Today was wet and windy - so windy, in fact, that I was in two minds about taking my umbrella when I left the house in the morning.
Once I had reached the long straight stretch of road that leads along the rail track, gusts of wind kept hitting me every few moments, so that I had to grip my umbrella with both hands. Several times, I was literally shoved against a fence or a wall, while yellow, orange and brown leaves were swirling all around me.
By the time I arrived at work slightly out of breath, my hands were very cold, my hair was all over the place and my specs needed wiping before I could do anything else.
Generally, I do not like cold weather. My preferred range of temperature lies between 25 and 35 degrees Celsius, and of course we are nowhere near that now in November.
And yet, getting blown about by the wind has something.
Who has not, some time or other as a kid, imagined what it would be like to be picked up by the storm and been taken to some distant place, high up with the racing clouds, to adventures unheard of and worlds unseen?
Right now, though, at a quarter to eleven in the evening and 6 Celsius outside in the dark, there are only very few adventures that hold much appeal for me.
Going to bed seems the wise thing to do.
Where is my blanket?
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Saturday, 24 October 2009
It's just some chemicals
That is what I am telling myself when, as it happens occasionally, I feel sadness trying to overwhelm me: it's just some chemicals in your brain reacting in a certain way.
I am neither really invisible, even though I get that impression from time to time from the non-existent reaction of others, nor is anyone deliberately snubbing me.
When will I finally get the message, I wonder?
What else does it take for me to accept that I will never really matter?
It is a sobering thought, but the simple truth: everyone is replaceable, and easily, too.
Unless you are the only person who can sing a certain song in a certain way, play that instrument, dance so divinely, or safe someone's life because you are the only person around to know that specific method of brain or heart surgery.
And also unless you are the beloved child, parent, partner or spouse of someone whose life would change forever if anything happened to you.
But, essentially, it is just a chemical reaction in my brain, the result of which manifests itself to me as feeling snubbed at first, and sad later.
Sometimes I wish I could just get angry, and literally drive the anger out of my system by physical activity, but regardless of how often I have tried already, I manage to outrun said sadness only very rarely.
There is good news though, too: the sad periods are a lot rarer now than, say, a year ago.
Chemically speaking, I seem to be more balanced these days.
Hopefully, balanced does not equal boring.
I am neither really invisible, even though I get that impression from time to time from the non-existent reaction of others, nor is anyone deliberately snubbing me.
When will I finally get the message, I wonder?
What else does it take for me to accept that I will never really matter?
It is a sobering thought, but the simple truth: everyone is replaceable, and easily, too.
Unless you are the only person who can sing a certain song in a certain way, play that instrument, dance so divinely, or safe someone's life because you are the only person around to know that specific method of brain or heart surgery.
And also unless you are the beloved child, parent, partner or spouse of someone whose life would change forever if anything happened to you.
But, essentially, it is just a chemical reaction in my brain, the result of which manifests itself to me as feeling snubbed at first, and sad later.
Sometimes I wish I could just get angry, and literally drive the anger out of my system by physical activity, but regardless of how often I have tried already, I manage to outrun said sadness only very rarely.
There is good news though, too: the sad periods are a lot rarer now than, say, a year ago.
Chemically speaking, I seem to be more balanced these days.
Hopefully, balanced does not equal boring.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Vergänglichkeit
You will rarely - if ever - find me posting in German, but this time, I was looking for a good title to my entry and couldn't come up with anything fitting better and sounding more beautiful in this context than Vergänglichkeit.
It literally means "passing-ness", and dictionaries offer a variety of translations for this term, ranging from momentariness (too technical) to transience (ok, that does sound rather elegant) to caducity (never heard that one before!) or fugaciousness (pompous, somehow).
And so, Vergänglichkeit it is.
On Monday, I was on my way to work as usual, passing the tidy front gardens of the neat row of houses that accompany the road from the train station to the small industrial estate where my work place is located.
These front gardens with their variety of flowers, shrubs and seasonal decoration (that alone is enough material for another blog entry; you wouldn't believe the amount of... erm... decorative items people put on their front doors, door steps and lawns!) often provide me with material for my musings, some of which eventually make it to the virtual pages of this my mental library, and this week's Monday was no exception.
In one particularly well-kept garden, several rose bushes stand close to the fence.
To me as a non-gardener, the sheer fact that there are still roses in bloom at this time of the year is amazing enough, but what I found even more amazing was the butterfly that was seemingly using those very roses as a resting spot.
It had been bitterly cold during the night, below zero, and the day was sunny with a sapphire blue and completely cloudless sky. By lunch time, when I was on my way to work, temperatures were no higher than maybe 2 or 3 degrees Celsius.
And so I wondered, where did the butterfly spend the night? How come it was still alive, and for how much longer was it going to be alive?
I know that butterflies do hardly count among the most persistent members of the animal kingdom, but some of them must survive somehow during winter, or we wouldn't see any in the next spring and summer.
So, how do they do it?
Was this one going to be one of the survivors or would it take only one more frosty night to end its brief existence?
The whole setting - the last roses, dead but very colourful leaves on the pavement, the butterfly in the rays of the bright but cold autumn sun; it all made me feel a bit melancholy and think of the Vergänglichkeit of things and, ultimately, of myself.
Maybe I was just tired after a very busy week with no weekend to speak of.
It literally means "passing-ness", and dictionaries offer a variety of translations for this term, ranging from momentariness (too technical) to transience (ok, that does sound rather elegant) to caducity (never heard that one before!) or fugaciousness (pompous, somehow).
And so, Vergänglichkeit it is.
On Monday, I was on my way to work as usual, passing the tidy front gardens of the neat row of houses that accompany the road from the train station to the small industrial estate where my work place is located.
These front gardens with their variety of flowers, shrubs and seasonal decoration (that alone is enough material for another blog entry; you wouldn't believe the amount of... erm... decorative items people put on their front doors, door steps and lawns!) often provide me with material for my musings, some of which eventually make it to the virtual pages of this my mental library, and this week's Monday was no exception.
In one particularly well-kept garden, several rose bushes stand close to the fence.
To me as a non-gardener, the sheer fact that there are still roses in bloom at this time of the year is amazing enough, but what I found even more amazing was the butterfly that was seemingly using those very roses as a resting spot.
It had been bitterly cold during the night, below zero, and the day was sunny with a sapphire blue and completely cloudless sky. By lunch time, when I was on my way to work, temperatures were no higher than maybe 2 or 3 degrees Celsius.
And so I wondered, where did the butterfly spend the night? How come it was still alive, and for how much longer was it going to be alive?
I know that butterflies do hardly count among the most persistent members of the animal kingdom, but some of them must survive somehow during winter, or we wouldn't see any in the next spring and summer.
So, how do they do it?
Was this one going to be one of the survivors or would it take only one more frosty night to end its brief existence?
The whole setting - the last roses, dead but very colourful leaves on the pavement, the butterfly in the rays of the bright but cold autumn sun; it all made me feel a bit melancholy and think of the Vergänglichkeit of things and, ultimately, of myself.
Maybe I was just tired after a very busy week with no weekend to speak of.
Friday, 9 October 2009
An Adventure I Did Not Have... Part III
(Please read http://librarianwithsecrets.blogspot.com/2009/09/adventure-i-did-not-have-or-did-i-cont.html before you continue; thank you!)
Walter had been here for so long that he had almost forgotten about the world that was out there and up there.
Somewhere deep down in his memory, buried under layers of other memories, there were faint recollections of big open spaces, a bright and warm light called the sun, of birdsong and people's voices, of wind in his hair and grass under his feet.
But there were also memories of gunshots, of hard fists and shouting voices, and of a run that seemed to go on forever and left him so breathless and with every part of his body shaking and in pain that he thought he was going to die.
Die he didn't; instead, he found this place where there was everything he needed.
At first, he had felt apprehensive about using a bed and opening cans of food that were originally not meant for him, but when he realized there was no-one else going to claim any of it, he settled into a rhythm which, unbeknownst to him, still followed the old familiar pattern of day and night, with sleeping and waking hours.
There was not much difference between sleeping and waking here, and certainly none between day and night, and sometimes he was not quite sure whether what he saw and heard was part of a dream or really happening.
Not that he actually cared; his dreams were just as real to him as the rough blanket of the bunk bed and the cold metal of the water tap.
It was no surprise, therefore, that he was sure he was dreaming when the woman appeared.
The sounds of her cautious footsteps he had heard minutes before she reached his place, and squinted in the flickering light from those bulbs that were still intact.
What actually convinced him of her being real he couldn't tell, but the idea of coming face to face with another human after such a long time down here on his own scared him no end, and he decided to hide, slipping out of the room and shutting the metal door behind him.
Trembling, he leaned against the tunnel wall. He closed his eyes - the light still hurt him - and shook his head slowly from side to side.
Now the woman was in there, where HE belonged, not her.
Was she going to make one of the beds her own, like he had done back when he had found the room? Was she going to eat the food that had become his sustainment?
It wouldn't do, no. She was part of that other world, not of this one.
He had to do something.
So, very slowly and carefully, like someone approaching a venomous snake that will strike when it feels threatened, he opened the door again and crept back into the room.
Walter had been here for so long that he had almost forgotten about the world that was out there and up there.
Somewhere deep down in his memory, buried under layers of other memories, there were faint recollections of big open spaces, a bright and warm light called the sun, of birdsong and people's voices, of wind in his hair and grass under his feet.
But there were also memories of gunshots, of hard fists and shouting voices, and of a run that seemed to go on forever and left him so breathless and with every part of his body shaking and in pain that he thought he was going to die.
Die he didn't; instead, he found this place where there was everything he needed.
At first, he had felt apprehensive about using a bed and opening cans of food that were originally not meant for him, but when he realized there was no-one else going to claim any of it, he settled into a rhythm which, unbeknownst to him, still followed the old familiar pattern of day and night, with sleeping and waking hours.
There was not much difference between sleeping and waking here, and certainly none between day and night, and sometimes he was not quite sure whether what he saw and heard was part of a dream or really happening.
Not that he actually cared; his dreams were just as real to him as the rough blanket of the bunk bed and the cold metal of the water tap.
It was no surprise, therefore, that he was sure he was dreaming when the woman appeared.
The sounds of her cautious footsteps he had heard minutes before she reached his place, and squinted in the flickering light from those bulbs that were still intact.
What actually convinced him of her being real he couldn't tell, but the idea of coming face to face with another human after such a long time down here on his own scared him no end, and he decided to hide, slipping out of the room and shutting the metal door behind him.
Trembling, he leaned against the tunnel wall. He closed his eyes - the light still hurt him - and shook his head slowly from side to side.
Now the woman was in there, where HE belonged, not her.
Was she going to make one of the beds her own, like he had done back when he had found the room? Was she going to eat the food that had become his sustainment?
It wouldn't do, no. She was part of that other world, not of this one.
He had to do something.
So, very slowly and carefully, like someone approaching a venomous snake that will strike when it feels threatened, he opened the door again and crept back into the room.
Monday, 5 October 2009
Drifting...
...just below the surface.
A bit like snorkelling, I suppose, even though I have never done it myself, but it is how I imagine it:
Above me is the world of air and sunlight, of noise and wind; below, the water which gets a deeper shade of blue over there where the coral reef ends, and the play of sunlight through water on the sandy ground and the incredible variety of fish and other animals in colours so vivid you wonder whether your eyes would be able to take it all in, were it not for the softening effect of the water.
Instead, I am drifting just below the surface of being awake, with my mind still turned towards the mysterious and seemingly infinite world of dreams.
Just how the snorkelling tourist's eyes catch sight of so many different species, of wondrous formations of rocks covered in corals, of small scenes ripe with big drama, my mind drifts from scene to scene, thoughts flickering up for a moment, only to be replaced by others seconds later.
My former boss, who featured in a dream the other night (one of those dreams you can't actually remember what happened, you only know who was there); the letter I got from the insurance; what am I going to wear on the Friday night after the book fair when I will meet some friends; is there still enough muesli in the cupboard for when I'll have breakfast in a bit?; I wish this bit of duvet on my lower back was his hand; today I must not forget to take that book to work; the pumpkin soup was lovely last night, but R. didn't look very well...
...
For almost an hour, the drifting goes on. Sometimes I steer my mind deliberately away from one thought and on to another, sometimes I really just let it drift.
My cat wakes me up.
The drifting stops, and just like the snorkeller breaks through the surface of the water, I feel the last remnants of sleep recede from my mind, and I am here.
The day can begin.
A bit like snorkelling, I suppose, even though I have never done it myself, but it is how I imagine it:
Above me is the world of air and sunlight, of noise and wind; below, the water which gets a deeper shade of blue over there where the coral reef ends, and the play of sunlight through water on the sandy ground and the incredible variety of fish and other animals in colours so vivid you wonder whether your eyes would be able to take it all in, were it not for the softening effect of the water.
Instead, I am drifting just below the surface of being awake, with my mind still turned towards the mysterious and seemingly infinite world of dreams.
Just how the snorkelling tourist's eyes catch sight of so many different species, of wondrous formations of rocks covered in corals, of small scenes ripe with big drama, my mind drifts from scene to scene, thoughts flickering up for a moment, only to be replaced by others seconds later.
My former boss, who featured in a dream the other night (one of those dreams you can't actually remember what happened, you only know who was there); the letter I got from the insurance; what am I going to wear on the Friday night after the book fair when I will meet some friends; is there still enough muesli in the cupboard for when I'll have breakfast in a bit?; I wish this bit of duvet on my lower back was his hand; today I must not forget to take that book to work; the pumpkin soup was lovely last night, but R. didn't look very well...
...
For almost an hour, the drifting goes on. Sometimes I steer my mind deliberately away from one thought and on to another, sometimes I really just let it drift.
My cat wakes me up.
The drifting stops, and just like the snorkeller breaks through the surface of the water, I feel the last remnants of sleep recede from my mind, and I am here.
The day can begin.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Textures
How wonderful to have so many tools for recognizing and feeling textures!
Our fingertips, tongues, skin, lips, the soles of our feet - the manifold possibilities can make life an adventure in terms of textures.
Have you, for instance, ever touched a snake? In case you have not, do you wonder what they feel like?
A friend of mine had a pet boa. The animal was still a baby and measured only about half a metre in length. One of its favourite resting places was inside the sleeve of my jumper, when I was visiting my friend.
Since it was still only a little boa, and not heavy, I didn't mind it hiding in my sleeve. The smooth and dry warmth felt actually nice against my skin; it was like having a second, somewhat slimmer and slightly scaly, arm in there.
The other day, I stroke the back of a big fat carp in a pond in the castle grounds of my home town. The carp there are, I suppose, older than I am, and their skin is a bit rubbery, firm and smooth, but a little slimy. Actually, I had expected to feel the scales, but that wasn't so.
Small birds like sparrows and tits have often sat on my hands for feeding, and their tiny claws tickle the sensitive palm and fingers; a good method to practise self-control, because giving in to the tickling sensation means the birds get scared and fly away.
Fabrics like satin, silk and cashmere are, unfortunately, not part of my everyday outfits, but when I do wear something made of such luxurious quality, I truly enjoy the sensuous feeling all day.
Polished wood is something I can hardly keep my hands off, and a chestnut that has just fallen off a tree and is still shiny and newborn is irresistible.
On the rare occasion that I make pizza (believe it or not, my pizza is really good!) or any other dough with yeast, I indulge in feeling the smooth, soft, warm texture of the finished dough, and usually knead it for longer than it actually needs, just because it feels so nice.
Oh, I could go on and on about this - there are so many other wonderful textures that I have not even mentioned yet - but those few who read these excerpts from my mental library know that one of my continuous fears is to be boring, so I better stop
here.
Our fingertips, tongues, skin, lips, the soles of our feet - the manifold possibilities can make life an adventure in terms of textures.
Have you, for instance, ever touched a snake? In case you have not, do you wonder what they feel like?
A friend of mine had a pet boa. The animal was still a baby and measured only about half a metre in length. One of its favourite resting places was inside the sleeve of my jumper, when I was visiting my friend.
Since it was still only a little boa, and not heavy, I didn't mind it hiding in my sleeve. The smooth and dry warmth felt actually nice against my skin; it was like having a second, somewhat slimmer and slightly scaly, arm in there.
The other day, I stroke the back of a big fat carp in a pond in the castle grounds of my home town. The carp there are, I suppose, older than I am, and their skin is a bit rubbery, firm and smooth, but a little slimy. Actually, I had expected to feel the scales, but that wasn't so.
Small birds like sparrows and tits have often sat on my hands for feeding, and their tiny claws tickle the sensitive palm and fingers; a good method to practise self-control, because giving in to the tickling sensation means the birds get scared and fly away.
Fabrics like satin, silk and cashmere are, unfortunately, not part of my everyday outfits, but when I do wear something made of such luxurious quality, I truly enjoy the sensuous feeling all day.
Polished wood is something I can hardly keep my hands off, and a chestnut that has just fallen off a tree and is still shiny and newborn is irresistible.
On the rare occasion that I make pizza (believe it or not, my pizza is really good!) or any other dough with yeast, I indulge in feeling the smooth, soft, warm texture of the finished dough, and usually knead it for longer than it actually needs, just because it feels so nice.
Oh, I could go on and on about this - there are so many other wonderful textures that I have not even mentioned yet - but those few who read these excerpts from my mental library know that one of my continuous fears is to be boring, so I better stop
here.
Monday, 21 September 2009
Town & Country
Ever since I reduced my weekly working hours from 40 to 35 last year in September, I don't appear at the office on Mondays until sometime around or after lunch.
More often than not, I walk there, and I did so yesterday.
On the fields, there was such a lot going on: the coming and going of heavy agricultural machinery made it feel like rush-hour, the crows were making a racket, and where the maize had already been harvested and some crushed cob was still on the path, flocks of sparrows were fluttering about and chirping in alarm at anything and anyone moving towards their direction.
Not even during July and August, which are supposed to be the busiest months for the owners of wheat and rye fields, have I seen such a buzz of activity.
Many times, I had to leave the narrow field lane and step on the grassy border to let the rattling tractor-pulled machines go past in whirls of dust, and there was more than one situation during which two tractors had to display surprising agility to make sure one could get past the other.
Then, across the railway bridge, it was like entering a ghost town.
For the third and last 20-minute-leg of my walk to work, I saw hardly any cars, and only three other pedestrians shared the pavement with me; a mother with a child, and a man carrying a rucksack.
Quite odd, and so I decided to write about this here.
More often than not, I walk there, and I did so yesterday.
On the fields, there was such a lot going on: the coming and going of heavy agricultural machinery made it feel like rush-hour, the crows were making a racket, and where the maize had already been harvested and some crushed cob was still on the path, flocks of sparrows were fluttering about and chirping in alarm at anything and anyone moving towards their direction.
Not even during July and August, which are supposed to be the busiest months for the owners of wheat and rye fields, have I seen such a buzz of activity.
Many times, I had to leave the narrow field lane and step on the grassy border to let the rattling tractor-pulled machines go past in whirls of dust, and there was more than one situation during which two tractors had to display surprising agility to make sure one could get past the other.
Then, across the railway bridge, it was like entering a ghost town.
For the third and last 20-minute-leg of my walk to work, I saw hardly any cars, and only three other pedestrians shared the pavement with me; a mother with a child, and a man carrying a rucksack.
Quite odd, and so I decided to write about this here.
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