the fulled moons all have names

My entire family went with to berlin. I was still looking for apartments and we wanted to show dante the sights. We mostly ate a lot of ice cream and returned yesterday under a full pink moon. I have options now. I can live on my own on the 18th floor, a city like existence a view over the buildings of berlin, the radio tower and, with access to people with toneechnical knowledge (hendrik) or in a small and strangely cut room near one of my favorite streets with two friendly girls and a checkerboard floored kitchen. Is this one of those moments where I have to decide what kind of person I am?
The program is starting next week...in less than a week. I cant believe it. Somehow I’m still not sure what im doing. My dreams are uneasy mixes of people places and impressions, of past and potential, of not knowing where I am or when.

no more pencils no more books no more relativesatznominalisierung übungen

last day of class.
im converting my focus of time and energy to the downstairs radio station.

putting my foot in my mouth

I try to do this often,
as a test of my flexibility.

religion, pleasure

For fasting, i lent myself to the idea of not drinking coffee. I thought it would be easier than chocolate. I also thought it would be healthy.
So instead, I imbibe copious amounts of black tea. I also eat a lot more chocolate.
Compensation.

I went to gymnastics at the school. Anything, anything to kick myself out of this (see elenangst below). I also signed up for a radio workshop which I kept meaning to do and so am learning how to do little radio reports.
The campus station is based in a little topsy turvy room in the sub levels of the university (this does not mean underground, strangely, so there is light coming in through an entire side of windows). Our team-leader/guide person is gorgeous (I think) with big bright eyes and a relaxed laugh. Crush in the making? Hm
Our first task was to do a short survey and edit it together. I realized, shoving the mic into one person’s face after another, how much I rather enjoyed annoying people. The sense of license, entitlement to, excuse the short interruption into your private comfortable daydream, task or tete a tete, but what do you think of this, hmm? appealed to me
The truth is, just about no one will answer anything if you ask them, would they pretty please like to answer a question? You just have to go ahead and ask right off and risk them getting offended or pissed (which doesn’t usually happen). I could learn a lot from this.

There were adorable primroses at the gardenmarket today, they looked like candy, bright spots nestled in dark ripply leaves. Irresistible, I fell for a crimson one all sungold in the center. It was nice to be in the market around flowers and lushness, it was dreadful and pouring outside.
One the way back the sun finally broke through the mass of gray overhead so we stopped at the cemetery where my grandparents are (are? Do you still ‘be’ if you are dead?) .
The grave was long overgrown, choked by white grass and covered in moss. We felt bad. Why do we take care of graves? I don’t know. In the hope people will remember us?
With my foot, I scraped some of the moss off the stone path in the middle of the plot. Then uncovered a little more of the stones. It was very damp. It had been raining for days. There was a layer of slippery sludgy earth underneath. Without meaning to, little by little, we started to pull grass out between the low hedge planted there, then pulled more and more soft moss aside. Suddenly we were in the middle of a concentrated clearing up, caring for, cleaning up of the grave. A pile of pulled up green moss, dead leaves, grass grew up on the footway. When finished we carried the detritus over to the nearby proper disposal and then stood quietly a moment, fingers cold red, covered in wet and dirt. I didn’t mind the dirt. There was no place to rinse off, so I found a nearby patch of clean moss and brushed them somewhat clean. Water was clinging to tree leaves all around. We used some of that; walking along the path, grasping hands of branches all down the row. The pines were especially good for this. just dripping they were.
The cemetery felt like a forest but with more hedges and rhododendron curving through the trees. Most of the green was very dark and damp and quiet. A thoughtful place for walking. At some point I had to pee, which I have to do umpteen times a day because of all that tea I’ve been pouring in. I wondered if urinating on someone grave could be in any way a sign of respect, like marking it. A recognition among so much anonymity. I decided not to risk unhappy dreams and settled instead in a rhododendron alcove where I could peacefully pee and think about the dead.

Fat Wednesday

i never mentioned madrid, getting there, being there, or getting back.
this last was me missing carneval
returning too late, carneval passed by in a room on tracks, tired, relieved, hurting, bleeding, bearing gifts, cold outside to warm inside.
Spanish planes and german trains washed off prickling skin along with the smell of darkened rooms, oranges, sweat.
Why not submit myself to german over-hygiene. The change in location immediately apparent as soon as I walk into the self cleaning toilet.
I liked the dustiness of spain, the disarray. They are almost there, almost fully modernized Europe, but not there yet. Every corner is under construction
I imagine the only drawback to living in Madrid would be the difficulty of riding a bike through it. But then again you can walk everywhere interesting, and the metro is literally the cleanest easiest easiest system I’ve ever had the pleasure never getting lost in. good job.

This is egostistical. I’ve been reading up on depression. Apparently there is no way to snap out of it. Which I don’t like to hear because I don’t like hard work. Id be more patient but the whole crying at the drop of a hat, (or pencil, spoon or word or anything or nothing at all) is starting to impede actually functioning in daily situations. I wake up and cant get up, I go to sleep red eyed, I weep over my breakfast teacup and drink teary black tea, I excuse myself from composing correct sentences in german class in order to go to the bathroom and compose myself. I feel bad when someone says something thoughtless but am more likely to cry when someone says something nice. Its as though the idea of someone being sympathetic to me is overwhelming.
So, it’s annoying, this soppy state of being. Ive never liked people seeing me cry. I used to avoid it at all costs. For a few years I just stopped crying. I never cried. Maybe once or twice in all those years.
It would be too bad to think that now I have to make up for it. If I knew it worked that way, I wouldn’t have tried so hard back then, and maybe done some preventative wailing in some choice private moments, or semi-private moments. Crying can be powerful, if used correctly you know. Maybe I should have tried to put it to work and use it to my advantage instead of scoffing the whole idea that emotional displays are manipulative and refusing to break down. Ever. In any case, a little prevention goes a long way.

I am making sure I drink enough water of course, to make up for the loss. And also eat things with salt. Ive been saving the tissues used up so far, to weigh later on. So far they fill a chocolate box.

I think I will use this as a way to keep track of my thinking. I know that I am building patterns of negative thinking, so maybe putting them in a semi-public forum will force me to be extra aware of them. Being embarrassed about what other people think is as good a motivation as any to change back into a normal human. To norminate yourself, no, to re-adjust, whatever. In fact airing paranoias seems cathartic

i am also a philosophical argument

"'Elenchus' in the wider sense means examining a person with regard to a statement he has made, by putting to him questions calling for further statements, in the hope that they will determine the meaning and the truth-value of his first statement. Most otten the truth-value expected is falsehood; and so 'elenchus' in the narrower sense is a form of cross-examination or refutation."
"The elenchus changes ignorant men from the state of falsely supposing that they know to the state of recognizing that they do not know; and this is an important step along the road to knowledge, because the recognition that we do not know at once arouses the desire to know, and thus supplies the motive that was lacking before. Philosophy begins in wonder, and ... elenchus supplies the wonder."
"The following objection may be made to the method of elenchus: it only tells you that you are wrong, and does not also tell you why."
http://www.ditext.com/robinson/dia2.html

queen of tarts

It wasn’t until I was walking, three grocery bags overfilled in my arms, home from the market in the morning that the headache kicked in; and I comprehended exactly what (I think) I had been doing the night before. Namely, swimming in the organically formed black plastic (?) beam supported pool/tub built by Berliner-parisienne artiste amateurs comprising last room of the new MArTa exhibit which, it being the opening, was as much overflowing with gin as with salted water (heated through copper pipes run through an old oven standing off to one side of the massive wet monstrosity—which looked as though it had swallowed, rather than just contained—the collection of arms and legs drifting opaquely around).
But no time to think about that, or the carnevalesque chaos ensuing in an old villa which (a nice paris lady named elisa gave me a tour, pointing out the bright red red carpets with her full redlipsticked lips) had a basement that looked like one eyed jacks and there were cages in an adjacent room (“zcahriest pahrt first” exclaimed she in her drawling French tone “I don knoh whad waz goeeng ahn dohn hea, but eet ees zo strainge!”)…no, no time to think: I arrived home, bags about to drop, to find guests already arrived. Happy valentines, I had, for some reason, though it a good idea to get together a little tea and cakes and hearts of chocolate valentines gathering.
Ok, it was sweet. But I miss my ol valentines.

Elentier

I find out there is an animal called the elenantilope. it lives in the Savannah and is overhunted. I also find out that elen is an old poetic word for elk, or moose, no longer used. In a big dictionary in the library i read that elen is short for elentier and formerly das seltener, which means the rare one. maybe this is becuase the elks died out in germany in the 13hundreds.

blues

I listen to the sputtering of the espresso machine behind me, instead of turning it off.
The pressure is too great, and the machine concedes, unwillingly snorts, short releases of steam out around the valve—which is now no longer airtight.
It is no longer airtight because of perpetual loving abuse by those who like to steam their milk. Or soy milk.
Whatever floats your macchiato
However,
these indiscretions on the part of the coffee machine, I am convinced, are the only thing keeping it from entirely exploding—so painful do they sound. It wavers instead, only gradually nearing the brink of utter self destruction. Luckily, my father walks in the kitchen just then, and with the press of a red button, delivers it from almost certain doom.

I spent the last days wavering, on the verge of tears. This is uncommon, so it was uncomfortable for the two reasons that 1. Being an emotional timebomb is inconvenient and uncomfortable and 2. Being fairly unfamiliar with the state of emotional timebombasity, it means an added discomfort of disorientation. At least, that’s how I see it.
The fact that these states don’t always offer a reasonable ground or justification for their existence is another blow to someone, like myself, who, if they are going to spend any amount of time being a blubbering imbecile, would like to know WHY that has to be the case.
Its not that I’m against short outbursts, or some occasional stint of blubbering imbecility, but these should be a) completed/experienced within a reasonable timespan and b) have a ground, cause or identifiable offsetting event. Otherwise they are indulgent, inefficient and insupportable. All considered, depression be awful.
I have little patience for people who are depressed. No, I should rephrase that. I have a lot of sympathy and am always ready to be there/ be supportive for people who are feeling down, its not their fault, etc. but at the same time, I have little respect for the idea of depression itself. Or for people who are emotionally irresponsible—who don’t at least try to resolve, regulate or take preventive measures in heading off their own down (or up) swings. Just an ounce of emotional self-sufficiency is all I ask. Everyone feels all things at some point. Learn to deal.
Be that as it may, I hold myself to no double standard.

I think it is time for some coffee.

Pop Quiz

Q. If, instead of dipping, i purposely let large pieces of cake or cookie fall past the coffeefoam in my cup so that i have to spoon them back out, am i being messy or thorough? (show all work on separate piece of paper)

A. The dunk timing needs to be just right and adjusted for the size and density of the cookie/cake so they saturate but do not disintegrate.

applying for art school—sort of.

At the end of last week I took the train to berlin in order to partake in the mysterious task/test or interview marking the second level of the sound studies application process. [side note, cliché it is but german trains really are a pleasure which, this trip reminded me, I had not been taking advantage of].
Overnighting at the very sniffling andreas’ i entered the appointed building at 20 minutes to the appointed time and found, after some dawdling and delaying, the designated room in which also entered, had entered or were about to enter ten or so other applicants. “sooo…anyone have any idea what we’re doing here” I ventured into the silent silence following the petering out of hushes side conversations.
No, answered the concensus of shrugged shoulders and angled heads.
I asked these fellow competitors where they were from—a variety of response. You? “the US” I said. “well actually I was born…[short life story]”
There was a derisive snort to my right. “you’re kidding”
I turned, but all I could see was neighbor’s mufasa dreadlocks half obscuring black glasses.
I must have sat next to him, tawny skinned boy, because I sensed the americanismus. (consciously, it was the opposite the door, window seat thing)
He was from Detroit and somewhere else. German dad, born in berlin, raised stateside with mom. Also had twelve year old brother. (I miss mine so much! I later exclaimed as we all sat outside over coffee. I don’t, he countered. But back in the then and there..)
Comforted by the fact I wasn’t the only candidate with questionable german skills, further conversation was precluded by the entrance of a professor, and administrator, to administer the…whatever was to come.
The man stood at the front of the room looking as coy as a tall round-glassesd balding german professor can possibly look. He cleared his throat

Our task, as it were, was to listen to a piece of music and describe what we heard.
Oh
But there were conditions.
First, we could not use associative language. No descriptions of feelings or emotional effect/affect. No technical language.
We were not to try and guess at or describe how the sounds were produced (which, as a few of my fellows were sound engineers they could probably have done quite easily), or who composed the piece or how it fits in the history of music.
We could use our own ‘private language’ but at the same should produce a description of the piece such that a second person might get an idea of what it was like. Just as one might describe an abstract painting.
Please formulate this into a few prägnante phrases. Here was the written task and paper.
Oh, one more thing, this was not a piece any one of us was likely to recognize, or something remotely familiar. It was non structural and fell into the category of abstract sounds.
(“so this is a written test” asked an asian man across the room. And, as though reading my mind, dropped his head in his hands.)
The piece was nine minutes. We had a half hour. Then we were given personal interview times. See you at the interviews. Have a good day.

What followed was, literally, indescribable. Unless, of course, you use some associative language (kind of like air-warfare, or something gone wrong at the sound check) or emotional expressions (it was tense and confusing, it felt like chaos rising and discord) some technical turn of phrase (the dissonance approached resolution but instead turned into pinknoise) etc.

So we opened our ears, scratched our heads and scribbled down our de-structuralist descriptions.

We went down to the café and some of sat around in a small group waiting for the interviews. None of us had a sense of what we had to do, or what was right. They were interesting people, sounds designers or conservatory musicians or down and dirty rockers.

The interview seemed fine. I can call this week to find out the results. And then, if they are positive, I can puzzle over the practicality of actually following through with this plan.

The Big Bang

street lit up in a collective neighborhood fireworks dispelling, a friendly competition and combination of efforts— who can most outsparkle the stars. we dropped firecrackers under the manholes to make them resonate, shot off rockets and fired volcanos that spewed bright glittering geysers into the dark. it reminded me of a warzone for a moment: scaring away the last year while exploding the next into being.
comrades in a fizzsparkling champagne dizziness we let ourselves be lifted with the missiles let out of empty bottles dissappearing an instant before eruption in the smoky depths of midnight sky.

Simon's Snowflakes, Island's Athorities,

On saturday i saw a four year old put together an icosahedron. He was the only boy in the group of ten who managed it. His name was Simon, and he was the cutest blond haired button of a little boy—who could also add faster than i could—that you could ever ask for. (This makes three wonderful Simons I have met here.)
Together with Ding, i lead a math workshop for geniusy kids: a "crack these christmas math-nuts" kind of course, over two days. we filled out stars with magic square-like number patterns, solved riddles of symmetrical snowflakes, learned how to count in Chinese and built origami cubes. in the pauses between the lessons (during which ding and i tried—often struggled—to gather their chaotic mind energy and focus it toward the prepared tasks) they invented and developed a strategy game called Islands. The game was at least as interesting and, I thought, just as thought-provoking as any of the christmas-themed word problems or geometrical figures we were trying to present. So it was hard for me to tell them to stop working on it and do whatever math game was next on the list since, honestly, I considered the skills entailed in Islands more valuable than figuring out how many toy trucks johnny could have bought with his santa money if x equals 7y and the economy weren't a black hole.
The game, which worked a little like Risk, involved holding, building up, and defending one's own Island—and its interests—while exploring, conquering, trading or making alliances with other Islands and their owners. The routes were complex, the potential wares (ships, large and small weaponry, all manner of accessories) were meticulously priced, and the game board—begun as a simply curving pen drawing on graph paper— was transformed by the end of the workshop into a fabulously colored archipelago paradise.
The most amazing part of the process was how matter of factly a couple of the kids took on roles of authority, which other children simply accepted, whether or not they had been originators of the game. if two children doing their own individual development of the game were unsure about something, they would turn to another, one of those possessing this mysterious authority, "can we do this?" they would asked. the Author replied with immediate assurance. with a 'this you can do, this you cant do' as though dictating a preestablished method and form, instead of guidelines he has just that moment determined. No one challenged, if it was a good ruling, the game simply went forward, slightly more defined than before. There were few disputes (such as over how many other game players one could form a peace treaty with)which were settled as quickly and logically as possible.
How are these Rulemakers made? There are the dreamers of dreams and then there are those that decree what is no longer dream. Determiners of Reality perhaps.
If we could all remember how to be so.

on the other side hand, I wasn't sure whether to be impressed by this one boys self-assurance, or to fear it (maybe fear what it would/could become), or to resent that I was never, and probably will never be, quite that dictatorial. its hard to imagine my word as law. yes, of course I navigate a range of relationships and embodiments of power dynamics, but still, whether by choice or chance leadership roles are not my lot.
its worth mentioning that this one boy with inexplicable authority (the Authors seemed to have authority based on age and the fact that they had started the game) was also one of the least controllable kids in the room. he was the joker, high energy, kept trying to sneak the answers to the problems, had little patience for the any of the tasks and often asked favors of us (teachers) in an exaggeratedly wide eyed, head cocked to one side with a tragically endearing smile way. his voice became adoringly pleading as he beseeched us "oh just one more minute, please..."
I forgot for a moment the ten year old standing in front of me, eyelashes batting away.
Manipulator, i thought.