The Shadow of Coming Events

Today I am unfortunately not much the wiser from the good resolves that my blogging instilled in me yesterday. The only educational thing I have done, aside from reading sundry news articles, was reading a sixteen-page New Yorker article. The article, written by George Packer, was about Iraqi translators working for the US in Iraq, who are distrusted, marginalized and neglected by their employers and threatened with violence by their fellow countrymen. Altogether the article painted a bleak picture of the situation in Iraq in general, and a bleak picture in particular of the insular ignorance and callous indifference of the largely unqualified American officials who are or were in charge of it -- nothing new, really.

At the same time that I read that, I must confess that I was watching the latest episode of America's Next Top Model on YouTube. I'm not particularly sure why I find the show so interesting. But I must say that, unlike the Canadian and Australian versions, there is a serious love of fashion and of modelling palpable in the American original, even in its eighth season on television. And slowly I am becoming enlightened as to what modelling, at its best, is about. I think it is very much an art form, like music or painting or any other. Appearance -- clothing, hair, makeup, and above all the model's face and form -- is used to create a work of art that can be as rich in terms of aesthetics, mood, and meaning as any other. And the aesthetic is not simply beauty, or attractiveness. There are many photo shoots on the show that do go against my grain because the subject is primitive, or tasteless, or both. But in the American show, at least, it is made clear that character, individuality, imagination, and feeling at ease with one's self are really the most important characteristics of a model -- in short, that mere physical attractiveness is far from everything. On the whole, the personalities of the contestants are usually interesting and respect-inspiring, if not likeable or unusually intelligent. Even in an environment that is unfamiliar, stressful, and artificial, they always collectively manage to leave a strong personal imprint on the series.

Yesterday evening I began writing a short story entitled "The Convalescent," which was largely inspired by my lonely walks to the Rathaus Schöneberg, and, still more, by my recent fever. The first three paragraphs were decent, then the story derailed and at length I decided that it would be more productive if I slept on it. Today felt too soon to take a look at the story again; besides, I must still think up a plot. Unfortunately I usually think of stories in terms of character, "themes," and sometimes setting, while not having the foggiest idea what to do by way of plot. The main point of this story is really the way that the small problems and maladjustments in life provide a nagging undercurrent of discomfort and even sadness similar to a cold or other slight illness, and can bubble over into something still more worrisome. But I don't want to be preachy, and I am very fond of plots. Right now I'm mostly wondering what the troubles of my heroine should be. I've deprived her mother of her job (money worries is another topic) and made her father have a feud with his father-in-law (marred relationships is a third topic), but for some reason I still don't think that's enough. So I domiciled a family of filthy mice under the kitchen sink in her student apartment and gave her a stingy roommate. Now I have a bad conscience and I still don't think it's enough.

Anyway, perhaps I can write something cheerful soon. It's just that I still feel unlike myself, also because I haven't been out to a museum or concert or lecture or anything else (other than the grocery store and the bakery) in Berlin for weeks. Even a trip to my uncle and aunt in the countryside can't wake me up much. One of the nice things about being at the university was that my mind was generally active, and not only was my conscious pleasantly occupied but my subconscious* was also working away at the unresolved problems of my non-academic life. I don't think that a job, or constant pressure to go somewhere and do something, or anything else would be half as effective in keeping me awake as my pulling myself together and setting out a course of study for myself that would also require me to leave the apartment -- or, better yet, studying at a university again.

If I am put on a waiting list for the FU, which is most likely, I will indeed be forced to pull myself together. At least the coming year can't be nearly as difficult and dreary as the year after I graduated. There, for instance, I spent months gnawing away at a chapter of ancient Greek which, at university, I ended up skipping entirely in order to get to the more essential matter. I know few things harder than trying to gather and synthesize knowledge on one's own, without any practical context, without anyone to explain anything or provide a new perspective, and without anyone to set the learning pace. Besides, I think it is fair to say that studying on my own is more difficult for me than it would be for most people; I am neither patient, persevering, studious, clear-minded, nor particularly self-confident. One benefit of my gap-year pit was, however, that university seemed incredibly easy and rewarding by contrast. At any rate, I think I should put a plan in place for the year(s) where I have to wait to get into university again. During my fever one of the things that I realized was that I would probably take another university-less year very badly.

* I use the terms "conscious" and "subconscious" loosely, since I admittedly don't really know anything about psychoanalysis.

P.S.: Today Mama went to the Leipziger Buchmesse (Leipzig Book Fair). Perhaps she will write something about it somewhere . . . at any rate I can't report anything because I haven't heard her tell about it yet.