Citius, Altius, Fortius

After my "holiday" ended the question of What to Do Next felt more perplexing than ever, and I was preparing to become depressed and to pick myself out of the depression again, but fortunately we have visitors in the form of a family friend (and our former piano teacher) S., her husband M., and their two children R. and S. Now that I am less shy I like having visitors at our apartment, and find that "the more the merrier" is quite true. They are staying in Gi.'s room, Gi. being off on a bike tour straight across Germany. The last time he checked in was on the morning after the first day and night, at which point he had reached Dessau. Two days have passed since then, but since we aren't the frequent phoning type and he particularly is not wildly addicted to communication, this isn't worrisome. What I want to know when it's over is whether it was more adventurous or more uncomfortable; for one thing he didn't sleep very well the first night.

This morning, at any rate, our guests and I (the guide, as far as limited knowledge and volubility permitted) took the M48 bus straight to the Marienkirche station and then wandered around the Alexanderplatz. I'd never been in the Marienkirche before and thought it worthwhile. The mournful bareness of the whitewashed walls, glimpses of homely brick, and the dampening effect of the low ribbed arches at the entrance were moving, and I liked the Baroque grave plaques and the unframed paintings. Besides I have a fascination for the little preacher loges that have winding staircases leading up to them, and for fluted pillars. The organ was unfortunately under wraps, but from a poster I gathered that it's a gleaming artillery of gilt. As far as I could tell the fault of this church is that it is poorly thought out; the proportions are peculiar, and the windows very high-set and not especially large, even though the structure itself would seem stable enough to sustain apertures of greater width and breadth.

What I also liked at Alexanderplatz, besides the linden and other leafy trees (the roses are too hot pink for my snobby tastes), and the façade of the Rotes Rathaus, was the Neptunbrunnen. The webbed feet of the sea-centaurs are amusingly creepy, but what I especially liked is that elements like the rock and the serpent are so convincingly executed; they are not idealized out of all verisimilitude but have a gritty lifelike texture.

We went on along through the park with the statues of Marx and Engels who somehow looked as much like bearded shoulder-pads as humanoid figures can look, and the shapes of twisty headless male forms hewn out of a block of pale grey stone, then lingered at the Spreeufer. The posterior of the Berliner Dom is actually rather nice, or at least I like that it is retired and shady, and that balustered stairs ran down to a modest walkway along the waters. After crossing the bridge we decided to enter the Dom, which cost 5 Euros per person but was free for the two children. It may not be good taste on my part, but aside from the stained glass (whose colour palette reminds me of strained turnips and carrots for some reason), I like the profusion of ornament inside the cupola: Italianate marble, white statues, balconies, gilt, Corinthian-order pilasters, etc. And what I especially liked are the sarcophagi of Friedrich III, Sophie Charlotte, etc., which were simply very weighty, sombre, and impressive.

Then we wandered along Unter den Linden, and I was quite excited to see the big tent for Fashion Week set up at Bebelplatz. We rested in the courtyard of the Preussische Staatsbibliothek, of which I am very fond, and I can't tell whether the architecture itself is much good or whether it's the vines that give it a mysterious, retired, and aged air. But the fountain basin is wholly bare, presumably because the statuary in it is undergoing repair, and what remains reminds me that fountain rims are often incredibly ugly.

As far as tourists (besides ourselves) went, I generally see them as an indiscriminate herd, but this time I picked up better on the variety. One amusing encounter was with a possibly Italian man, clad in suit and of relatively short stature, who nearly collided with us and made a graceful bowing motion as he hastened on. At any rate, we lunched at a Subway, and then went on to the Brandenburger Tor, where two brave and presumably financially needy souls stood to attention with American flags in a living-statue-esque photo opportunity.

Then we dove into the U-Bahn at Potsdamer Platz (after passing the segments of Berlin Wall; looking at the side of one of them I thought how nice it was to see pebbles in the concrete, only to find upon closer examination that these "pebbles" were wads of chewing gum on the concrete) and took the U2 up to Olympia-Stadion, which had free admission today. Here I may as well confess that I am not at all eager to see historical sites that contain or are surrounded by vast, unshaded fields or concrete surfaces, or are otherwise open to the sun, or are difficult to reach by foot; when I see a photo or an engraving of sites like the Palace of Sanssouci and its terraces, Place de la Concorde, Buckingham Palace, or in this case the Olympia-Stadion, I must admit that this, instead of some elevated aesthetic or historical reflection, is often a foremost consideration. But, though today was a hot and humid day and the half-kilometre walk from the U-Bahn to the stadium is unquestionably exposed, I was glad to have seen it after all.

S. the younger and R. were extremely interested in the stadium, since it reminds them of the Colosseum, and for some reason had enough energy left to roam far and wide and up and down the seats inside, where M. at times joined them. S. the elder and I remained seated and looked around from that vantage point; she was pleased to be where the final of the 2006 World Cup took place, and I was especially absorbed by the attempt to imagine the scene during the 1936 Olympics, which was easy because the "Gesamtkunstwerk" of the facilities has been so thoroughly maintained. Even though I am not fond of the architectural period, modern stadia are not the most beautiful edifices anyway, and in this case I was pleased by its slight appearance — the subdued grey building material instead of blinding white, and its apparent lack of height when seen from the outside. In the inside it is also refreshingly unposh. The seats are dark metal set in smooth and bare concrete steps, the athletes' entrance is an imposing maw at the far end of the field, two gigantic analog clocks in which dashes represent the hours rise on either side of the opening where the Olympic flame presumably burnt, and the canopy today formed a simple but elegant trellised ring around the serene cloud-dotted sky. It is easy to underestimate the seating capacity until one enters the arena and sees how far the seats dip into the ground.

Today there was a modicum of extra excitement because a stadium employee was handing out ca. 4-ft. tall balloons in blue, red, and yellow that were left over from some event. A crowd of teenagers was lolling about at the edge of the field, and whenever a fresh batch of balloons arrived, some of them would trickle up toward the exit with glowing faces. It was funny and touching to see how little it took to make them happy.

Anyway, that was the last stop for the day; we passed out the gates as a blue balloon soared into the clouds over the iconic twin towers between which the Olympic rings are suspended, then took the U-Bahn back to Schöneberg and walked the last bit to the apartment in a stewing atmosphere (N.B.: I was wearing a sweater. *cough*). Fortunately rinsing the face and arms and changing into a fresh T-shirt is an excellent cure for a disconsolate state of perspiration.

After that we had dinner: döner kebap, lahmacun, green beans, potatoes, lettuce salad, and quark with red currants. Then R. played three pieces on the cello for us, and Papa and I played Saint-Saëns's Swan, a piece from Händel, and Beethoven's variations on the theme from Judas Maccabeus. Now there's a thunderstorm going on, the children are (presumably) sleeping, and everyone except me (I'm at the laptop in my room) is in the corner room talking.

Summer Break

To prevent any fruitless quests for new blog posts when I am unlikely to produce any ones, or any meaningful ones, for a while, I am officially taking a blog-holiday for the next two weeks. An animé marathon has put me in touch with my inner child, to put it unoriginally, and the child tells me to ignore most responsibilities for a while because they eat up too much energy to very little purpose. (Not that I don't still do responsible things, but those are primarily the ones which I've learned to do quickly and painlessly.) Besides, I've been taking things far too seriously. So I want to take time off of my usual pursuits and just enjoy myself. (c:

A Note on Sri Lanka

In Le Monde I found this article, "Sri Lanka: comment faire taire les témoins d'un massacre," which summarizes the reports of a doctor working in a Sri Lankan hospital, which came under mortar attacks from the government forces and then was swamped with casualties despite the lack of medical equipment and any guarantee of safety. This doctor and two others are (as of the time of the article's publication) in prison on the suspicion of having made rebel-friendly remarks to the press.

Lightning, Soldering, and Native Speaking

Lately we've been having my favourite kind of weather (except for snow that falls in large flakes): wind, impressive grey clouds, thunder, lightning, and big, silvery rain. This evening it has cleared away so that the waxing crescent or gibbous moon (I'm not so well up on the terminology) is shining down on me out of a clear though dusk-tinged, blue southern sky.

Today I woke up after 4 p.m. I've been sleeping twelve to fourteen hours per night(/day) again lately. This schedule doesn't bother me as much as it often does, firstly because it doesn't leave me too groggy, and secondly because it's far better to dream about domes and skyscrapers and being a princess (at times I am like a four-year-old), etc., than to be awake and bored. It's only irritating that my sleeping life is presently much more exciting — thanks to the volcanic eruptions, assassinations, and so on and so forth — than its waking counterpart.

I played the piano for a while, and aside from playing the customary impromptus and Brahms waltzes, explored Beethoven's bagatelles (my piano teacher taught me the first, and Ge. plays one of the later ones) and Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21, in C major. Then I took up my "singing" again (today it was the first three verses of "Das Wandern" and Händel's Largo from Xerxes), wavering on and off key, but not doing so badly considering the late lack of practice.

Intermittently I went to the corner room to watch Papa constructing a circuit board for a work-related gadget. It involved soldering, which is one of my favourite things to watch, because of the resin's scent, the exciting sense of danger instilled by the heat of the soldering iron, and the gleaming peaks and globes of the melted lead/tin alloy. Papa used to have a shrunken, dry-as-a-bone sponge to wipe the lead on, but he probably threw it out before we moved back to Germany; now he uses a thick folded tissue, which has not caught flame once, much (I'll admit) to my surprise.

Anyway, temporarily I don't have many projects going on. I wrote two poems maybe three days ago, but consider them middling and not particularly unique; on the story front I abandoned one tale after realizing that it was meandering further and further from reality; and though I have vaguely thought of going to the Scilly Islands or Sark or the US there are no travels in prospective. Every now and then I try to learn a modicum of Spanish, with a corresponding modicum of success. Then I think about doing volunteer work in homeless shelters or with immigrants or something of the sort, only to remember that I have no useful experience or expertise.

I haven't applied for new jobs, either, and have (somewhat randomly) wondered if I should write that I speak "some" French so as not to seem overqualified for things. It is, by the way, annoying to know that speaking three languages accent-free is apparently of no use whatsoever, due to the tyrannous ubiquity of the "native speaker" requirement. (It is true, though, that my French is not nearly as good as it could/should be.) But perhaps I could acquire a heavy French-Canadian accent and native-speak that, hehehe!

The Battle With the Impromptus

For the past months I've been trying to make sense of Schubert's impromptus Op. 90 No. 2 and 4, and Op. posth. 142 No. 2 and 3. The first two are not as difficult to interpret. The principal problem has been finding meaning in them so that the repetitions aren't boring, and then in wangling a clear and fluid tone despite the necessity of the pedal. I tend to accidentally hold down one note while I play the next, for instance, which of course creates an incoherent soup of sound. Ideally, too, Impromptu No. 2 would not sound precisely like Chopin, but striving toward that aim is a losing, and possibly unwinnable, battle. In March I put up a recording of No. 4 on my YouTube account, and despite the errors and the slow tempo I'm proud of it, so here it is:

As for the second pair of impromptus, these are ones that are very difficult to interpret. One thing I haven't managed yet is to bring in a Viennese lilt when it would be appropriate. I don't much like when one can't tell which composer is being rendered, which is why I believe such idiosyncracies to be necessary elements. Another thing is that I must figure out the rhythm for the right-hand eighth notes in No. 2, and not have lame pauses everywhere because I'm trying not to rush it. Thirdly, my pedalling is off. Ideally it should illumine the notes from within, as it were, but with me it's painfully obvious when I've clamped down my foot and when my foot should have lifted a long time ago. I do know that the trick is to syncopate the pedalling, i.e. press the pedal instantly after the first note is sounded, instead of at the same time, to avoid a sound-soup; in practice, unfortunately, it is difficult to remember it consistently, and my motor coordination is honestly lousy in any case. But I think that, like the B flat major sonata, the most important element in these impromptus is the sincere feeling that should animate it, and evidently when I sit down to "tickle the ivories" I am often neither in a noble, profound, nor sympathetic frame of mind. So it is not modesty but the truth to note that Papa still plays them far better than I do.

As for other music, I'm working on Rachmaninoff's g minor prelude, which is going well. I hope to give it a rather Russian air, because though Rachmaninoff rendered it in an elegant, fluent Frenchy way (or so I think), I find the composition itself distinctly Russian (except perhaps for the lyrical middle part) and prefer to play it a bit gruffly and deeply. Emil Gilels's version is most likely the benchmark, but of course I want to find my own interpretation, too, so I've avoided listening to it lately.

Then there are the Haydn trios which Papa, Pudel and I play (Hob. XV No. 21, 24, and 25). Pudel suggested that I practice them, and though the suggestion frankly annoyed me a bit because I can sightread them perfectly aptly (in theory; in practice I stumble a lot in the fear of stumbling), I've acted on the advice and profited as a result. Playing duets and trios is still a largely foreign concept to me; it's practically impossible to complement the cello or violin parts properly. While I despise ostentatious accompaniments, when I have the melody it does often sound like I am straining to be louder than the other instrument(s), instead of naturally holding the prominent position or blending in with the other instrument(s) as an equal voice. And it was only in the last trio-playing session where I tardily realized the blatantly obvious fact that I should pay attention to the phrasing that Pudel uses and apply that to my own part. So, for instance, if he slurs a pair of triplets in the melody separately, I shouldn't play them as if they were both slurred together. One other deficiency is that whereas the trios are often delightfully lighthearted, I play them like a cynical grump (I think I am wonderfully suited to Beethoven's compositions in this respect) and positively fail to convey a modicum of the untroubled, serene, and nice quality that is a beautiful characteristic in classical-period music.

As for other pieces, I've picked up Schumann's Kinderszenen again; I still don't play them well but progress has been made, since "Glückes genug" is no longer the rambunctious chaos it once was, though my recent renditions of "Der Dichter spricht" have become surpassingly lame and stilted, and "Hasche-Mann" is as rife as ever with wrong notes. "Fürchtenmachen" is especially knotty because it's so hard to tie the heterogeneous parts together into a musical unity. Then I still play a Scarlatti sonata, the first movement of Bach's Concerto in d minor, and Chopin's "Raindrop Prelude" (which is not going famously, though the other two are improving). And altogether I am listening to countless old recordings on YouTube, foraging for interpreters and interpretations that I like, and enjoying the process a great deal.

A propos of interpreters and interpretations that I like, here is Edwin Fischer playing Impromptu Op. 142 No. 3 [the video is sound-only]:

It may be absurd, but the third variation depresses me horribly at times; it's not that I consciously precipitate myself into that state of mind, but the first bars already act as a trigger. So I tend to play it in an angry way that doesn't conduce to sentiments of overwhelming pathos; being mundanely aware that I'm making a consummate hash of the pedalling helps too. But I like the amusing, subtly Tyrolean manner in which Fischer plays the fourth variation; also, of course the final variation is happy again, and it ends in a satisfying, weighty and thoughtful reiteration of the theme.

Last of all, here is a sampling of my YouTube film bookmarks:

1. Marian Anderson, "Erbarme Dich" (Bach)
2. Janet Baker, "Ogni pena più spietata" (Pergolesi)
3. Pau Casals, Kol Nidrei (Bruch)
4. Pau Casals, Nikolai Mednikoff; The Swan (Saint-Saëns)
5. Dinu Lipatti, Piano Concerto No. 21 (Mozart), Part I
6. Francis Planté, Op. 67 No. 4 from Lieder ohne Worte (Mendelssohn)
7. Josef Hofmann, "Grande Valse Brillante" in A flat major (Chopin)
8. Alfred Grünfeld, Mazurka in a minor (Chopin)

The Job Search: A Chronology

March 31, 2009 — I apply for a private housekeeping job. No reply.

April 1 — Visit to the bank prompts resolve to obtain employment as soon as possible.

April 7 — I apply for a job filling in for a church pianist, which was advertised on Craigslist. The pianist responds and gives me the telephone number of the pastor; I call him, and he invites me to come to the church on Good Friday or Easter Sunday to see the ropes. On Friday I duly go to the Good Friday service at a Methodist church, tucked away in a courtyard in a nice and curiously village-like part of Charlottenburg. Upon seeing the pianist in action it's fairly clear that I am not prepared for it, and I sense that I am much younger than the pianist and pastor expected. But I don't want to pusillanimously back out of it, so I merely leave things as they are and wait for another e-mail. None comes.

April ? — There is a florist's apprenticeship listed at Meinestadt.de. I want to go to the florist's shop first to see what it's like, especially as it's far out in southern Berlin where I've never been, so I look up the shop's telephone number. It is just before 6 p.m., and while I do reach a lady who gives me the number of the boss, this boss must have gone home already, because though I call twice there is no answer. After that I decide to let it go.

April 14 — In the Tip magazine listings I find and apply for an internship helping out at the offices of a magazine publishing company.

April 19 — I apply for a job as a tour guide, found on Craigslist. But I doubt that my talents lie in that direction, so I honestly list my deficiencies and leave it to the company to decide whether training would alleviate them. (If anything I'd most likely be good at giving tours of houses, where the echo would amplify my quiet voice; I'd still need training beforehand.) No reply.

April 20 — Somewhere I come across a job listing for a catering/restaurant chain which wants waiters and other service staff, and I apply. No reply.

ca. April 21 — The hope of finding work dwindles, and I spend a very dark and gloomy day. But I refuse to give up and try to keep busy until my mood improves; this works and I feel grimly proud.

April 22 — The publishing company unexpectedly calls, and I am invited to an interview.

April 24 — Of course I come late and there's no interview at all. For the rest of the day I mope, thoroughly.

April 25 — The moping is over. I plan to pick up the job search again after a day or two of rest.

ca. April 26 — The illusion vanishes, and I realize that for the present I have no motivation and no hope. My job-searching and email-checking feels like a pathological reflex at this point. But I keep on going, though less intensively. What does not help so much is that the internship job listing is still up on the website (as it will continue to be for another week or so), thumbing its nose at me, so to speak.

May ? — A doctor's practice in Potsdam wants someone to help tend the building's gardens, as I find out on Meinestadt.de. I telephone the number, and then twice try adding area codes, but no iteration is valid.

May 17 — In Tip magazine I see and respond to a listing for an editorial internship at a different publishing company. No reply.

May 24 — Through Meinestadt.de I find that Rossmann, a retail chain, is looking for sales helpers. I fill out a detailed online application, attach a photo, cover letter, c.v., and university transcript in the most elaborate action to date. This morning I find a very kindly framed (form) e-mail reply telling me that the position has been filled; I am, above all, extremely grateful that this has cut short the suspense, waiting, etc., so that I can get on with the job search.

To summarize, this whole process has been a protracted pain in the posterior, but at least I've learned that I do have sufficient strength of mind now to pull myself out of bad moods, even in the absence of exterior distractions. And I am also happy that I've gone about the job-searching in a straightforward and fair way. So it's been worth it. Of course it would be even more worth it if I actually had a nice job now. (c:

A Brief(?) Lamentation

After a rather horrible two-and-a-half weeks, I am temporarily rehabilitated from discouragement, etc., and the job search has picked up again. I wish it weren't such a depressing process. I'm insecure about what prospective employers will think about my qualifications, though I regret nothing as far as dropping out of university goes, due to the possibly mistaken belief that a bachelor's degree is primarily a piece of paper than can prove much or, more often, little. What I regret far more is that I haven't proper work experience, as it would evidently be far more useful in fitting me for a job and in giving me a better understanding of what awaits me.

I also don't like including the URL for this blog in my c.v., because this is meant to be read by people who are interested in some of the subjects and not by people trying to form a critical sense of who I am. But it is a representative overview of my writing and it corroborates much of the information in the rest of the c.v. (It proves, for instance, that I've genuinely been sitting at home since July 2006, not frequenting crack houses or engaging in other more exciting but less reputable activities). And mentioning it doesn't make me much more self-conscious than usual because the chances that prospective employers are going to do more than glance at it, or be bored to tears, are infinitesimal.

What's also depressing is coming across so many sleazy jobs, jobs for which I'm underqualified, and jobs from companies who choose to remain anonymous and don't give sufficient detail, so that it's impossible to tell what precisely they do and what precisely they might require. As a friend of fine language, catchphrases like "future-orientated" and "young and dynamic" equally puzzle and annoy me, especially the second example, which I think is an obvious euphemism for "no old people." Most of all I hate spurious job advertisements that prey on the desperation and gullibility of the unemployed; it's a horrid way of kicking people when they're down.

Anyway, aside from looking for work in Berlin I've begun looking for work in New York again. Even though the chances are not great, I still hope that I can find an employment niche, besides which I am still determined not to neglect fair opportunities when they are offered.

It would be nice to say that career isn't the only thing on my mind right now, but largely it is. I've been thinking about stories but haven't come up with anything, the piano is going badly, there is no especially compelling news saga at present (though I have been following the Miss California nonsense with vivid interest, especially because opposition to gay marriage is so difficult for me to understand), the piano concert we attended on Friday was worthwhile but disappointing (and I should have slept more beforehand), and I have come across no particularly gripping films or books. Most of all I need a good, solid project.

Looking at the positive side of things, though, I'm convinced that this misery is a good preparation for a job. It could scarcely be worse, and if it's much better, I'll be all the more contented and hard-working (q.v. university, after the gap year which was largely devoted to insecurity and brooding).

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.

Woe is Me

I don't understand why, but the Chinese course has left me exhausted. T. offered to review the vocabulary with me yesterday, and the idea of it frankly struck stark desolation into my being. We did it today anyway; it was still tiring and much of the material had slipped out of memory. But whining can minister to a mind diseased, so here is the day encapsulated as a series ungrammatically laconic complaints:

Day began before 11 a.m. and seemed so terribly, terribly long. Also gloomy and rainy; may contribute to my present mood.

Yesterday filled out forms to get health insurance again. One form for family/other info, one bank account withdrawal authorization, one form for declaration of income. Much more straightforward than expected, especially as there were precisely 0 Euros in income to declare. Otherwise, still detest performing "duty" that has no immediate necessity to recommend it. Bank account likely to consequently diminish like snow in the Sahara.

A propos of bank, appointment coming up on Wednesday; look forward to it about as much as getting a tooth pulled. If invited to place money on the stock market, plan to decline with thanks.

Walked in park with J. Skirt splashed with rainwater by bus on the way there. Umbrella (kindly lent by T.) turned inside out. Fixed it. Broke again. Squills, daffodil buds, remnant snowdrops, tulip leaves, and J.'s cheerful chatter redeemed journey.

On Project Gutenberg, reread The Scottish Chiefs. Big mistake. First time of reading was during my gap year; was in shock for days. Literary equivalent of eating artificially flavoured icing sugar and jelly beans and drinking Sprite for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Vapoury, precious in the late 17th-century sense. Can't decide whether religious sentiments well-meant or phony. Makes Sir Walter Scott look like Tolstoy. Later read western novels; infinitely better, but overly familiar by now.

Played piano: "songs without words," movements of Haydn and Mozart sonatas, etc. Went decently through sheer force of will; at first I was in an ungenuine mood.

Later reactivated my Facebook account. All old information (which had been industriously deleted) still present in its former glory, which made me very angry. If they'd only kept my e-mail address and name it would have been all right, but they kept everything. !!!

To summarize, a horrendously tedious day.

Bees, Dragonflies, and Abrupt Endings

My Chinese course has come to a most interesting conclusion. At first I was certain it would last three weeks, then was certain that it would last four weeks, and under that impression skipped this past Tuesday and Wednesday. The reasons for said skipping are diverse, and they seemed sufficient at the time, but now look a trifle silly. This probably sounds very irritating, but the thing is that I felt sickish whenever I was stressed, and when I relaxed it went away, so it was greatly preferable to relax. The other thing is that my mind is quite stuffed with fresh information, and I thought it best to let it settle before endeavouring to cram in more.

So on Tuesday I watched the 1995 BBC Pride and Prejudice and the Disney film The Swan Princess (less irritating than most of its famous brethren, but quite "meh"), and generally did an excellent job of taking it easy. By the way, I am now quite in awe of the BBC Pride and Prejudice. The opening scene could, I think, very easily have been filmed from life if cameras existed back in Jane Austen's day. Its pacing and detail is also excellent; you can really sink into the story and setting and characters. Evidently I haven't appreciated it enough in the past.

On Wednesday I devoted most of the day to writing and finishing my lousy-story-set-in-New-York. It's still lousy, but it was incredibly nice to write it. This time I didn't passively see the events and record them so much as plan out the events and then see them in my mind's eye as I wrote. It also feels so good to put to use my past knowledge (e.g. school Spanish) and experiences, and let them naturally fill out the bones of the story. Then it was fascinating to think out the past lives, personalities, etc., of the characters, carefully fiddling away at them so that they are as real as possible, and to know more about them than I put in the story. Apparently my imagination has also become far better, because I could see everything in great detail, especially the characters. Most of these delights of the scribbling art are probably clichéd, but in any case they kept me busy and happy for over twenty hours in all. (Word count: ca. 12,800.)

On Thursday I overcame my fear of being looked at askance for my delinquency, and of being utterly at sea in a class that had advanced far beyond my knowledge, and of displaying my ignorance, and went to Chinese again. I tried surprisingly successfully to bear any of the natural consequences of my absence bravely and with a good sense of proportion and humour. I arrived early and began catching up with the last chapter. Then, when my classmate M. had come as well, I asked rhetorically, and with a humour that was of course rueful, "Did I miss much?". She informed me that the course would be ending tomorrow (i.e. today), and that we would be having an exam then. !!!

Fortunately I wasn't taking the course expecting to be given a graded certificate (I'd have had to do the homework in that case, which would have been so much more stressful), so I bore this news with near-perfect equanimity. Last night I thought about studying, but upon consulting the state of my mind found it signally unreceptive to new information.

I woke up this morning not in the best of spirits, thanks to my dream. It was set at first in an underground research facility. The scientists (I was an innocent bystander!) annihilated a great quantity of bees as part of their research. Not long afterward an enormous swarm of bees came to avenge their fallen kin, and darkened the sky as they crept in through all the orifices of the building. Some of us crawled into airtight rooms, or rooms that were nearly airtight but might still admit bees, but I didn't want to be suffocated and preferred to die out in an open space, which preference was granted. At around this point, I woke up and realized (not a dream) that in the tension I was ripping open my blanket cover, or whatever it's called.

Then I went back to sleep and the scene changed to our old home in Victoria, in lifelike detail. The skies were grey, almost as heavily as during snowfall, and the bees attacked again, once again fatally. This being a dream, I was given another life, and found myself in my old room. Through the firs I saw a steady confluence of wild geese and other birds flying north (the east, in real life) in a black line. They were pursued by a massive speckled torrent of black dragonflies, which funnelled down to the ground like a webbed tornado, and then poured through our house. On my skin I saw the bumps that their biting apparatuses left behind, and at length was stretched out, unconscious, on my bed. Much to my surprise, I woke up after a while, quite alive. I went out to the living room and told my parents that we had to flee to the north, like the birds, at once. My parents admitted that the insects had been behaving oddly lately, but didn't think it was so urgent. After much vehement insistence, they agreed to evacuate anyway, and so did the relatives and friends who had happened to visit us then. I hastily packed up crucial things to take along, but couldn't think properly, so stuffed pens and random items of clothing and two pewter saucers into a cardboard box, and then went down to put everything in the car. It was even more urgent as I saw a (this time greatly diminished) flock of birds fleeing northward again, pursued by the vanguard of a fresh host of dragonflies, whose wings were fortunately battered by the great raindrops that had begun to fall. Downstairs I made sure that everyone else was coming (which is good, because in dangerous dream-situations I tend to forget about the others, who then presumably die off-stage), and then went to the car. My parents, who were convinced now, had driven the car out of the garage onto the driveway. I was going to get in the back of the car, where everybody else had found a place, but there wasn't enough room, so I had to run to the other side. The car rolled forward out of the gate before I could, and I ran after, not knowing if the car would stop long enough for me to enter . . . And then I woke up.

In this catastrophic state of mind, I was not precisely prepared for an exam, but cheered up fairly quickly. (The bedlinen badly needs mending, though.) Anyway, I learned at least three new characters, went to the TU campus and wrote the test, and suspect that I received 60-70% on it. Of course test and essay marks (like dreams!) tend to go by contraries, so that what you think you deserve is rarely what you end up receiving. (Opapa liked to tell an anecdote where a couple of professors were given the same German(?) essay to mark, and gave it everything from a 5 to a 1.) It was mercifully brief, and then I bade everyone goodbye and good luck, emerged out into the sunshine, and, in an increasingly cheerful mood, walked home at a leisurely pace by the long Siegessäule route. Hopefully I wasn't too much of an enfant terrible in the Chinese class. If I am ever a delight to teach, it is certainly not due to any industriousness.

For the rest of the day I've been playing the piano, eating, conversing with the siblings, going over my lousy story with J., singing a great and varied repertoire in my best (or possibly worst) mock-operatic voice, watching an episode of The Avengers, and trying to think What To Do Next. So far, What To Do Next includes eating less; when one is swiftly walking at least fifty minutes every weekday one can consume pretty much whatever one likes, and when one isn't it is evidently incumbent upon one to exercise moderation. Anyway, I've still become slenderer, which is a very nice surprise. I look in the mirror and suddenly I have a neck.

Frittering Away a Sunday

This evening T. took the family, a family friend, Aunt K. and Uncle Pu to dinner at a Pakistani restaurant, in celebration of the pleasing results in her university examinations. I had a bronzy bowl of fish curry, which was I thought agreeably subtle, and we all spooned delicate, slender rice out of a dented coppery bowl and forked a salad of iceberg lettuce, pickled cabbage, shredded carrot, and trickles of yoghurt and cranberry sauce onto our plates. Most of the others drank mango or coconut lassis, or tea, whilst T. and I had "Jogi" tea, which resembles cappuccino, has a satisfying layer of honey at the ground of the glass, and tastes of clove and (or so I thought) cardamom. We were not alone in dining at the restaurant, though at first there was only one pair of diners, who were looking in our direction and smiling (evidently appreciating our lively conversation) before they left.

At home afterwards, Papa and Pudel and I played Haydn trios, in C, D and G major. Ge. heated milk for ovaltine and other drinks, and everybody talked. It was fun to hear a heated debate on the merits of Wagner, and of course I was happy when the conversation turned to Jane Austen (Pudel and K. have been watching Austen film adaptations, which I mostly know inside out). At first I was going to do Chinese homework in my room, so I copied down a handful of characters. Then I looked for the characters' definitions in a list, and couldn't find them, at which point I felt very much like Mr. Bean trying to write the wrong maths test and crying "Mummyyy!" in despair. On the plus side, it was the perfect excuse to shirk my homework, go to the corner room, and listen to the conversation. Unfortunately my favourite perch on the stove was more or less untenable, as the surface temperature had become quite toasty.

Other than that I've been re-reading The Railway Children by E. Nesbit, writing a new lousy story set in present-day New York, and playing the piano. Then I went through Schubert's "Ave Maria," very slowly. It's still so challenging technically that any sappiness of the lyrics and music doesn't much bother me, which is not quite the case with the "Ständchen" from Schwanengesang, where I resolutely forget what the words mean and at times don't feel like singing it at all. Besides I watched a half hour or so of television (an episode of Pink Panther and Bringing Up Baby, which is a little frenetic but always nice to watch again) and read part of a book of English idioms.

Yesterday I picked up Andromaque again, and have almost reached the dénouement, despite my failure to understand why Orestes would still be infatuated with Hermione after so many excellent opportunities for sober second thought. J.'s outdoing me on the classics front, though, because he is presently immersed in a tome of Euripides' plays and reading up on ancient Rome. (c: We've already had an argument on whether Euripides is humorous or not. I remember his plays as being pretty thoroughly depressing (in Trojan Women, lots of people die, to put it baldly), but am probably confusing him with Aeschylus, whom I also had to read in university. Essentially the only thing I remember about Aeschylus is that he composed The Persians, was agreeably fair-minded and thoughtful, and had a brother whose hand was hacked off with an axe when he was grabbing the prow of a Persian ship that wanted to pull off the shore, after which said brother bled to death. But that last item may be a figment of the imagination.

Idle Thoughts of a Saturday

This morning we had one of our communal breakfasts, consisting principally of buns from the bakery, hot chocolate, tea, and the spiritual nourishment of golden tulips and daffodils (Mama's contribution). J. was slumbering, despite our invitations to the table, but everyone else was present.

Yesterday we likewise enjoyed a communal supper, which was the joint achievement of Gi. and myself. It was a big pot of "sweet and sour pork," according to a recipe adapted from Papa's past chef d'oeuvres of that dish. I fried ca. 1 kg of pork and 500 g of organic beef in butter, sunflower oil, sesame seeds, chili powder, paprika, and powdered ginger, searing the surface of the meat to seal in the juices (as I promptly explained to everyone who crossed my path). Then I put it in a pot with chopped bell peppers, one green and one red and one yellow, and dashed in liberal quantities of soy sauce. After this point Gi. took over. He poured in 2 jars of plums and, after letting it boil away for a long time, 2 cans of pineapple chunks, and a carton of tomato sauce. Finally he stirred in a couple tablespoons of corn starch dissolved in cold water.

The result resembled a stew. It was remarkable firstly in that the corn starch had refused to dissolve properly, instead settling as glutinous blobs in the depths of the pot. (I didn't mind this at all, because I find that corn starch is too artificial as a thickening agent, and I'm fond of impromptu dumplings if only for their entertainment value.) Secondly, for some reason, the beef truly tasted of beef and the pork had a hint of pork. It may not be everyone's cup of tea, but I liked it.

Since breakfast, at any rate, I haven't done much worth describing. (Gawker and Jezebel. The "feud" between the business channel CNBC and Jon Stewart is enjoyable to read about, but not quite true news.) I did play the piano, mostly Mendelssohn but also a Chopin prelude, Piazzolla milonga, and Field nocturne out of my old piano lesson notebooks.

Yesterday I took a look at English and Irish and Welsh folksongs. To my unappreciative ears, they often sound a good deal alike, but there are a couple of lyrics and melodies with fine pathos and a distinct character ("The Ash Grove," for instance), and I want to learn those. Otherwise I've tired a little of my song repertoire, which consists largely of a handful of Schubert lieder (the boringly famous ones, I'm afraid), the first verse of Bellini's "Casta Diva", and Mozart's "Voi che sapete" and Gounod's "Ave Maria" and the folksong "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton" as far as I can remember the lyrics. "When I am laid" from Purcell's Dido and Aeneas is quite lovely too, and I like "As when the dove" from Händel's Acis and Galatea, but somehow have never gotten around to learning their lyrics beyond the first line or couplet.

My reading has not been too elevated lately, though when bored yesterday I read Racine's Andromaque up to Act II Sc. ii. (I skipped to the end; the corpse count is 2, and the fates of Andromache and Astyanax are indeterminate). At bedtime I am reading Jack London's White Fang, a chapter or two at a time. Even that I've already read twice, but skimmingly and perhaps ten years ago. I like the way London quietly explores the question of survival from such diverse perspectives, though when I was little this heterogeneity irritated me. (My preferred mode of reading was plunging to the action, finding one protagonist and seeing everything through his or her eyes, and then gradually reading the descriptive passages, etc., on the second or third reading, if the book was congenial.)

Anyway, having rambled sufficiently, I'll only mention for the sake of full honesty that I skipped Chinese for the second time on Friday. It felt pretty good, and especially the splendid piano session in the afternoon weakened my feelings of guilt, though in retrospect it wouldn't have killed me to go there for three hours when the entire weekend lay before me, and I do like my classes. The day before I had been in a very miserable mood, besides which my leg muscles are uncomfortably taut with the walking to and fro, so the rest was helpful. The mood was nothing too worrisome but fascinatingly weird; it was a state of profound but transient malaise like the kind that can accompany a fever or a flu, and I have no idea where it came from or what it is. But it is gone and it has had a good effect on my piano-playing. At any rate, enough hypochondriac navel-gazing for one day. (c:

P.S.: The latest episode of America's Next Top Model has made me ashamed to watch it again. Hélas! as a character in Andromaque would say.

The Events of Three Month Ten Day

Today I performed the grand feat of walking all the way to my Chinese class, and then walking all the way home, and then going upon a little promenade to the Kleistpark with J. For some reason this walk is generally gruelling. I come home, do things for an hour or so, then feel overcome with slumber and want nothing more than to curl up on the sofa beside the stove or even to go to bed. Anyway, today it wasn't so bad, perhaps due to the fact that, after a white night, I slept ca. 16.5 hours yesterday. In the morning I went the long way, via the Siegessäule, and was kept on my toes (so to speak) by the threat of rain and the threat of coming late. At the CDU building (which I like to poke fun at as the Abode of Evil), I found out that I had mistaken the hour by an hour, wherefore I was actually in excellent time, instead of ca. 17 minutes late. Then I went past the building that houses the embassies of Monaco, Luxembourg, etc., and the Mexican embassy which I oddly like (diagonal ribs of grey stone and a coppery door panel that is most likely a reference to the natural resources of that country), etc., in fairly good spirits. On the Straße des 17. Juni I had the privilege of passing a convoy of black compact cars surrounded by police cars and motorcycles, and of guessing whether a criminal, businessmen, or politicians were being thusly protected. Later it did rain in a heavy, silvery April manner, but by then I was nearly at the building.

In Chinese itself we reviewed the vocabulary of family, etc. Our teacher becomes exasperated from time to time, but in a nice, restrained way and in a moment she calms down again. Considering how we learn things and then forget them again, commit a blunder over and over again, and things of the sort, it is quite understandable. (Besides, I suspect that she rather likes me and is correspondingly tolerant, because I know English and have a sense of humour.) Unrelatedly, she wants us to stop relying on pinyin; I am not inclined to heed her suggestion, as I learn the proper characters anyway, and need pinyin for the accents (not that I take sufficient pains to use the right ones anyway). We gave presentations about our families; I volunteered to go first, and it didn't go so badly. I go carefully and therefore slowly, but produce reasonable sentences most of the time. It's the listening comprehension and pronunciation that I do badly.

Then we learned the numbers from 11 to 99, which is fairly easy, as one must merely say e.g. four-ten-eight (48). Whoever evolved the Chinese language is likewise pragmatic where dates and times are concerned. Months, for instance, are known as "one month," "two month," and so on and so forth, instead of "January," "February," etc. According to the Chinese format, today's date would be expressed as 2-0-0-9 year, 3 month, 10 day. The weekday would be expressed as "week two day," the sole exception being Sunday, which is called "week tian day," "tian" (which should have a bar over the "a") meaning "heaven" or something else which I've forgotten.

On the way back home I timed the length of my walk, this walk taking the route via the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche and Wittenbergplatz and Nollendorfplatz. I arrived at Ernst-Reuter-Platz at 1:12, at Nollendorfplatz at 1:44, at Winterfeldtplatz at 1:49, and at the Kleistpark intersection at 1:59, more or less. It is a nice route, through the stir of the roundabout at Ernst-Reuter-Platz, the steady trickle of students on the Hardenbergstraße, past the bookstore where T. and I went months ago and the Steinway-Haus and an art gallery, past the Universität der Künste building where I used to go to student concerts and masterclasses, and above all past an interesting mix of people that becomes more tourist-y but remains as interesting at the Kirche. The route also leads me along a "tony" (to employ an expression which strikes me as being a little pretentiously slangy and a lot suggestive of a thesaurus, but fitting) shopping street. I like watching for particularly elegant or striking clothing, and even more watching for distinctive faces. It is a funny jumble, suggestive of New York, especially when a wave of people gathers along the edge of a broad pedestrian crossing and then breaks onto the asphalt.

At any rate, I wonder about my future as much as ever. As far as music and writing go, I haven't been very sanguine lately. I know that I can write a publishable story; the problem is my extremely demanding standards, and finding my own style. I refuse to attempt to publish anything that does not fulfill my ideals, or to sacrifice quality for quantity or speed of production. Besides, I am not precisely sure why, because I am not an experienced professional writer and can't expect to write as well as someone who is, but for instance if I read a truly excellent article (the fiction and poetry rarely impress me much) in the New Yorker, the internal dictator points to that and tells me that what I write is worthless, and then I feel terrible for a while. Then it feels as if I were far more inspired writing-wise and music-wise five years ago; where I had moments of genius then I no longer have anything except moments of moderate talent.

On the other hand, it feels better to write or play decently if it reflects months of hard work and thought. There are dozens of poorly written, unoriginal stories floating around on my computer, but they reflect hours upon hours of tinkering and research, and the germination of tiny seeds of ideas into full-fledged plots, and the determination to go on writing in spite of impatience and of the knowledge that the result would not be especially good. Not to mention that writing them can be fun. I can picture stories in my mind as if they were dreams, and then live through them and record what I see. It is especially fun when I haven't previously thought out the details of the plot, so that the twists and turns of the story come into being and surprise me as I write. The problem with such stories is that they are not very realistic, and it requires much ingenuity and exertion of mind to lend them detail and depth. The writing I'd like to do is far more realistic; I want to write stories that are so natural and plausible and vivid that one has the impression that the scenes are recorded from life. But I want to depict especially interesting scenes, and do so with a wealth of observation, so that the reader does not want to escape from life into unreality, but can better understand, be curious and critical about, and come to terms with, life . . . if that makes sense. (c:

Top Models and Youthful Innocence

Having been of the cheerful opinion for the past week at least that I have finally lost any interest in watching America's Next Top Model, it was a bit of a surprise when I was looking at the most popular videos on YouTube, spotted the season premiere of that television show, thought "Oo!" and then "Why not?", and in a moment found myself immersed in the premiere. So often I have wondered why I still watch this show, and found the last three seasons mediocre in the absence of the rich psychological studies and compellingly endearing winners that made Seasons 6 and 7 so worthwhile. But this season is promising to be fairly good again. I watched part of Germany's Next Top Model too, but find it a little too trashy, and don't find that the contestants are as palpably individual and interesting as their American counterparts. Besides, one tires of hearing the word "krass" after the first billion iterations.

At any rate, this cycle of ANTM begins at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Never mind that I find the Romans to be a tribe of philistines, and willingly consign the lifestyle of their wealthy to the long dead past, nor like Las Vegas much either from what I've seen and heard of it; it was amusing to see the pomp. Still I internally groaned and groaned as a chanting row of centurions marched onto a walkway over a swimming pool, and then Tyra Banks emerged from their number in toga-esque garb and billowing hair to declare herself the "Goddess of Fierce" to a scarily hyperemotional, screaming group of girls.

At an interval after this formal introduction, the girls come into a room one by one to be interviewed by Tyra, the runway coach Miss J, and the photo shoot director(?) Jay Manuel. As is inevitable, each individual's life is boiled down into "their story." The Kenyan contestant is told that she was chosen because of her beautiful dark skin, which makes Tyra sound not unlike a taxidermist but does not seem to worry Sandra at all. Then there is Angelea, a girl from New York or Jersey who has already had and lost a baby, and who gets in a shouting match with Sandra. Because she is "ghetto" and perforce slept in the Port Authority building and only possesses a little over forty dollars, she is unfairly blamed for the shouting match and reported to Tyra as a troublemaker. In my view this continues the show's trend of blaming people for their tough exterior, even though they either cannot help it, must have it in order to survive, or both. Anyway, there is a girl who comes from Puerto Rico and is an obligingly extroverted Latina (there are no nuances in national or ethnic identity in the world of ANTM), a spate of small-town girls, etc., etc., and of course a girl who is suffering from an illness (this season it's epilepsy; in the past ailments like lupus and Asperger's have had their moment in the spotlight).

Then the lucky number of contestants is chosen, sporting gilded laurel wreaths in their hair, and they weep with joy whereas the less fortunate weep with disappointment. Angelea is among the latter number, and at this point I, metaphorically speaking, mutter angrily. Amid much squealing, which is an unfailing and puzzling accompaniment to almost any activity in ANTM, the girls fly to New York. They are staying in an apartment on the Upper East Side, at which point I think about the expense thereof and about how fortunate the girls would be if they weren't going to spend the coming weeks being put through their paces in a human circus (a second-rate version of the Cirque du Soleil, if you will).

The first photo shoot is about one of Tyra Banks's Causes. These causes are quite as faddish and change quite as frequently as her hairstyles (speaking of which, she is no longer imitating Victoria Beckham's bob). One season it was global warming and the girls were ferried about in an apparently windowless van as if they were vegetables en route to a grocery; the next season it was something else and the girls were ferried about in a heavyweight stretch limousine. The Cause for this photo shoot is the disparition of childish innocence amidst the onslaught of premature sexualization. So the girls have to dress up in pigtails and curtailed childish clothes, and hop and skip about Central Park in fancy-free juvenile pursuits, like dodgeball and musical chairs and hide-and-seek, as behind them loom the degraded, threatening figures of three prematurely aged "bad girls."

One of the "bad girls" has committed the sin of teenage pregnancy; at this point I am seriously irritated. I detest the tendency to label teenage mothers as stupid or sluttish. Their situation can be, and often is, so hard that I think that they have a far greater claim to consideration and respect than (most of) the rest of us. Then I hate the habit of moralizingly blaming people for their misfortunes. Being born into the bourgeoisie is -- and this may surprise some people -- not in itself a virtue. Thirdly, I don't think it should be considered a misfortune to bring another little being into the world, as long as one does one's best to care for it and society doesn't do its best to sour the experience.

At any rate, the episode ends in the customary manner, with a judging session. The girls appear before Tyra, Miss J, the photographer Nigel Barker, and Czech model Paulina Porizkova, who proffer their commentary on the girls' attire and self-presentation and photos. Then the judges de-li-be-rate (as Tyra invariably puts it) and decide which of the contestants they will kick off. This week it is Isabella, an agreeable chirpy individual who is let go in preference to Sandra. The current theory is that Sandra has been retained to be the designated villain of this cycle of ANTM, which does appear likely as she is prone to the typical villain traits of inaccurate self-assessment and egocentrism. But Sandra does have a distinctive face and temperament, so, though I do not like her as much as Isabella, it seems to me that someone else should have been voted out this week. At least Isabella, delivering the soliloquy with which every parting contestant leaves the show, was not a mess of tears and wounded ego, but good-humoured and optimistic. She is one of the ones who display magnanimity in (temporary) defeat.

Long story short, I am watching this season.

Han Yu

This is a leaf from my Chinese class notes. Evidently the way I prefer to drive the characters into my memory is through repetition. A few of my favourite characters:

dì
The labyrinthine squiggle with the vertical line through it and the two little people or birds perched on top, and which is used to identify ordinal numbers. As I found out two or three days ago, "ordinal numbers" means, logically enough, numbers that signify an order. So dì yi kè means "first lesson," whereas yi kè would just mean "one lesson." [The yi should have a bar over the i, but I don't know the html code for that.]

kè
Looks like an "i" with a spiky scarecrow standing to its right. It means "lesson," and as such this piece of vocabulary has been of great utility so far.

hao
To me it looks like two happy people dancing. It means "good" (wherefore the common greeting Ni hao literally means "you good") and is supposed to have an upside-down circumflex over the "a."

shì
Be. It is an oddly Egyptian-looking character, and vaguely resembles a box on a chair with one straight and one baroquely curling leg.

hen
It's supposed to have an upside-down circumflex over the "e," and means "very." For instance, hen hao means "very good." To me it looks like a person walking away from a fir tree, and I remember the meaning by imagining that the tree boughs are being swayed by a very strong wind.

qi
Stand. The way I remember the character is that it looks like an odd chair (with a cross on top and a curly leg) on whose tip a squiggle (possibly a seahorse) is standing. There should be an upside-down circumflex on the "i." Duì bù qi means "I'm sorry," but literally the words signify "I cannot stand before you (i.e. out of shame)."

At any rate, I like most of the other characters, too. As for "qi," "hen," etc., I've written them here in pinyin (pronounced "pin-ing," the "y" being the way for writing "i" at the beginning of a syllable). Pinyin is a mode of representing Chinese characters phonetically, using the Latin alphabet, which not only students of Chinese but also native speakers use to navigate their alphabet of ca. 30,000 characters. It isn't infallible, because as my teacher said yesterday, she once checked the chart that gives all the possible combinations of vowels and consonants in pinyin, and it only offers ca. 241 possibilities, which of course represents an infinitesimal fraction of the entire syllabary (if that's the correct term).

The accents in pinyin indicate whether the pitch of one's voice should be raised or lowered, or both in succession, or not at all. Theoretically it may be difficult to grasp this concept, and when I was learning ancient Greek I refused to attempt it (not that we were expected to do so), but I've realized that we change the pitch of our voices all the time anyway. At the end of a question, if you compare the beginning and end of the last syllable, you do hear that the voice becomes higher.

Admittedly I've found the pronunciation of Chinese quite difficult. The pinyin "j" sounds, to my ears, an awful lot like a hard "d," only that the "d" is followed by a kind of buzzing "z." "Zh" is apparently far more analogous to the English "j." "Q" and "x" are also weird for me, because "ch" is "ch" and "sh" is "sh," whereas "q" and "x" are respectively something subtly different which involves considerable stretching of the corners of the mouth. "E" is an enigma, and at present it seems to me like a vague approximation of "eu-eh" as that would be pronounced in French; I've decided to pronounce "eng" as if it were French, too, because it sounds a good deal like "ong" but isn't. Anyway, my approach to the pronunciation of unknown languages is to hit on a reasonably euphonious compromise between the languages I know and the one I don't, instead of running the risk of perpetrating a grotesque caricature that would induce trauma in a native speaker. That is why I do not experiment with Spanish "r"s in public.