A Minor Tragedy of Errors

For at least two days I've had the feeling that an event would intervene and cancel out this afternoon's interview. Having arrived comfortably at this afternoon with no such event having occurred, I ascribed this presentiment to nerves, and therefore went about my business, leaving for the interview (which would be at 3 p.m.) at ca. 2:30. Then the intervening event did occur, in the shape of an involuntary U-Bahn odyssey, which was so prolonged that it was only at ca. 3:42 that I rang at the door of the office building, and climbed the stairs to the third floor, to find that the lady who was to interview me had gone home, the next interview would be in ten minutes, and that the nice (and even apologetic) person who greeted me would ask if the interview could be rescheduled, but otherwise I'd had my chance and muffed it.

I did look at the map beforehand, but had the peculiar notion that the Kurfürstendamm station was right up the U7 line. Upon looking at the boards at the U-Bahn station, it was clear that this was not the case. So I thought that Ku'damm must be on the U6 line, and intended to switch onto it at Möckernbrücke. The problem is that Mehringdamm, not Möckernbrücke, is the station where the switch to the U6 should be made. But at Möckernbrücke one can switch to a line that goes directly to Uhlandstraße, which was also near my destination. So, after being half-lost in the station (you cross the glass bridge with the eagle-shapes on the windows, and then continue to the rear), I found the right platform, and eventually entered the train in the right direction. The train stopped at Gleisdreieck. It stopped for a long while, and, having seen the posters explaining that there was construction on the line (I assumed/hoped it was in the other direction), I had an awful foreboding. As the train doors closed, I kept a careful watch . . . and we were moving back in the same direction from which we had come.

So, back at Möckernbrücke, I got back into the train to Mehringdamm, and switched to the U6 line in the direction of Alt-Tegel. When the next station was Kochstraße (Checkpoint Charlie), I thought that it was sort of weird. When the next station was Stadtmitte, I knew that something was horribly wrong and got out, quickly finding out that Ku'damm was not on the U6 line at all. So then, by this time with a tragic face and a mood to match, I got out and decided to walk back to the Kochstraße station merely to get fresh air and clear my mind. There were taxis along the way but, though there was a brief internal debate, I didn't want to take any (didn't know how much it would cost, find tipping awkward, etc.).

I went back to Mehringdamm Station, took the U7 to the Berliner Straße, and then took the U9(?) up to Osloer Straße as would have been most logical from the outset. Then I had to walk three or four minutes, and found the place easily enough.

Anyway, I went up to the company offices, had the brief conversation, apologized for the truly egregious tardiness, and then went out again, breathing carefully and slowly in and out once the door had closed behind me to prevent an outburst of tears (as much out of frustration with myself as out of disappointment). The question was whether crying would help or be useless and even wimpy, and I decided that it would be useless and moreover not something that is pleasant to do in public. So instead I sat down and read a little Tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours, which was cheering, and then decided to walk home so as to think things over and relax. Once the Kleistpark was reached, I read a little more, and then went the rest of the way home.

Mama and J. were duly commiserating, which helped, and when Uncle Pu came in right afterwards he had brought along ice cream. Splashing cold water on the face and arms, changing sweaters, and having something nice and cool to drink helped, too. And later on Pudel went to a Vietnamese restaurant with me, and we both quietly had a big bowl of soup. Then, back at the apartment, I briefly played the piano, in my view rather badly.

Anyway, I don't want to pretend this is a great tragedy, because it isn't. But I just don't understand why this happened after all the grief I've been put through, and have put myself through, over the years. I've found a reasonable job I could do reasonably well, which would be a wholly new experience, which would prevent or at least retard my fiscal bankruptcy, and which would be exactly in the direction of what I'd like to do later in life, and somehow it all goes awry.

But I'll get over it. If the lady calls and the appointment is rescheduled, that would be superlatively great, and if she doesn't, or the interview doesn't go well, the job search will continue. Nil desperandum!

Today's Histrionics and Tomorrow's Interview

Tomorrow afternoon I have a job interview for an internship, which would last half a year and require 40 hours of work per week. If the interview goes well, and I get the job, of course it would be very helpful. Even if I don't get it, it has been so restful to have a holiday from job-searching that the very idea of the interview was already splendid in itself. Yesterday I put together the paperwork to bring along, researched the company a little, and thought things through; today I simply did other things and relaxed so that I'm in a fresh and sensible state of mind tomorrow.

Frankly I am also reminding myself about the immense stress that the job might bring with it. In this circumstance the wet-blanket philosophy of Eeyore seems wisest. In any case, I have refrained from watching the latest episode of America's Next Top Model yet, so that it is waiting for me as a "treat" after the job interview. At this point, though, I'm only watching ANTM when I need to pass time in a soothing manner, because it is not only unintelligent but half-hearted and boring. At least it's only when I watch two or more consecutive episodes that I uncomfortably suspect that, to speak metaphorically, my brain cells are bearing out their wounded or dead brethren on stretchers from the battlefield, and holding funeral masses over them whilst weeping in mourning clothes of dolorous black crêpe.

Anyway, in the evening I recorded Prokofiev's Musiques d'enfants (Op. 65) with Gi.'s digital camera. When I uploaded the first of two videos onto YouTube, the website rejected it during the post-upload processing stage because it was too long. After listening to the recording again it was clear that this mishap was not so amiss. It was pretty flawed because I had played in an unintentionally childish way: mezzoforte volume, detached notes played staccato, and a rushed rhythm. Of course there were wrong notes all over the place, too, but in my case they're as inevitable as drips in a Jackson Pollock painting. I can play flawlessly under certain conditions, but mostly I *ahem* "keep it real." Otherwise the recording was good.

And earlier, in the afternoon, I had corrected pages for Distributed Proofreaders again. One of the pages (which I gave up on because the page hadn't scanned well) was from an antique Spanish drama whose characters spew forth clichés at an incredible rate. Then there was a history where a lady aristocrat was sent over to marry an elector; she did and became Catholic; her anti-Catholic father wanted her back; the elector agreed on condition that his wife be permitted to freely practice her religion; her father broke off the diplomatic relations and apparently in general indicated that his sentiments ran along the lines, "Fine then! I don't want her. So there!" [N.B.: A little background reading has convinced me that the preceding narrative is mostly Edithor-ian fiction. Oh dear.] Then there was the tale of a good and pious Spanish king called the Rey Bamba who was poisoned so that he became crazy; too crazy for the kingship but not too crazy for the monkship, he decided on a career change, and at length died in the monastery, much mourned by the populace. And then there was a musicological work that had too much intricate math for me. In lovely Fraktur, there was also a page of Der Schach von Wuthenow; it seems to be set in Tempelhof, which made me happy, though the tragic tale itself (which I promptly Wikipedia'd) sounds too stupid to be true, which it however is. The way in which society dispenses its morality has improved so much since those days. (c:

Speaking of drama, though I do live under a rock where many literary things are concerned, I did manage to be aware that it's Shakespeare's deathday. On April 26th it will be his birthbaptismal day [apparently he might have been born and died on the same day], so the period of mourning will not have too long a date. For now, here's an apposite, vaguely morbid sonnet of his, which also happens to be one of my favourites (i.e. one of the sonnets that I've often come across outside of the Complete Works and have therefore come to appreciate over time):

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

[From Helium.com, which had the least retina-searing graphics]

Otherwise I did a mildly intellectual thing yesterday (/early this morning) and read the first chapter of Sigmund Freud's Motiv der Kästchenwahl. It is related to Shakespeare and to the Grimm fairy tales, so it was very much my cup of tea. The title derives from the scene in The Merchant of Venice where Portia's suitors, among them Bassanio, must choose between three caskets, one gold and one silver and one lead. This scene has always bothered me, because there are all sorts of perfectly good reasons that could lead perfectly good suitors to open any one of those caskets. Besides, what are the chances that only one suitor out of the bunch would choose the lead casket, or that they couldn't deduce from the ill success of the other suitors which casket is the right one? Anyway, Freud went on a (Socrates-esque) path of reasoning that was truly ingenious and pleasantly rambling but not at all convincing. It's like the free-roaming math that I always wished to do when I was in school, where you take whichever quantities and units you like and make them all equal or otherwise relate to each other. Caskets=women; lead=pallor=silence [like Cordelia's silence in King Lear]=moon=obscure Latvian goddess=death! I didn't read far enough to learn why death should be a desirable option. But it was fun, and my opinion of Freud's writing style, which seemed like a jungle when I attempted the first paragraphs of Der Witz years ago, has much improved.

In the Quest of Daily Bread

In the past three weeks I've applied for six jobs and made a fruitless telephone call in pursuit of a seventh. In most cases there has been no reply. Then I've browsed dozens to hundreds of job listings every day on all types of newspaper and magazine websites, job listings websites, and museum or other institution websites; and I check my two e-mail accounts (I have a second one for the situations where spam is a likely contingency) with corresponding frequency. Of course it feels pathetic and depressing, and I detest feeling that my life is on hold because I wait between job applications so that I am not likely to turn any positive replies down, and I have to be fully ready for the possibility that the job I eventually obtain will be an emotional and mental strain. If I were certain that I could do every job perfectly well and that I had the requisite experience for it, or that my employers would be detailed in their instructions, it would not be so much of a problem, but I'm not. Yet this process evidently must be undergone.

Since I've only been published once, and don't intend to publish much or anything until my writing substantially improves, it might be out of the question anyway, but I don't like the idea of drawing on government funds to defray the costs of living as a freelance writer. If I were performing a public service by entertaining society at large and contributing meaningfully to the cultural life of the country in which I live, it would be something else, but I'd prefer to live off the proceeds of published articles, book sales, etc. anyway. The problem with working a side or day job is that it might sap one's energies, and is hard to find especially here in Germany where elaborate qualifications are needed for pretty much everything (which I think does make sense, considering that 80 million people are living in such a confined territory, and there has to be some way of deciding between job applicants).

Anyway, I won't pretend that I haven't thought at times that I'd like to be a 19th-century gentlewoman living off the parents' estate, were it not that I'd be living off the hard work of the tenants. Upon further deliberation I don't even think I'd rebel and go off to become a newspaperwoman or sculptor or something of the sort; I'm too sensitive and fond of domestic comfort.

In the meantime I am diverting my mind with the piano, blogs, and a screenwriting project which I'd rather only discuss once it's become clear that I'll persist in working out the details.

The Shady Side of Summer

Since the other prospects of money-earning are tenuous, I've decided to rummage through my old poems and see if there's anything worth sending to magazines. Recently I reread the war elephant poem that I posted on this blog months ago, and felt rather smug about it; so, though I went through a long episode of thinking that my poetizing is pretty hopeless, it seems that I might as well give it a shot.

Information provided by the Sharing Wycombe's old photographs website: "E/NE across Bury Pond, a view of the SW aspect of The Bury mansion, with the parish church tower beyond. Chesham. c 1900
Photographer: Francis Frith"
"Copyright managed by High Wycombe Library
Image kindly loaned by Mr J.H. Venn" [Photograph inserted March 13, 2015]

Here is a poem about the Thames that I wrote (based on a photograph) whilst researching Buckinghamshire for one of my lousy historical tales. Since I've never seen the Thames except for the transcendently murky, brownish-tan stretch amid the concrete banks at the London Eye and Parliament Buildings, I've decided not to even attempt to send it to a magazine. It was written in June 2008 and revised just now.

On the Thames in June

Betwixt the banks there lies the rippled,
algae-suffused, silvery surface of the blackish water
beneath which the brownish waters
are transfixed with shafts of softened light
clouds of motes and shreds of fibre
dying gently in the liquid earth,
and the ungainly, supple stems of water-lilies
seek the sun from the morbid murk of the riverbed.
The willows, whose boughs in streaks of grey
and tresses of long gold-green leaves
flock on the banks and sink into the water's edge,
stir the sluggish current and dent the meniscus
where insect corpses, legs askew and wings collapsed,
are borne away to their inglorious camelots,
and the twisting deep-grooved mass of submerged trunk
anchors as iron in the unseen earth.
Lengthy banks of reed on either side are tufted sadly
and bear the tarnished, worn beige tones of famine,
as quivering dragonflies with bulbous head disport
themselves with fleeting shimmer of the wings,
and skittering water-bugs race or circle
meditatively, or dart, like skaters on the ice in winter,
perilously prolonging their stay over the devouring river.
Above these banks, embowered in the firs and beeches
that rise so densely and so grandly on the shore,
the knapped-flint church with tower of four turrets,
and flying flag, and weathervane too slender to be seen,
the windowed nave and shady chancel and humble porch,
and an assembly of the graveyard's stones
upon the winding, flowing lake of grass,
which pours itself, through dapple-shaded tree and shrub,
into the river. And the swans, again, who swim through its reflection,
their feet a gleam of amber darkly tinted red,
an unwinking contemplation in beaded eyes,
and an untroubled curve in the ample, white-plumed body,
mutely agonized neck and modestly dipped beak,
in a calm far deeper than that of the stream or even
the low resounding of the church's bells
or the shadowy branched realm within the beeches' crowns,
but in quiet accord with the funereal soil
and the roaming skies and the untiring breeze.

And here is a far less serious, 18th-century-ish poem:

The Horseman's Mishap

A horseman rode the path serene
Among the gently nodding trees;
To every side the path was green;
The scent of blossoms rode the breeze.

The horse itself was not at rest
As he traversed the rocky path;
A fly lit on his back -- the pest --,
Stung, and filled the horse with wrath.

His hooves he raised toward the sky
And whinnied for forbearing grace,
When to the ground, which was not dry,
The horseman fell and hit his face.

The fallen man did not resemble
A specimen of Christian man;
His fury he would not dissemble,
And the prudent stallion ran.

"Oh! woe is me!" the rider moaned,
"My lovely face is full of dents!"
No luck; the rider, as he groaned,
Did hobble home, his clothes in rents.

(May 2007)

Tiddlywinks

For the past three days, though I was otherwise inclined to be grumbly, the piano has gone well. It's not that I'm in an especially inspired mood, but rather in a very concentrated one, and so the elements like phrasing, tone, regular rhythm, etc., that I must watch out for do adjust themselves quite well to the Platonic ideal in my mind. The absorption also means that I tend to play for a very long time; today's repertoire included Schubert, Bach, Debussy, Mozart, Haydn, Prokofiev, Rachmaninoff, and Scott Joplin. Lately the balcony doors have often been open, which I like, because it's good training to overcome any self-consciousness that arises from having passersby hear the music, and because of the fresh air. Today I even rehearsed Schubert lieder while the doors were open, but my voice is so quiet that I doubt it could be heard at street level anyway. Altogether it seems that I'm becoming more serious and focused in general, which is quite good because it is a strengthening of character, but also a little sad because it includes a trace of cynicism and hardboiledness.

Uncle Pu came for a visit, and we tried out two Mozart violin sonatas. My sightreading was frantic, but I think that the notes were at least 80% (or so I think) accurate, and that the piano part was altogether, stylistically and otherwise, in good keeping with the violin part. I don't know the violin sonatas well, but have on past occasions found them delightfully pure and distinctive in their Mozartian quality (though the 1st movement of the 4th sonata is the quasi-Beethovenian exception that proves the rule).

It is much warmer now than it was a week ago. The stove hasn't been on for a while, the tulips are flowering, and the butter in the kitchen is a deeper yellow and smudgily soft and a trifle pathetic in appearance. Last year, if I remember correctly, a bout of spring cleaning seized me as it did Mole in The Wind in the Willows, but so far the effect of the emerging season seems mostly to have consisted of my wearing lighter clothing.

Otherwise I've been doing Spanish and Chinese quizzes, reading blogs, and whisking through the book catalog at Project Gutenberg at a dizzying pace. Due to a computer bug, I couldn't comment on Gawker for a while, which harrowed my feelings for a day or two until it magically resolved itself on April 3rd(?); since then I've only commented once or twice anyway, but the feeling of being able to do it is the important thing. Often I've followed these pursuits at reprehensibly late hours; it is still chilly then, so to conserve warmth I sit on one leg until it is nearly numb, and then switch to the other. (Fascinating detail, I've no doubt.)

One thing that has bothered me lately is that I've been immensely self-centered; for instance, instead of enthusiastically plunging into and writing about specific authors or films or political events, I'm writing about this kind of stuff. But it's probably the result of the fact that I don't find my life nearly as depressing or boring to write about any more. Hopefully it's relatable.

At any rate, one other important thing is that Ge. cooked rotini whilst Gi. concocted a rich sauce of whipping cream, milk, flour, and cheese (parmesan, gouda, and Danish blue cheese), for dinner. It was subtle and delicious and filling.

P.S.: The post title has no specific meaning in this context. I just like the way it sounds.

P.P.S.: Early this morning, whilst browsing Amazon.com, I found Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. I "looked inside" and thought it quite amusing, even though zombies are not my cup of tea. It is enjoyable even if, or perhaps especially if, one is of Mark Twain's opinion that no library is complete if Jane Austen is not banished from it. Here is the opening sentence:

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.

Of Pounds and Pence

It's been a warm and sunny day. In the evening J. and I went for a promenade in the park, and the daffodils and blue squills are out in their full glory. It's indescribable, but the sight of a perfect starry daffodil standing quietly against a canvas of scattered pale brown leaves is truly beautiful. I also like the dusky shade of the squills. The snowdrops have largely wilted away, and there aren't any crocuses in flower in the park as far as I could see.

Earlier I had a long session at the bank, in which I put most of my money onto a "deposit account" (Depotkonto), which will pay me interest, and signed up for a pension plan (very convenient for a person who doesn't have job-related benefits), which will swallow 200 Euros per month but evolve into a fairly decent sum (400,000+ Euros) by 2052. Given that my new health insurance plan will drain an additional 140 Euros or so from my bank account per month, it will be necessary to find work. This necessity doesn't bother me, because I'm sure to find some since there is a very concrete motivation for it.

I could copy-edit websites, translate German into English, translate English into French if the employer is not too picky about errors, proofread essays in English, tutor in English, work as a magazine or newspaper intern (fact-checking, etc.), clean apartments, etc. Yesterday I investigated other possibilities on the internet, like working at a museum shop or as an usher in a concert hall, but these positions are evidently as inaccessible to the unwashed masses as knighthoods in King Arthur's court (not that I mind much). Something I'd like to do but am not qualified for is gardening, but gardening jobs often require a driver's license and experience driving tractors, etc. Data entry would most likely be too mind-numbing. As for the work that I'd like to do eventually, it could be, for instance, editing a magazine. I would like to teach music, too, but if anything only on a private basis, as that field is evidently saturated and the idea of years of pedagogical training saps all the fun out of it. As I've mentioned before, freelance writing is a doubtful prospect because I'm not ready to write the truly good stories yet.

Anyway, I've applied for a 30 hr/week housekeeping job, and doubt I'll get it, but it would be fun if I did (especially as there is a minimal chance of this one being seedy). This may sound weird, but one day when I was very bored at the hostel in New York, I took a roll of toilet paper that had been sitting on the mantelpiece, filled some water into the clean-looking and emptied trash pail, and then cleaned the marble(!) fireplace. It was one of the most satisfying things I've ever done. Unfortunately it had little effect; the marble had presumably been treated with an acidic cleaning fluid, which clouded and disguised it so thoroughly that I had thought at first it was grimy whitewashed wood. The day after that, perhaps, the true cleaning lady showed up to vacuum the carpets and sanitize the bathrooms and so on, and the thoroughness and rapidity of her system was immensely impressive. Long story short, I like picturesque disorder a great deal, but abhor unpicturesque grubbiness and unhygienic conditions, and do therefore have natural housekeeperly impulses.

As far as the piano goes, I'm still working on the Schubert impromptus. But I wish that there were challenging but musical pieces that I'd like enough to learn thoroughly, and that would improve my technique, for instance. I find that pieces tend to train me better than finger exercises or scales do; for instance, I became comfortable with locating very high and very low notes, and jumping between them, after being immersed in Prokofiev's Musiques d'enfants for a couple of months. The Rachmaninoff g-minor prelude sort of counts, but it's hard to keep it from resembling the soundtrack of a Soviet propaganda video, as it has a militaristic or industrial striding-toward-the-exalted-future vibe. I've attempted the fifth Chopin étude, but don't adore it. Mendelssohn's Rondo capriccioso didn't overwhelm me either, nor the remainder of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No.2. The thing is that I don't like music that has myriads of tiny worthless notes in it that are the cold sparks of virtuosic fireworks but have no beauty or meaning of their own. (This may also be sour grapes, because I sightread them far too slowly and then the repetitive notes go on and on and on.) And the more difficult music is, the more it has these. But I did play movements of Beethoven's later sonatas (all of the Sonata appassionata) today, and that was good. It is also refreshing to look at Mozart and Haydn sonatas once more; after a constant diet of Romantic pieces and Bach I tend to sound permanently rushed and angry, and the classical pieces require a more gentle and melodious and transparent (i.e. where you can hear every single note) approach.

Besides this, I've been reviewing my Spanish and Mandarin. There is a delightful website (http://a4esl.org) designed for English as a Second Language students, which is full of vocabulary quizzes. Since I know tons of Spanish anyway, or feel as if I did, it does appear worthwhile to polish up my knowledge and perhaps finally reach the point where I can read Don Quixote past the first paragraph. Which round-about-edly reminds me that my transit reading is still Around the World in Eighty Days. It's now the part where Phileas Fogg and the others are crossing the Atlantic in the Henrietta. Altogether I am gradually coming to think that this may be one of the funniest books ever written, which is especially surprising as I don't precisely read Jules Verne for knee-slapping hilarity.

Lastly, and despite the aforementioned hilarity, I have felt like moping a lot lately. I've been immersing myself in music, television, blogs, and online novels for days on end without attaining the usual result of turning into a perfectly cheery and content person, until ca. five minutes ago. But the state of dread I was in before and between the bank appointments explains it. It gave me the old feeling that whenever I have found a happy place, an oasis as it were, some marauding camel from the outside world tramples in and destroys everything. The health insurance is a marauding camel, too. Eating up my savings even though I'm perfectly healthy indeed! Since 2004, at least, I've denied myself countless candies, meals, bus/U-Bahn rides, travels, presents for others, flowers, newspapers, and considerably flattering items of clothing (e.g. a grey dress from a Vancouver consignment store, which I have long felt remorseful about not buying), to make up for not having a job by being prudent. I certainly did not practice this self-control in order to see my scrimpings gobbled up at an exorbitant rate at the behest of the government. It's almost enough to turn me into a Republican sympathizer! (Actually, no.) Anyway, now that this rant is off my mind, I will be reasonable and remember that I am wealthy compared to half the world's population, etc.