Music and a Mystery

Today I emerged from an absorption in online reading, piano playing, and watching opera videos on YouTube, and went for a walk in the Kleistpark with J. The weather was rainy, and the sunlight quite dimmed except for a few bursts of brightness. When we went out, the asphalt had mostly dried, and other people were venturing out. In the portion of the park beside the Kammergericht building, we spotted a plant that I didn't know; it was a hibiscus-like shrub with long shoots full of large leaves, and topped by large pink-petalled flowers with large, furry, pale yellow stamens and pistils in the centre.

I had a good piano session today, too, browsing through the Klavierbüchlein für Anna Maria Magdalena Bach, Beethoven's middle sonatas, Mozart sonatas, Schubert's sonata D 960, Chopin's waltzes and mazurkas and nocturnes (as well as the Polonaise in A major), Grade 6 and 7 pieces from the Toronto Conservatory of Music books, Claude Daquin's "Cuckoo Song," the piano part of Händel's Largo arranged for the piano and cello, and Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte. I also took a look at songs by Schubert, picking out the melodies and trying out the accompaniments. I found "Ave Maria," but I don't think I'll play it much, because I think that one can tire of it very quickly. With the Mozart my fingers were fortunately nimble enough to play with appropriate lightness and clarity, and some of his sonatas went very well indeed.

Besides this, I am re-reading The Crimson Blind, written by Fred M. White and published in 1905, at gutenberg.org. The protagonist is David Steel, a writer of crime fiction, who is summoned by a mysterious phone call and a thousand pounds to give advice to a damsel in distress at the dead of night. The advice is duly given, but when the writer returns to his home, he finds a seriously wounded man in his study. The police are called in, the injured man is brought to the hospital in critical condition, and Mr. Steel must clear himself of the suspicion of attempted murder. To do this he enlists a friend, Hatherley Bell, an excellent doctor of most astute mind. Mr. Bell soon discovers that the enemy who is responsible for the wounded man is the same enemy who blighted his own career by framing him for the theft of a Rembrandt painting. The enemy's name is Reginald Henson, a cunning scoundrel who is known to the world as a genial philanthropist. The damsel in distress is one of two sisters whose aunt is being blackmailed by their relative Mr. Henson (two thousand pounds for new hospital beds, for instance). Anyway, as I write I see that the plot is rather complicated, but it does make sense in the end, and it is a good yarn (reminiscent of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "Adventure of the Copper Beeches").

A Second Picnic in the Volkspark

Today Gi. came home from the countryside, with a vigorous tan, a formidable scrape and bruise on one shoulder from falling off his bicycle, and a happy healthy air.

Soon thereafter we all went to the Volkspark for a picnic. It's a "second" picnic because we had a first one nearly exactly a year ago. Anyway, we walked all the way along the Belziger Straße (which seems much shorter when one isn't walking alone), and crossed the street in front of the Rathaus, where tall scaffolding currently reaches up to the bell tower for the renovations. Then we wended past the fountain with the golden stag, over the pale grey Carl Zuckmayer Bridge, and along the meandering green lawns criss-crossed by paths and shaded over by grand leafy trees, which look as if they came out of an old English landscape painting. There was a hint of autumn in the yellow and crispy fallen linden leaf-petals, but everything else was flourishingly green. Between the large clouds, the sky was very blue, and when we had arrived at the grassy area in front of the large playground, the sun eventually appeared.

We started to play badminton, and then W., Si., A., and O. arrived. After despatching the edibles, we alternately passed around the soccer ball (and played "piggy-in-the-middle"), played badminton and frisbee, and rested. I didn't feel like playing soccer, but I played lots of badminton and a little frisbee. O. rode his bike through the countryside, and at one point W. and A. went off for a game of table-tennis. There were many joggers, a gaggle of Nordic walkers, young couples, families with children, and single walkers who passed by, and we fortunately hit or ran into none of them. In the peculiar playground area with three large basins (for skateboarding, perhaps?), a small drama took place as a little boy hurt himself, then cried, surrounded by worried family and affectionately petted. As for insects, only one wasp haunted our festal board, but the mosquitoes were at least three in number.

And now all of us are home again! Since my return I've already read through The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace. Earlier today I had finished The Angel of Terror (which I didn't much like) by the same author, and Blindfolded. I just started Ben Hur, and therefore hope to be spared any further crimes except those of taste. There is, by the way, a line in Blindfolded which I rather like, about someone "who talked about the weather with a fertility of commonplaces that excited my admiration."

As for my usual ruminations on life and career and so on, I've been thinking about learning more about people as well as books. How to go about it is a sort of conundrum: given an adolescent who is currently not in university, with no taste for bars or clubs, a fear of being formally presented to people, and no wish to enter any organization, how can said adolescent broaden her knowledge of society? Trading walks to graveyards and parks for walks to tourist hotspots, lectures and concerts is probably not enough. Maybe I should find out what kinds of organizations there are before I refuse to enter them. If all goes well, I may yet become an environmentalist scientologist freemason, with an expired membership card for a fringe political party dedicated to reestablishing the monarchy, and a large acquaintance.

Mama's Birthday and the Briny Deep

This morning I woke up at around eight o'clock. I remembered right away that it was Mama's birthday, and serenaded her with "Happy Birthday" as she sat at the computer (Papa was also up; the rest were sleeping). Then I went on a round of errands; I bought cake from the bakery (Ge.'s suggestion) and pink roses from the florist's (my own idea). T. had suggested doing the dishes for Mama, but after doing one round (where Mama dried the dishes anyway) my enthusiasm waned.

After Papa's return to the university we feasted on the cake and pickles and hot cocoa/ovaltine. The dish stacks in the background did not impede our enjoyment of the lunch in the least, whereas the absence of Gi. -- who is in the countryside -- was felt. During the subsequent interlude I read online books and a nineteenth-century periodical, and played the piano. As far as music goes, it was not one of my "genius days;" but in terms of phrasing, lightness, fluency, etc., I played many of Mendelssohn's "Lieder ohne Worte," and Chopin's waltzes and polonaises*, and Mozart sonata movements much better than I ever did before. The usual sampling of late Beethoven sonata movements, Chopin nocturnes, and the piano part of "The Swan," also went well.

In the evening W., Si., A. and O. visited. They brought red wine, refreshments, and presents; Mama also prepared refreshments; and so we all gathered in the corner room for a convivial round. After a while a strong wind blew up outside, not only at the level of the oak outside the window, but also at the level of the greyish clouds that moved swiftly across the sky. At one point I went to the balcony door to feel the wind, and I was pleasantly surprised to detect a distinct sea-smell. It instantly reminded me of my grandfather's apartment at Sidney; some of the others didn't particularly like the strong odour of decomposing or at least warm seaweed that sometimes met us when we visited there, but I never minded it even at its worst, and I've felt rather nostalgic about it. Besides, I like the sea in general anyway. When Papa said that the wind had travelled for about seven hours to here from the ocean, I instantly pictured (in my mind's eye) a turbulently gusty scene at the North Sea coastline: powerful white-capped waves crashing down with flying spray onto the sand. At Sidney there was a breakwater where we could see that kind of wave at close quarters: we stood at the railing and watched broad waves roll swiftly in, then smash up against the concrete, and finally disintegrate into splendidly high plumes of froth that swept over the corner. Anyway, I could reminisce about the sea for a long time, but I won't. (c:

* The polonaises included the one in A major; there is a recording of Arthur Rubinstein's rendition on YouTube.

P.S.: In the previous blog post "Art of the Id," "garish" should be replaced with "gaudy."

An E-Holiday in England

For at least the last two days I've been submerged in online books, sleeping at odd hours, and nearly entirely lazy. At around two o'clock this afternoon I emerged, in a very good mood, and with a strong determination never to do that again.

I've reached the authors whose last names begin with V at gutenberg.org. Mostly I've been reading books about young ladies in the Victorian and Edwardian eras. They are surprisingly relevant to real life, since a central theme is finding employment and coping with pecuniary difficulties. Though I can't say that I came away with any great insights on those points, it's nice to read about people (imaginary though they be) in a similar boat. And I do like comparing the past and present. But I haven't read any books lately that have led to any wise resolves or moral enlightenment (and I guess I could use both).

At the same time I have been thinking, as usual, what I should do next. I've already done enough research to get a general idea of what I must do (immatriculation forms and German proficiency tests) in the case that I'm accepted to university. And every two days or so I check online job listings (Meinestadt.de, Craigslist, and sometimes the Berliner Zeitung), not only to see if there are reputable-looking jobs for which I am qualified, but also to get a general idea what jobs are out there and what qualifications employers are (or should be) looking for. As for getting out more, I'm beginning to think of ways and means. But the self-education question is looking very doubtful; much as I wish that I would learn something, I still need a strong example, or strong compulsion by circumstances, to rouse myself to do it. If I do become a student this year, these problems would be, for the most part, solved. It even seems to be easier to find a job when one is a student. I cannot, however, rely on such a solution.

Anyway, T. made a delightful dinner today of pasta, chicken, and sweet-and-sour sauce (Mama did the shopping -- twice!). Then she and I played pieces for the piano and recorder again: the two movements of a Marcello sonata, and Telemann's Suite in a minor. After that I tried to practice the piano part of cello duets, where I whistle the cello part. The whistling was decent but exhausting. Then Papa offered to play the cello part, so we went through "Klassische Stücke für den Anfang" and Saint-Saens's "The Swan," and the pieces sounded nice.

With th'impending dusk, I went off for a quick walk to the Kleistpark. The few remaining blossoms included pink hydrangea and purple butterfly-bush flowers; there were also yellow flowers, including the fluffy dark ones that I mentioned in my Easter blog entry. But the dark purplish-blue Oregon grapes are also out, the snowberry bushes are decorated in white berries and tiny pink blooms, and one rose bush is full of red hips. Besides the flora, the fauna were also in evidence: dedicated joggers and conversing friends, of the species Homo sapiens. Spare droplets fell from the sky, but the grey cloud-cover otherwise retained its watery contents. Altogether, given the beautiful flourishing green everywhere, I see no reason to change my mind that the loveliest summer weather is cool temperatures and a lot of rain.

P.S.: The "E-Holiday" is short for "electronic holiday." It is rather lame but, hopefully, descriptive.

Art of the Id

Today was a very warm day. In the apartment it is moderately cool, except where a tepid breeze blows in, as if from a hairdryer, from the balcony. The stairway is cooler still. But then, when one steps outside, a mass of hot air envelops one and slowly assimilates one's body temperature until it is no longer pleasantly comfortable but rather stifling. Still, it can get hotter, and it was bearable in the bus. At Potsdamer Platz I was reminded of the concept of the city microclimate (often mentioned in the newspapers when we arrived in Berlin during a heat wave last year) -- cities are always warmer than the surroundings because the streets and buildings soak up and store the heat -- because the street seemed so hot and desert-like. It puzzles me that the weather should heat so quickly, as if to make up for lost time.

Anyway, Mama, M., and I ventured out into these conditions in order to look at exhibitions at the Martin-Gropius-Bau. The sun was shining brightly, the "Die Welt" sightseeing balloon was floating motionlessly at the end of its guy wire, and at least one bus was disgorging a flood of art-seekers to join the queue underneath the sheltering porch of the stately building. So I had time to inspect the carvings on the front wall. There are carvings on the pillars, as I've mentioned in a previous blog entry, but also in the bricks in the wall, along the complex cornices, and on slabs of wood running along the wall. The intricacy of the decorations is, I find, most appealing, and it counteracts any pompous effect. Carved on one of the pillars there is a shield bearing a ribbon-wrapped palette, and though I didn't find it exactly pretty, I admired the veins and rippled edges with which the surrounding sprays of laurel (?) had been sculpted. I like patterns to be small and detailed, and I've often been disillusioned when I look more closely at artwork (for example designs on the bindings of old books) that has a pretty complicated effect but turns out to be composed of crude lines and dots.

Once past the security officer and the rotating door, a blessed frigidity met us. Then we bought the tickets and set off up the stairs to the Cindy Sherman exhibition. This exhibition was composed of sets of photographs with unifying themes. At the beginning there were, for example, washed-out actress types and people waiting at a bus station. Later subjects included "models," clowns, and figures in old paintings. But one thing that unified most of these photos was the fact that it was Cindy Sherman who posed for them, made up and dressed up in order to portray these different characters. The remaining photos were of inanimate objects, in particular a series of mutilated dolls that more or less justified the sign at the exhibition's entrance to the effect that it might hurt one's feelings and was not suitable for children or youths.

The pedantry-tinged but helpful signs indicated clearly enough the central preoccupations of the artist: artificiality, and the way females are viewed in the film and fashion industries. The main thematic tool was caricature, and it was mostly grotesque and disturbing. But in the case of a "model" photo with a brightly painted red face encircled with a mane of straw there was considerable aesthetic value, hardly disturbed by the grimy fingernails of the subject; also, for some reason I did feel like laughing when I saw the recreation of a portrait of the Virgin Mary holding her child, according to the very stiff and unnatural posture in some quite old painting, with a rather supercilious expression on her preternaturally tidy face.

To continue on the subject of the recreated paintings, I think that it is really here where her skill in make-up, costumery and facial expression are most evident. The way she transforms her face to resemble widely different people is incredible. That said, not all the portraits appealed to me, particularly not the Judith-and-Holofernes (?). Besides the ones that did appeal, I also liked many of the black-and-white photos where stereotypical scenes with women in old films were recreated, for instance a woman in noirish artistic clothing striding past a modern office building, or another woman in a nurse-like uniform stretching up for a book in a shelf. But I thought that her poses in many of them were too staged, and the scenes a little flat. I think that many older black-and-white films were made with a very clear eye for aesthetics, which did not seem to concern Cindy Sherman as much.

Altogether, the skill of the photographer was obvious. But I went through the exhibition rather grumpily. One thing that I found unsettling was that the proportions and the cutting of the photos were rarely what I would consider "right." I don't know if this was purposely done or not. For example it really bothers me when a person is in the exact centre of a photo, effectively dividing the picture. (Admittedly I do have a minor fixation with expecting photos to be separated into thirds, for example two-thirds foreground and one-third background.) Or I think that the photo is not long enough, or that the ratio of Cindy Sherman to the background is not right (e.g. in her "Rear Projection" series), or that the background is too blurry. All of this results in an incompleteness and confusion, which is, I think, not necessary for the purposes of the artist. As for her motifs, clowns and plastic dolls and gruesome representations of fairy tales by adults are things I've always found rather garish and disliked anyway. But all of this is a matter of personal taste. Most people probably don't have my aesthetic hang-ups, and are more fond of art that has much to do with effect and shock value. Without knowing much about the field, I suppose that anyone interested in psychoanalysis would find the exhibition particularly absorbing, because the photos are full of archetypes and primal emotions (hence the title of this post). Anyway, I did find the exhibition interesting and don't regret that I went to see it.

We went home again after roaming in the gift shop (which I rather like, with hundreds of postcards neatly arranged along the entry, a generous skylight, and walls and shelves full of picture-filled books). The guiding wire of the "Die Welt" balloon was now at an angle, indicating that a wind had come up; at the street level it was not perceptible except as a breeze that would have done credit to the Sahara, and was laden with car-scent.

Besides this, I read C.S. Lewis's The Magician's Nephew, which was nice to reread after many years. I liked its comic moments and well-drawn characters and excellent descriptions of scenery very much, even if the morality did come across as rather ponderous (I mostly ignored it (c: ). Then I browsed the net, and played the piano. The music went decently today. I think I've found out a very bad habit that is partly to blame for my muddy tone: I try to play legato and use the pedal at the same time. If I fix that, I may finally play the non-lento waltzes of Chopin with a modicum of clarity and elegance.

An Afternoon Party, Etc.

Today we had lots of visitors, partly in honour of my uncle M.'s visit from Kevelaer (he arrived yesterday evening), and partly in honour of the visit of two friends of my parents. So there was a great spread prepared by Mama: lasagne, salad, baguette, cheese, red wine, and strawberries. And then the guests arrived, eight in all. I'm still painfully shy, so I stayed at my laptop much of the time, but it's been worse. As for the weather, it was sunny and warm. Just before everything began, J. and I had gone to the Kleistpark to play badminton, and the temperatures were bearable.

As for music, Papa and I played bits of Mozart sonatas, T. and I played two movements of a Marcello sonata for flute and piano as well as piano duets ("melodious exercises") by Diabelli, and then Papa and I played variations for cello and piano by Beethoven as well as Mendelssohn's Song Without Words for cello and piano in D major (Op. 109). I think back regretfully to the days when Tante Nora would play chamber music with Papa (and Uncle Pu), because she was evidently much better and made the music pleasant to listen to. On the other hand, no matter how good and atmospheric house music is, I think that it always demands patience and good-humour on the part of the audience, and when I'm not involved in creating it I tend to prefer hearing it at a distance and being able to wander off elsewhere.

The piano has been going fairly badly in general. Technically it's all right, and I've been exploring more music (late Beethoven sonatas), but the playing itself usually sounds insincere and disagreeable to me. It makes me think that I must have a rather awful soul. Hopefully it's only a phase, since it's not nice being presented with a sort of musical portrait-of-Dorian-Grey whenever I sit down at the piano. It's not deserved either, except insofar as I've been irritable and self-absorbed and lazy lately.

As for online books, I am now roaming among authors whose names begin with "S" on Project Gutenberg. I've finished two indifferent cowboy novels, skimmed through the first article of the Spectator (sic transit the conscientious attempt to expand my mind), and am now making my way through the saccharine and flowery pages of The Old Homestead. But yesterday evening I read in Pride and Prejudice (paper version) again. Not only have I read the book too often, I've also seen the films too often, because I can hardly read a line without picturing the corresponding scene in the 1995 BBC version. But it's enjoyable anyway.

As for university, T. and I handed in our applications the day before yesterday. T. is applying for a "combination bachelor" for the third year in English Philology and the first year in Information Technology, and I am applying for a bachelor for the third year in English Philology and the third year in History. Reason advises me that I will most likely not be accepted this year, but I think I'm expecting that I will anyway. How T. feels about it I don't know.

Bureaucratic Cogwheels in Motion

Today T. and I went to Dahlem again. We arrived fortunately in time for the office hours of the secretary in the English department; she said that there were no appointments free until after the application deadline, but she did add that we could scan in our academic records and send them as e-mail attachments to the professor in whose office she was working. Then he could quickly formally recognize them and tell us which level we should apply to study at, even though we would still need to submit the records in the orthodox manner eventually. So we returned home and, after much consideration and scanning and revisions of a draft e-mail, we sent the request and documents. After about an hour I checked my e-mail again and had a most agreeable surprise: the professor had sent a cheerfully informal answer, saying that everything was all right, and that we should apply for the third semester. In the evening T. and I filled out the online application forms for an English Philology major. Now we're not finished with the paperwork yet (we have to fill out separate forms for the minors, for instance, and then send everything off), but we're much closer.

Today was also the last day of school for Gi., Ge. and J. They came home early, and with them came three report cards, with decent though not brilliant marks. Since then they've been oddly subdued, and not in the least euphoric. J. did go out and play badminton with me in a good mood; our rallies, however, were few, partly because of lousiness and partly because rain (that issued from impressively dark grey clouds) cut our session short. Uncle Pu came by soon after we returned, and he and Papa and Mama filled the corner room with pipe and cigar smoke as they discussed the identities of some of the people whose photos now grace the living room wall, etc. In the evening Papa made, by popular demand, Chinese food: a generous dish of sweet-and-sour pork and chicken, with rice on the side. We dug into it happily. I especially liked the pineapple, which is, I think, more deliciously juicy cooked than fresh.

So it has been busy. But I'm very happy about the progress we've made with our university applications. Not only was T.'s company most cheering, but we were also both pleasantly surprised that the secretary didn't rake us over the coals for coming to her so tardily, and that the professor replied so quickly and kindly.

A Tale of Two Circumlocution Offices

Today I visited an office each at the Freie Uni and Humboldt Uni today, armed with my transcripts and copies of my high school diploma, with no concrete result for either.

Since my visit to the Humboldt Uni on Wednesday I've been trying to figure out who is responsible for checking foreign academic records, or responsible for helping people fill out the forms, at the English departments in the Freie Uni and Humboldt Uni. Is it the secretaries of the Prüfungsbüros (examination offices), or the academic advisors for the BA programmes? The websites have provided no clear answer. Today I tried the academic advisor for the Englische Philologie BA programmes at the FU, and the secretary of the foreign languages Prüfungsbüro (examination office) at the Humboldt Uni. (I already decided not to go to Heidelberg a while ago, because I'm not going to trot about in search of a translator for my academic records, and now there's no time left anyway.)

First of all, I got up unusually early. I had set the alarm clock -- which is, sadly, a heroic measure for me -- but I didn't need it (impending duty impedes sleep, I suppose). Then I took the U-Bahn to Dahlem and revisited the Institut in the Goßlerstraße. I had the good fortune to encounter the academic advisor, even though her office hours had technically not begun yet; she told me that the person in charge of looking at foreign academic records was one of the professors' secretary. That lady's office is down the hall, and she was not there today but will be there tomorrow.

Then I walked back along the very quiet streets, and enjoyed the feeling of being among houses rather than apartment buildings again, even if not every house's design was my cup of tea; I also kept a watch out for flowers, like the harebells and the purple and white clover along the sidewalks, and the roses and hostas in a garden, and saw two snails that had foolishly ventured out onto the wet pavement.

After briefly returning home, I set off again for the Humboldt Uni. So I stepped out at Französische Straße, and walked down the street past a school class, across Unter den Linden, and along the elegant and expensive-looking boutiques, and to the left down the Dorotheenstraße until I spotted the right building (DOR 65, as it is cryptically referred to). That edifice has a complicated floor plan, many stairways and two elevators, some stairway doors that won't open and another that sounded as if I were horribly breaking it when I did open it. Its labyrinthine interior also reminded me of the Buchanan Tower at UBC (where I had to explore a lot too). After taking an absurdly long time searching on the third to fifth floors, I revisited either the third or fourth floor, and saw the right office as soon as I stepped out of the staircase. I had to wait for three other students, then asked about the records, and was told that I had to go to the English advisor, who will only have office hours on Wednesday.

Made wiser by experience, I decided to pre-locate the office of that secretary before I went home again. But, deciding not to retrace my steps, I went back along another route, and was suddenly entirely disorientated. For some reason I thought that the S-Bahn at Friedrichstraße runs perpendicular to Unter den Linden, whereas it doesn't even run properly parallel. But dumb luck guided me back in the right direction, and I was relieved when I walked along the fortress-like side of the main Humboldt Uni building, shaded by plane trees (or sycamores) that rise out of a fenced-in sea of ivy. There weren't that many tourists out.

As I entered the building (UL 6), I was more curious about it than the last time I came here. A workman was fixing the door as I entered. Inside I ascended the grand staircase opposite the entrance, and noticed the quotation from Karl Marx in the middle of it (but I didn't bother to read it). The staircase itself is quite posh, with grey marbled steps (which are so smooth as to be slippery) and dark brown marbled railings. At the head of the stairway I was at first interested by the black-and-white photos on the walls, and then impressed by the grand wooden doors leading to the senate room.

I blundered about a little before I went along the right hallway. Both hallways are accessible through large doors with simple utilitarian metal handles and light-blue paint. They look unassuming, but I was much amused when I saw that they automatically swing open to let one pass. It reminded me vaguely of the Harry Potter books, and of Cocteau's Beauty and the Beast film. It's also oddly counterintuitive that a door with prominent handles should open automatically. The hallway to the right is grander. There are outsize wooden doors leading to the president's office, etc., and I inhaled the splendour and dignity as I passed by (I'm joking). The staircases beyond both hallways are still broad but decidedly un-posh, being concrete. Either way, I found the right office, wrote down the office hours just to be sure, and returned home.

Long story short, I had four U-Bahn journeys and five long walks and two labyrinth tours. The only practical results were exercise, the loss of 6.10 Euros to a BVG Tageskarte, and improved geographical knowledge. But why couldn't I have been able to figure out exactly what to do and where to go months earlier?!

Anyway, everyone else has been busy, too. Papa went to the university twice today, Mama was at work and then ran errands, T. prepared mini-quiches lorraines, Gi. and Ge. were at an end-of-year class party after their school day, and J. went to school and is now relaxing in his room. Yesterday Mama went around the apartment hanging up pictures and other artwork. There is a cherub corner above the stove at the piano, an ancestral portrait-gallery above the sofa in the living room, three stained-glass windows by my grandfather hanging in our fenestral alcoves, and so on and so forth. It makes our apartment rather more distinguished-looking, I think (when and if I've written my "great novel" I'll pay for tiling the kitchen (c: ).

I've been meditating much lately about order vs. disorder, especially in my half-room. Too much neatness makes me uncomfortable, and it means that books or writings that I would otherwise read, or work on, or perhaps be inspired by, are hidden away and being useless. Too much disorder does not only that; it also reflects and perhaps induces a disordered mind. So either I have to cut down my belongings to pretty ones that make picturesque messes, or I have to find ways of being neater (which comes about as naturally to me as ballet does to a cat). For one thing, I must cure myself of the idea that I will read the newspaper if it lies around on my desk long enough . . .

Another question that I meditate about is how necessary household duties really are. If God exists, does He mind if dust bunnies (a lovely term) flock under the sofa, or if the windows go unwashed? Is it really for the greater good of humanity if one keeps one's room clean, even if no one else ever enters it? At which point is dishwashing really necessary (e.g. when only aluminum pans and knives are left?), and why are people so reluctant to do it? If cleaning up is a sign of virtue, why does one feel like one has sacrificed precious hours of life to a lowly materialist pursuit? Well, to be fair, I often feel that I've sacrificed precious hours of life when I write exams, or whenever I go to a concert or movie theatre when it's light and leave when it's dark; obviously it isn't the most logical sentiment. Anyway, I'm probably really over-thinking this. (c:

Two Weeks Later

I've just returned from another walk to the St. Matthäus churchyard. It was raining, but I had a raincoat with me (very sensible, is it not?). The street market was set up again near the Yorckstraße S-Bahn station, long rows of stalls mostly roofed with white sheets, offering vegetables, fruit, herbs, clothing, etc. It's quite crowded and noisy, with sellers calling their wares (I usually only make out the words "für ein Euro"), and trucks coming and going, and crates and boxes piled at the perimeters. The passage under the train tracks, which is being renovated, leads one through to a calmer world.

The churchyard is still splendidly green, thanks to the continuous rainy weather which has formed my ideal of a summer. It's probably mean toward people who actually have parties and do sports outside, but there's nothing "fun" about an abysmal water level and droughts, so the more it rains during this season the happier I am. But I'm worried that I'll jinx it now . . . (c: Anyway, the flowers that are blooming now include purple harebells, dark red begonias, blue lobelia, tall pink-flowered hostas, very tall weeds with small aster-like flowers, and yellow celandine (at least that's what I think it's called).

At first I read the first two tales out of the Grimms Märchen in the porch of the church-like building. I looked at the sculpture more closely, and it turns out that the figure which I thought was a student has wings (and most teachers would probably agree that one cannot be a student and angelic at the same time). Then I walked slowly up the central path and then around the edge of the graveyard nearest the train tracks. Sometimes I look at headstones to see if I'd like to use the names for a story, and mostly I wonder how the lives of the people were. At particular plots there are black signboards with information (gathered by schoolchildren) about who "here lies." I was interested to learn that Max Bruch apparently fell into disfavour and nearly into oblivion during Nazi times because of the Jewish nature of his piece "Kol Nidrei." There are two families who have old monuments along the walls, one "Langhans" (I think) and the other "Gill," which interest me because they have English inscriptions. And there is one "Cölestin de Zitzewitz" whose monument was put up by the court of Friedrich Wilhelm III (I think). These monuments are in the upper part of the graveyard, which is more sombre and stately. Near the bottom of the slope there is a nice large field with a colony of newer plots in the middle, whose brightly coloured flowers make it look like a cottage garden.

But it disturbs me when there are small plastic signs saying "Ruhezeit abgelaufen." First of all, it probably means that someone's remains will shortly be kicked out of the plot, and secondly it sounds as if the deceased's ghost will rise and start haunting the neighbourhood.

As for university, I made a trip each to the Humboldt Uni (Unter den Linden 6) and the Freie Uni (Institut für Englische Philologie, Gosslerstraße 2-4), but, though my understanding of the application processes have advanced, the applications themselves haven't. I'm preparing to hand in my academic records for processing on Monday, and I have to apply by next Sunday. Altogether I do wish I hadn't made such a mountain out of the molehill that is the application process. I also wish that I hadn't received quite so much advice. It feels like people are prodding me over and over again on the same spot, and a painful metaphorical bruise has developed. It's not advice that I lack, but precise knowledge. Of course it's nice to know that people are interested. But help that does not help is usually depressing -- and if the person who intends to help evidently believes that I'm rather incompetent, it's very depressing.