsterfahrung in der Therapie: Theorie und Praxis by M. Masud R. Khan (both books being translations). I read the first chapter of the former book, which is about how mothers cope with having children with Down's syndrome (or, perhaps, rather don't cope). It was quite disturbing, because the author describes the deep crisis that the mothers experience, and how this translates into destructive behaviour towards the children and towards themselves. The author also states that a mother goes through her pregnancy expecting her child either to compensate for her own childhood, or to live out a similar childhood. When this child is born with a serious disability, this hope crumbles, and the burden of the mother's past unexpectedly returns in full force at the very time when she must also deal with many other things.
After reading this I wonder if it is possible to have children without seriously harming them because of one's insecurities. If I had children I think I would try to let them live their own lives as much as possible, and try not to emotionally exploit them, but I think that my habit of wallowing in insecurity, and my irregularly developed consciousness, would really make that difficult. But I imagine that an important rule when reading psychoanalysis is not to anticipate a problem, but simply to be able to identify it when it comes up, or else that problem or a similar one may artificially develop.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Sunday, As It Should Be
Today was a delightful, relaxing and happy day. I showered, browsed parts of the newspaper, watched an unusually funny clip from The Daily Show on YouTube, charged our videocamera (which we haven't used in over ten years, I think), printed out short story fragments, looked at old photos, and played the piano. J. and I also walked to the Kleistpark; it was sunny but not too warm. Dinner was gulasch (beef and vegetable soup; with rotini in our case), with ice cream, Dominosteine and Lebkuchenherzen (the latter two being delectable Christmas confections that have just begun to appear on the shelves of Plus). Uncle Pu also phoned and invited us to his birthday party, which will take place next Sunday.
Among my works that I printed out today there was a play (which I started to write perhaps a year ago) based on Beowulf. It's rather light-hearted, considering that people are being killed, but I prefer to think of it as a children's version rather than a callous version.
Anyway, this morning my parents and I, sitting in the living room, heard a continuous drumming sound coming from further down the street. We were quite annoyed. When Joachim and I went to the Kleistpark later there were still police vehicles and officers standing around, and an orange city works vehicle was sweeping up plastic cups from the road. Yesterday, at the same location, there had been refreshment stands for participants in a roller-skating race. It turns out, on consulting the Berliner Zeitung website, that the Berlin Marathon took place today; this was probably the source of the ruckus.
The Berlin Marathon is only one big local event that I've basically missed; there were also the elections. To summarize the elections, they were for the Berlin parliament, and coincided with the elections for the Mecklenburg-Vorpommern (a separate German state) parliament. In the Berlin elections the SPD (a left-wing party) candidate for mayor, Klaus Wowereit, was re-elected. Without knowing much of the party platforms I lean toward the SPD anyway, so I'm content. In the Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, the neo-Nazi party NPD received over 7% of the vote; about twice as much as the Green Party. This result made me considerably angry, for evident reasons. I don't want to condemn people whom I do not know, and I certainly don't want to callously pass over the misery of unemployment, but voting for a neo-Nazi party not only implies support for despicable morality, but it also implies monumental stupidity. I'd as soon vote for dinosaurs to come back to roam the Earth. But I don't think that these election results prove anything of larger importance. It is amazing to think that sixty-five years ago Berlin was "all white," and then to look out the window and see Turkish families walking by, or the African man in tribal costume, and to feel that it's completely normal and unremarkable. I don't think that people are better now than they were then, I'm just happy that the circumstances are different and that skin colour is no real issue to most people at present. I felt similarly contented when I saw the photo of a jubilant Klaus Wowereit embracing his same-sex "partner" (I use the quotation marks because I personally would prefer to use another, less bland term) on the front page of the post-election Berliner Zeitung. My faith in progress as a historical concept has been shaky for many years now, but this is one of the rare times where I admit that there is some basis for it.
But now T. would like to go on the laptop . . .
Among my works that I printed out today there was a play (which I started to write perhaps a year ago) based on Beowulf. It's rather light-hearted, considering that people are being killed, but I prefer to think of it as a children's version rather than a callous version.
Anyway, this morning my parents and I, sitting in the living room, heard a continuous drumming sound coming from further down the street. We were quite annoyed. When Joachim and I went to the Kleistpark later there were still police vehicles and officers standing around, and an orange city works vehicle was sweeping up plastic cups from the road. Yesterday, at the same location, there had been refreshment stands for participants in a roller-skating race. It turns out, on consulting the Berliner Zeitung website, that the Berlin Marathon took place today; this was probably the source of the ruckus.
The Berlin Marathon is only one big local event that I've basically missed; there were also the elections. To summarize the elections, they were for the Berlin parliament, and coincided with the elections for the Mecklenburg-Vorpommern (a separate German state) parliament. In the Berlin elections the SPD (a left-wing party) candidate for mayor, Klaus Wowereit, was re-elected. Without knowing much of the party platforms I lean toward the SPD anyway, so I'm content. In the Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, the neo-Nazi party NPD received over 7% of the vote; about twice as much as the Green Party. This result made me considerably angry, for evident reasons. I don't want to condemn people whom I do not know, and I certainly don't want to callously pass over the misery of unemployment, but voting for a neo-Nazi party not only implies support for despicable morality, but it also implies monumental stupidity. I'd as soon vote for dinosaurs to come back to roam the Earth. But I don't think that these election results prove anything of larger importance. It is amazing to think that sixty-five years ago Berlin was "all white," and then to look out the window and see Turkish families walking by, or the African man in tribal costume, and to feel that it's completely normal and unremarkable. I don't think that people are better now than they were then, I'm just happy that the circumstances are different and that skin colour is no real issue to most people at present. I felt similarly contented when I saw the photo of a jubilant Klaus Wowereit embracing his same-sex "partner" (I use the quotation marks because I personally would prefer to use another, less bland term) on the front page of the post-election Berliner Zeitung. My faith in progress as a historical concept has been shaky for many years now, but this is one of the rare times where I admit that there is some basis for it.
But now T. would like to go on the laptop . . .
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Another Attempt at Rest and Relaxation
Today is a splendid sunny weekend day. The mid-day break is just coming to a close, so I will be able to play the piano soon.
I haven't done much the past few days. I've decided to simply forget about doing things for my future and to stop worrying. So far it's working; I already feel much better, and I haven't been feeling so sorry for myself or navel-gazing much any more. In October, I hear, the lectures will begin at the university, so I've decided to end my holiday on that occasion. If I ever had any doubts, the past few years have shown that true happiness arises from a proper mix of work and pleasure, so I don't fear that I will degenerate into mindless laziness.
Anyway, until October I'm reading online books and real books, and playing the piano, and watching videos at youtube.com. These videos have thus far included three Japanese animé films: Howl's Moving Castle (very peculiar), Spirited Away, and Nausicaa. I watched the films with my critical thinking dormant, and they were very relaxing. Other than these films I've also watched episodes of the Colbert Report and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Maybe a week ago T. and I also watched clips from classical music performances on YouTube. There was, for instance, one where Glenn Gould was recording Bach's Italian Concerto in New York; different takes and commentary were interspersed with aerial views of the streets of the city. But there were also Brahms's Hungarian Dances as played by Yehudi Menuhin, etc.
My Russian is progressing nicely. I've already learned the names of professions, nouns and adjectives of nationality, nominative personal pronouns, and rules for recognizing masculine nouns, and my mind is retaining much of the information. So far there has been at least one error in the textbook, so I've become wary, but the density and conciseness of the information in it are decent.
Finally, this morning I also browsed the New York Times and Guardian websites, as is my wont, and found, among others, an interesting article about an early copy of the Mona Lisa.
I haven't done much the past few days. I've decided to simply forget about doing things for my future and to stop worrying. So far it's working; I already feel much better, and I haven't been feeling so sorry for myself or navel-gazing much any more. In October, I hear, the lectures will begin at the university, so I've decided to end my holiday on that occasion. If I ever had any doubts, the past few years have shown that true happiness arises from a proper mix of work and pleasure, so I don't fear that I will degenerate into mindless laziness.
Anyway, until October I'm reading online books and real books, and playing the piano, and watching videos at youtube.com. These videos have thus far included three Japanese animé films: Howl's Moving Castle (very peculiar), Spirited Away, and Nausicaa. I watched the films with my critical thinking dormant, and they were very relaxing. Other than these films I've also watched episodes of the Colbert Report and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Maybe a week ago T. and I also watched clips from classical music performances on YouTube. There was, for instance, one where Glenn Gould was recording Bach's Italian Concerto in New York; different takes and commentary were interspersed with aerial views of the streets of the city. But there were also Brahms's Hungarian Dances as played by Yehudi Menuhin, etc.
My Russian is progressing nicely. I've already learned the names of professions, nouns and adjectives of nationality, nominative personal pronouns, and rules for recognizing masculine nouns, and my mind is retaining much of the information. So far there has been at least one error in the textbook, so I've become wary, but the density and conciseness of the information in it are decent.
Finally, this morning I also browsed the New York Times and Guardian websites, as is my wont, and found, among others, an interesting article about an early copy of the Mona Lisa.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Woe is Me: An Essay
Today has been another nice day -- quite sunny, not too hot, and, in my case, marked by a good mood. I can't say I did much. I woke up early (before ten), read books by a certain Harold McGrath (with a steadily decreasing opinion of their literary value, though they are entertaining nonetheless -- for me, at least) at gutenberg.org, showered, copied out Russian vocabulary and completed some exercises, and did the dishes. Then Uncle Pu came and we all sat in the living room and talked. After that I shopped for groceries, and prepared a potato soup and a salad for dinner (there was going to be roast chicken too, but I ended up not having time for it). I've been thinking lately that I should accustom myself to executing housework as speedily as possible, and I like cooking unless I happen to be in a bad mood; hence the dishwashing and culinary enterprise. When Papa and Ge. came home from Ge.'s flight school we had ice cream, too.
The learning of Russian is going fairly well. I would prefer to be motivated in learning it by a love for the language, but presently I think that I am learning it just to become more knowledgeable, which makes it less fun. On the other hand, I am genuinely interested in comparing Russian to the other languages I've taken a look at. It is rather depressing that I keep on starting languages (ancient Greek, Italian, etc.) and not continuing them. French is the glowing exception; I've discovered that I'm quite at home in the language now.
As for my future plans, I haven't done any more research yet. My latest plan is to find a piano teacher, and then to find a part-time job. That way my mind won't stagnate, and I'll have a distraction from my job if I need it. Today I decided that it may be better if I also try writing and publishing commercially viable short stories.By "commercially viable" I don't mean sensationalist and low quality, but unambitious and about subjects that are probably more interesting to the average reader. I don't want to publish poetry, because, firstly, there is a lot of it out there already, and secondly, I have only managed to write three poems naturally and completely sincerely (and one of them unfortunately resembles a pre-existing poem) in my life, and I wrote those for myself. Anyway, these are short-term plans. My studies and real career are still a knotty problem.
I still have many stories written just for my own pleasure waiting to be completed. There is my story about the British spy, which I should take a look at again -- also my "Friedrich von Tautzick" story. I have a third story underway; it is about an American schoolgirl who is summoned by her imperious aunt (who looks somewhat like Madeleine Albright) to Berlin to study at a prestigious private school with her cousin. The main setting is Berlin-Dahlem. I've made the psychology of the girl similar to my own, and it feels good to be able to express and analyze a portion of my "teenage angst" in this story. I know nothing about German private schools and nothing (directly at least) about the higher socioeconomic circles in Berlin, but so far that hasn't impeded me, since I just try to be as realistic as possible, and the private school hasn't come up yet. However -- I haven't thought out a plotline for the story yet; so far it's all development, even though I guess that's all right as long as the reader isn't led to believe that a climax is coming. I wonder how far real life does conform to the introduction - rising suspense - climax (- anti-climax) - dénouement pattern. I suppose that an important part of art is to search for patterns and climaxes in life, even if the pattern is only an approximation, and the climax not recognized as such by those who experience it. Perhaps I don't believe in climaxes because my life has seemed boring -- not that I regret that fact; as someone has said (unless I misquote), "Un peuple heureux n'a pas d'histoire," and this statement can be applied just as well to my own individual story.
Anyway, I've digressed enough. It's probably because I rarely have conversations with others that I go on and on once I have a pen in hand. Not only is my sociableness repressed, but also my general conceited impulse to air my thoughts for all to see. Such are the trials of a hermit. I'm not even a real hermit anyway. It's only when I feel defensive that I am a hermit; otherwise I am a cheerful girl -- sometimes too cheerful, simply because I feel so restrained and repressed by my self-doubt most of the time. To further prove that I am no real hermit, one reason why I don't learn languages for longer periods on my own is that it makes little sense to me unless I share it with other people. There is only so far I am willing to go to secure my own self-approbation. Sometimes I think it doesn't really matter how much I grow in terms of mind and character, if no one sees it and no one is the better for it. But I keep on learning things and trying to be better because I haven't anything else to do.
It is difficult, I suppose particularly at my age, to be aware that I am waiting for something to rouse my mind, to develop the talents that I have, and to help me to be the un-self-absorbed and helpful person that I want to be. I waited in high school for the moment when I would figure out what I want to be; I waited during one long gap year for life to start again; and now that I am no longer at UBC I am waiting again. Not only am I waiting, but I constantly doubt if I should wait. Am I being lazy, or am I truly only pausing for something to fall into place before I can go on? The university year here has already begun; that must wait. But what about the college year? And what about a job? -- Altogether I prefer having time for reflection, but it is hard to reflect when I feel pressured to act. How am I supposed to know what I want to do? One thing that I do feel strongly is that there is something big missing in my life. It does not seem to be university, because I felt this thing missing there nearly as much as anywhere else. I also do not think that the missing thing is money. So at present I am not eager to go back to university or to have a job, because I don't think that doing these things will fill the void.
The learning of Russian is going fairly well. I would prefer to be motivated in learning it by a love for the language, but presently I think that I am learning it just to become more knowledgeable, which makes it less fun. On the other hand, I am genuinely interested in comparing Russian to the other languages I've taken a look at. It is rather depressing that I keep on starting languages (ancient Greek, Italian, etc.) and not continuing them. French is the glowing exception; I've discovered that I'm quite at home in the language now.
As for my future plans, I haven't done any more research yet. My latest plan is to find a piano teacher, and then to find a part-time job. That way my mind won't stagnate, and I'll have a distraction from my job if I need it. Today I decided that it may be better if I also try writing and publishing commercially viable short stories.By "commercially viable" I don't mean sensationalist and low quality, but unambitious and about subjects that are probably more interesting to the average reader. I don't want to publish poetry, because, firstly, there is a lot of it out there already, and secondly, I have only managed to write three poems naturally and completely sincerely (and one of them unfortunately resembles a pre-existing poem) in my life, and I wrote those for myself. Anyway, these are short-term plans. My studies and real career are still a knotty problem.
I still have many stories written just for my own pleasure waiting to be completed. There is my story about the British spy, which I should take a look at again -- also my "Friedrich von Tautzick" story. I have a third story underway; it is about an American schoolgirl who is summoned by her imperious aunt (who looks somewhat like Madeleine Albright) to Berlin to study at a prestigious private school with her cousin. The main setting is Berlin-Dahlem. I've made the psychology of the girl similar to my own, and it feels good to be able to express and analyze a portion of my "teenage angst" in this story. I know nothing about German private schools and nothing (directly at least) about the higher socioeconomic circles in Berlin, but so far that hasn't impeded me, since I just try to be as realistic as possible, and the private school hasn't come up yet. However -- I haven't thought out a plotline for the story yet; so far it's all development, even though I guess that's all right as long as the reader isn't led to believe that a climax is coming. I wonder how far real life does conform to the introduction - rising suspense - climax (- anti-climax) - dénouement pattern. I suppose that an important part of art is to search for patterns and climaxes in life, even if the pattern is only an approximation, and the climax not recognized as such by those who experience it. Perhaps I don't believe in climaxes because my life has seemed boring -- not that I regret that fact; as someone has said (unless I misquote), "Un peuple heureux n'a pas d'histoire," and this statement can be applied just as well to my own individual story.
Anyway, I've digressed enough. It's probably because I rarely have conversations with others that I go on and on once I have a pen in hand. Not only is my sociableness repressed, but also my general conceited impulse to air my thoughts for all to see. Such are the trials of a hermit. I'm not even a real hermit anyway. It's only when I feel defensive that I am a hermit; otherwise I am a cheerful girl -- sometimes too cheerful, simply because I feel so restrained and repressed by my self-doubt most of the time. To further prove that I am no real hermit, one reason why I don't learn languages for longer periods on my own is that it makes little sense to me unless I share it with other people. There is only so far I am willing to go to secure my own self-approbation. Sometimes I think it doesn't really matter how much I grow in terms of mind and character, if no one sees it and no one is the better for it. But I keep on learning things and trying to be better because I haven't anything else to do.
It is difficult, I suppose particularly at my age, to be aware that I am waiting for something to rouse my mind, to develop the talents that I have, and to help me to be the un-self-absorbed and helpful person that I want to be. I waited in high school for the moment when I would figure out what I want to be; I waited during one long gap year for life to start again; and now that I am no longer at UBC I am waiting again. Not only am I waiting, but I constantly doubt if I should wait. Am I being lazy, or am I truly only pausing for something to fall into place before I can go on? The university year here has already begun; that must wait. But what about the college year? And what about a job? -- Altogether I prefer having time for reflection, but it is hard to reflect when I feel pressured to act. How am I supposed to know what I want to do? One thing that I do feel strongly is that there is something big missing in my life. It does not seem to be university, because I felt this thing missing there nearly as much as anywhere else. I also do not think that the missing thing is money. So at present I am not eager to go back to university or to have a job, because I don't think that doing these things will fill the void.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
A Splendid Birthday
Yesterday I turned twenty-one. In the evening my uncle Pudel came, and we played games and talked in the living room; then we had cake (baked by Papa, of course) and other refreshments. Papa, Pudel and I also played trios, three from Haydn (in C, D, and G major, I think; perhaps even in that order) and the beginnings of two from Beethoven, where Pudel played the violin well whereas Papa and I were out at sea for most of the time (which was, in a way, fun too). Then there were three congratulatory phone calls, which also made me feel very cheerful.
Most unexpectedly, I came away from yesterday feeling far more optimistic about the future. My aunt raised the possibility of going to an American university in Berlin, or to an international university, and internet research revealed that while the former option is not feasible, the second is. Also, I'd already found several potential jobs, which are hardly intellectually challenging or what I want to do later on, but would at least enable me to travel, etc., and keep up my end of household expenses.
This morning the good mood and energy were still there. I read several paragraphs about soft and hard consonants in Russian (in the past few days I had already learnt the Russian alphabet); continued Margot Fonteyn's autobiography; listened to a short portion of Mozart's Zauberflöte; and took out Nicholas Nickleby hoping that I will read it.
Anyway, now I must go, because we're having a pancake breakfast (brunch?). (c:
Most unexpectedly, I came away from yesterday feeling far more optimistic about the future. My aunt raised the possibility of going to an American university in Berlin, or to an international university, and internet research revealed that while the former option is not feasible, the second is. Also, I'd already found several potential jobs, which are hardly intellectually challenging or what I want to do later on, but would at least enable me to travel, etc., and keep up my end of household expenses.
This morning the good mood and energy were still there. I read several paragraphs about soft and hard consonants in Russian (in the past few days I had already learnt the Russian alphabet); continued Margot Fonteyn's autobiography; listened to a short portion of Mozart's Zauberflöte; and took out Nicholas Nickleby hoping that I will read it.
Anyway, now I must go, because we're having a pancake breakfast (brunch?). (c:
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Rembrandt Exhibition
Source: http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/r/rembran/painting/selfport/index.html
Today J., Mama's friend G., Mama and I took the bus to the Kunstforum at Potsdamer Platz in order to see the exhibitions of Rembrandt's paintings and drawings. We began in the Kupferstichkabinett, where small sketches (usually not much taller or wider than the breadth of a hand), often in silver pen or black chalk, were displayed. The motifs were sometimes ordinary people, often Biblical characters in particular scenes (e.g. Susanna and the Elders), and landscapes. The sketches were usually simple, bare outlines (sometimes, as Mama said, they were mainly intended to capture movement), sometimes with light or darkness added with chalk -- except where, occasionally, a face was worked out with a fine, concentrated detail suggestive of Leonardo da Vinci. At the right side of the room there were sketches by Rembrandt's students; Joachim made at least two wisecracks about how some of these obviously couldn't be by Rembrandt. I admit I was disappointed with some sketches, for being -- with all due respect -- crude. But there were about a dozen that I found delightful, and two or three that really "spoke to me." One of the delightful ones is that of a squalling child with a large unpretty face distorted by his temper, trying to wriggle out of the arms of his mother, whose eyebrows are pulled together with annoyance and whose mouth is a thin line with mingled effort and suppression of her annoyance; an old woman looks on impotently.
Then J. and I had a break in the cafeteria. When we were at the counter I made a remark about the unfortunate reality that older and more important people are usually served first (i.e. that the waiters are slightly snobby). I think that the "older and more important person" behind us heard; at any rate, he asked the waiter to serve us first, and he was smiling when I turned to give him a look of gratitude. On second thoughts, it might be more polite and respectful to let older persons "jump the queue."
Afterwards we descended (and then ascended) into thetwo special exhibit halls. In the anteroom between them it was pretty hilarious to see a numerous semi-circle of museum-goers contemplating a large chronology of Rembrandt's life as if it were another painting. I must say, by the way, that it annoys me when people in a museum briefly favour a painting with a severe stare, then bend down to quickly read the description of the painting, then move on. But in another way it's amusing. Altogether it was interesting to observe the live people in the museum as well. Nowhere outside of a museum have I seen artistic-looking young men with free wavy hair who seem to come straight out of an old painting or book. Today there was one middle-aged gentleman in a black suit who (with one arm tucked behind his back) confidently strode out in front of a painting, as if the loose crowd of people were not there, then whipped off his glasses to have a better look. Then there was one tall woman with a tight skirt, neutral pastel shirt, and reddish hair in a massive bun, which combined to create a timeless secretary look; she seemed to have a true enjoyment of art, as she took her time with each painting.
Anyway, to return to the art, I liked the atmosphere in the two painting exhibition rooms very well. The lighting was soft but sufficient; the walls were in a subdued dark green or red; and the golden and dark brown frames of the paintings, and still more the warm colours of the paintings themselves, were truly in harmony. The pitch of conversation was low, and while there were many people, it was still reasonably easy to look at the paintings. One of the paintings in these rooms is the one entitled "Artemisia," which is depicted at the top of this post. Then there were at least two self-portraits, many paintings of Biblical scenes (Jacob wrestling with the angel, Moses holding up the Ten Commandments, Joseph's dream, Jesus and Mary Magdalene, etc.), and many portraits. A large portrait of an old lady in a black dress and tight white cap is positively startling because the dark background and dress contrast so strongly with the bright white collar and pale face, and the hands that glow in a nearly ghostly way out of the middle; but this is, I think, common in portraits.
On the whole, I very much like the warmth and naturalness of Rembrandt's works, though I wouldn't say that he was my favourite painter. It is also interesting to see how his art bridges over into modern times. His sketches sometimes have a contemporary air; the apparent freedom with which he handled the brush also forms a contrast to the intricate detail and tiny brushwork of, as far as I know, most other painters up to and perhaps sometimes including the impressionists.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
The Rime of the Hungry Goat
The goat espied on distant hills
A green field fed by glist'ning rills.
Despite a gale, despite the cold,
"I'll go!" declared our hero bold.
As blacker grew the dark'ning vale
Our hero's courage did not fail;
He sprang from stone to slipp'ry stone
Regardless of each threatened bone;
His heels flew high into the sky;
The river, no less fast, rushed by.
But then, as eventide drew near
A little hint of horrid fear
Attacked our goatish hero brave
And made his hairy mien more grave.
A badger snarled and snapped its jaws
And claws peeped forth from all four paws,
And hobbling over roots and sticks
Our goat was in a nasty fix.
And now that fearful demon, sleep,
Encouraged him to homewards creep.
His hooves felt heavy, leaden, weak;
His beady goatish eyes were bleak.
He gasped and panted, coughed and cried:
"My beard! but I am sorely tried."
At last he stumbled through a gate
Which twice he butted with his pate.
There was one hill, and one more fount,
And then he reached the verdant mount.
O lofty goat! O lovely beast!
Our hero had a glorious feast.
Written November 2003
(Disclaimer: I think that I may have unintentionally borrowed phrases, etc., from preexisting books or poems.)
A green field fed by glist'ning rills.
Despite a gale, despite the cold,
"I'll go!" declared our hero bold.
As blacker grew the dark'ning vale
Our hero's courage did not fail;
He sprang from stone to slipp'ry stone
Regardless of each threatened bone;
His heels flew high into the sky;
The river, no less fast, rushed by.
But then, as eventide drew near
A little hint of horrid fear
Attacked our goatish hero brave
And made his hairy mien more grave.
A badger snarled and snapped its jaws
And claws peeped forth from all four paws,
And hobbling over roots and sticks
Our goat was in a nasty fix.
And now that fearful demon, sleep,
Encouraged him to homewards creep.
His hooves felt heavy, leaden, weak;
His beady goatish eyes were bleak.
He gasped and panted, coughed and cried:
"My beard! but I am sorely tried."
At last he stumbled through a gate
Which twice he butted with his pate.
There was one hill, and one more fount,
And then he reached the verdant mount.
O lofty goat! O lovely beast!
Our hero had a glorious feast.
Written November 2003
(Disclaimer: I think that I may have unintentionally borrowed phrases, etc., from preexisting books or poems.)
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