Should I Have Helped?

Two incidents, both happened yesterday, and while I mentally shrugged off the first one, for some reason I do not fully understand myself, the second one is still niggling at my conscience (or, what's left of it - I've never been very good at this part of the average human's mental make-up, I'm afraid).

On my way home from work, I had to wait at the train station a bit longer than usual, since it was a bank holiday in my part of Germany, with trains running less frequent than on a normal working day.
The other people waiting on the platform were mostly cyclists and grandparents with small children, turning in from daytrips that had probably been quite adventurous, judging from the excitement in the kids' voices, the tiredness on the grandparents' faces and the mud splashes on the bikers' legs.

One youngish woman stood a little apart from the rest, next to a bench where she had placed her handbag. She stood there at an odd angle, not unlike a tree that will fall down with the next gust of wind. And she did not stand still, she was swaying. Sideways.
Then some coins fell out of her hand, and she slowly bent down to pick them up. She didn't get back up, but instead first knelt and then sat on the ground, her head slowly sinking to her chest.

People did look in her direction, and then quickly the other way. Those with children pulled them a bit further along the platform.

I walked up to the woman and asked her whether she needed help.
She shook her head and, the effort visible on her rather pale face, scrambled back up to her feet, not taking my oustretched hand.
Once again, I asked whether there was anything I could do for her. No, was the answer.
So I suggested she sit down on the bench, next to her bag. Again, no. "I get dizzy when I sit down." Oh yeah, right. Logical, that.
She did not smell of alcohol, but she was clearly drugged up with something, and apparently there really wasn't anything I could do for her at that moment, so I went back to where I had stood before.

When the train arrived, I watched to make sure she was actually getting on safely and not falling down the gap between train and platform, and when I had to get off, she was still on the train.



Later at home, the doorbell was rung. Not once or twice, no, three times in what I can only describe as a frantic manner.
I didn't expect anyone, and our front door is not visible from the street, so it is normally just people who know either me or my neighbours, or the postman to find their way here.

Looking out of the window (because no-one replied when I pressed the intercom and asked who was there), I saw a man with Asian features, who in almost unintelligible German tried to explain something about a restaurant, a train ticket, and money. At least those were the words I thought I made out. He said a lot more, and the most clearly understandable two bits were "Entschuldigung, mein Deutsch ist nicht so gut" and "No, no English, solly" (he really said "solly").

When I thought I'd understood he urgently needed money for a train ticket, I asked "Wollen Sie Geld?", to which he replied with yet another stream of words, which sounded almost exactly like what he had said before, so I still wasn't any the wiser.

In the end, I just watched as he, obviously frustrated by his lack of success in explaining or my lack of success in understanding, threw his arms up in the air and left.

It still puzzles me why, if he really needed money for a train ticket, he rang my doorbell. I live about 10 minutes from the station, where there are plenty of people hanging about he could have asked, and like I said, our front door is not even visible from the street.
He probably was asking for help with some entirely different matter, and I just got it completely wrong.

The man did not look like a criminal (now, I know criminals rarely have "I'm a criminal" stamped on their forehead), his overall appearance was normal and clean, and yet I did not even go downstairs to try and work out what he really wanted by talking to him on the same level.

I wonder whether I should have simply gone down and give him a tenner and see his reaction.
It wouldn't have killed me.
Should I have helped?

About Running

Running on a regular base is something I have started only recently, and so I am still in the process of discovering new aspects of it.

One thing I realized from the start was how much more detailed my perception of the topography of the area has become.

Even the slightest gradient of slope, be it up- or downhill, makes itself noticeable when I run.

Of course, to a certain extent, I was already familiar with the same effect while cycling (my bike is not one of those with dozens of gears so that you can tackle anything without much of an effort; we are talking a more than 30-year-old racer here which really makes your legs WORK), but not in such detail.

Apart from that, I enjoy the way running helps me get rid of the restlessness I so often feel. My mind ceases, at least for a while, to spin on overdrive (as it sometimes does), and gets a rest while my body does all the work and thus has almost all the energy directed to where it is currently needed.

I don't like forced interruptions, for instance having to stop at a road with heavy traffic and wait until I can cross it, and I have even daringly run across at a red light (those of my readers who know me personally are allowed to raise one or two eyebrows now) when it was possible.

At this time of the year, the gardens and fields are so full of scents and colour and sound from the birds, that it is simply a pleasure being outside, and running past those gardens and scented hedgerows is something I truly enjoy.

Take last night, for example.

It had been raining on and off all day, and was rather chilly. But at some stage, the sun decided to break through the clouds, and there was even some blue visible.

And I so wanted to be out and run!

So I jumped into my running shoes and went.

One tour all the way around the perimeter of the biggest park my hometown has to offer, plus the time it takes from my house to get there and back; all in all, 55 minutes of running.

About 30 minutes into the run, it started to drizzle.

Then it stopped, and started again. But it didn't bother me, because it was really only a drizzle and I was heading back anyway.

When I came up the last slope before the almost even stretch to my street, I was rewarded with the sight of a rainbow.

It was beautiful!

What Happened?

Indeed, what happened?

As of late, I can not help having the impression that I must be going through a rather boring period.

Not that my life in itself is boring - far from it, I am way too busy for that, and I am certainly not boring myself with all the things I want to do, read, think and write (and am indeed doing, reading, thinking and writing).

But I have noticed a certain... well, let's call it slackening in some of my relationships to other people, be it personal contacts or correspondents.

Some of these friends, acquaintances or whatever else they may be called have become reluctant in responding - if they do respond at all - to my attempts of interacting with them.

Be it that they do not reply to messages (or, if they reply, only write briefly and without actually referring to the topics I have come up with) or not get in touch when they said they were going to get in touch, or not picking up on suggestions I make about doing stuff together, and similar.

So, what causes this apparent slackening?

Am I too wrapped up in myself, going on too much about subjects that matter to me, and not pay enough heed to their needs and wants?

Are my topics being repeated too often, to the point of boring the poor recipient of such messages or conversations to death or just getting on their nerves?

Have I lost my spark and turned into such a dull person people do not really want to spend an evening with?

Or are they simply too busy with other things going on in their own lives to have much time and attention left for someone like me?

It could easily be a combination of all of these factors.

I wish I knew.

Because I miss the sparks of inspiration to new things, new thoughts and new activities, the sparks that have been flying back and forth between myself and others.

And I want to offer my own spark, which to me does not feel as if I've lost it.

Not lamenting here, just really puzzled.

Writing this down was supposed to help me find the cause.

No luck yet.

Oh well.

A Lazy Afternoon

Contrary to popular belief, I do not always and constantly have to DO something.
Just as often, I indulge in sweet laziness, as I have done for a good part of today.

The sun was up, my neighbours were being very noisy with what looked like dozens of house guests all over the place, and I had already done my running in the morning; so I grabbed a blanket, a bottle of water and my white bikini and went to the park.

There, I went unnoticed and unbothered, disappearing among the pretty yellow-and-white pattern of buttercups, daisies and clover.

Stretching out on my blanket, I took my glasses off and now the trees at the edge of the meadow were a heterogenous mass of various shades of green, ranging from what in German is known as "May green" to what I would use black paint for, if I were to paint the scene.
Even without my glasses, I could see that the branches were moving slightly in the breeze.

The sun and the gentle breeze felt caressing on my skin.
In the distance far above, I could hear the lazy drone of the small red and white Cessna I know quite well. A woodpecker was nearby, mixing what to my ears ranges very high on the scale of sounds I associate most with spring and early summer with the song of all the other birds. The humming and buzzing of insects and occasionally a child calling out to someone during a ball game.

I almost fell asleep.
It was peace.
And sometimes I need just that.

How The Cat Lost Its Thumbs

Many years ago, long before people had iPhones and governments had come up with laws about the curvature of cucumbers, all animals lived in harmony under the benign reign of their king, the Lion.

Humans were considered equals, not feared, and cats still had thumbs.

Soon, the cats found that their clever little brains enabled them to make the other animals do things for them, things they themselves couldn't be bothered to do or found below their dignity.
So they started to order everybody around, humans included.

Most of the other animals were peaceful enough to not mind doing the odd job for someone else every now and then, but the cats became increasingly demanding and haughty at the same time, to the point that the other animals agreed between each other that this had to stop.

They sent a delegation of their oldest and wisest to humbly present their case to the Good King.

The Lion listened patiently, as was his habit, and then closed his eyes, resting his chin on his big soft paws."He's asleep," someone whispered.
"He's not, he is thinking," someone else replied, also whispering.

With a swish of tail and throwing back of his impressive mane, after an hour or so the Good King opened his eyes again and looked intently at the cat.

"What," he said in his deep, velvety voice (but those who knew him well could detect a faint growl underneath the velvet), "what do you suggest we do with you, Cat?"

The Cat blinked, and quickly licked its left shoulder.
Then it replied: "If the other animals find it beneath themselves to assist my kind, I am sure the humans won't object. Assign them as my servants, if you please."

And although it tried to stare into the Lion's eyes, it only managed to hold that majestic amber gaze for the fraction of a second before it had to look away, quickly licking its right shoulder.

"Humans!" the Good King now boomed (his voice could do that, you know, without sounding ridiculous or aggressive - just mighty).

The humans, who had of course also been invited to the gathering, shyly came forward.
"Do you wish to serve the Cat?"
A fast, nattering discussion broke out among the humans, making them sound very similar to the monkeys.
Then their leader stood in front of their group, cleared his throat and said: "We will. But the Cat has to be kind with us, keep us company and make us laugh."

"Conditions," the Lion growled, "that are not easy to fulfill."
Once again, he closed his eyes and rested his chin on his paws, and thought long and hard for an hour or two.

Finally, he rose.
"You," he pointed at the group of humans with one long, sharp talon, reminding everyone that he wasn't their King just because he had a beautiful mane and a velvety voice,
"will have the Cat as company, and the Cat will be kind with you and make you laugh, for as long as you will serve its needs."
The humans bowed their heads, looked at each other and nodded.

"And you," now the long sharp talon was directed at the Cat,
"will have your wish granted with the humans assigned as your servants - but from this moment on, your thumbs are gone, and gone forever."

The Cat could instantly feel that something about its paws was different, and true enough, the thumbs it had formerly had were gone.
It shrugged, thinking "so what? I have my servants, I don't need thumbs," and elegantly and nonchalantly, it slunk away from the gathering, the group of humans trailing behind.

- - -

Several thousands of years later, things have changed for the cat and its humans.

There are still those among the human race who are willingly serving the cats' every need and whim, but often, cats do not get their orders executed instantly, if at all.
But, whereas in the past they could still do everything by themselves, if they so wished, they can not do that anymore.

You can't open a tin of cat food without thumbs.
You can't hold a brush properly without thumbs.
You can't clean a cat toilet without thumbs.
And there are many, many more things you can't do without thumbs, even if with your clever little brain you know exactly how these things are done.

Ever since the day they lost their thumbs, cats have secretly been thinking about how they could get them back.
They know a lot about us, and they know how most of the things we do are done, because they watch us, and they watch us closely.

So, the next time you are, say, changing a tyre on your car in the drive and your neighbour's cat is watching your every move, you know why it does that.
And when you hear a nightly chorus of cats on a balmy spring night, don't be fooled - these are not "love songs" or territorial marking, but a serious conference about how to get their thumbs back.

Oh To Be a Lark!

After temperatures rising higher and higher over the past few days, it seems that today, we have had the hottest day of the year so far, at around 30 Celsius in the early afternoon.

Now, heat is something you will not hear me complain about - not on this blog, not anywhere else. Cold, yes, that is an entirely different matter, but heat - I thrive in it.
Remember the summer of 2003 which was quickly dubbed in the media as a "Jahrhundertsommer"? Well, I was happy!

Those past few days I enjoyed, and not only because I had a short working week of three days and a long weekend of four, but mainly because of said weather.

Sun and blue skies! Poppies on the fields and roses in the gardens; walking along scented hedgerows, listening to the indefatigable (albeit somewhat monotonous sounding) larks overhead, and to the much sweeter pealing of the blackbirds' songs - all this is so much more enjoyable during the one-hour walk from the small town where I work to the slightly bigger town where I live, instead of getting on the smelly, crowded train that takes, admittedly, just four minutes for the same purpose.

But on a day like this, only very few things would have managed to make me take the train.
Summer is just too preciously short here to be wasted.
And while I do indeed feel more energetic and generally more alive this time of the year than in winter, I wish I could be like the larks who seem never to tire for as long as the sun shines, always up there as high as they can, singing at the top of their lungs.

On the other hand, larks can neither read nor write, so I think I'll stick to being human, which has some other distinct advantages as well.

Cold Blood & Secrets

What - if there is any - is the relation between cold bloodedness and secrets?

Trying to find out for myself, I have been thinking about this and been doing some brewing (see http://librarianwithsecrets.blogspot.com/2009/04/brewing-caleidoscope.html) lately.

From very early on as a child, I have loved secrets. My own secrets, that is. All kids love to discover, to find out about things and animals and people and places, so that is nothing special. Countless children's books aim at that, and most people still like a book or a film with a plot that keeps some things hidden from them until the end, many years after their childhood gave way to the turbulent teenage years and on to being adults.

Keeping something secret, no matter what it is, can add a certain thrill to life.
(I am by no means certain whether the term "thrill" actually fits what I am trying to describe here, but for lack of a better word, it will have to make do.)

In my case, as a child, those secrets consisted of things like knowing where my mum kept her diary, of hiding a glittery bit of paste jewellery in my dolls house wardrobe, of sneaking through a neighbour's garden at night to have a look at the goldfish in her pond without her knowing, and the like.

Later on, the secrets and the thrills became more elaborate, without ever being actually "bad" or dangerous. What mattered was simply that they were MY secrets.
Something only I knew about (or thought so, anyway).

Where does the cold blood come into this now?

Back at school, there were several incidents where I was accused of being as cold-blooded as a fish. While the other girls were ready to shed tears and show emotions that I simply did not feel when, for instance, we were about to go our separate ways for the six-week long summer holidays, I merely shrugged and went home after school like I would have done any other day throughout the year.

My own sister, who loves me to bits and vice versa, has once said that I am quite cold-blooded; she was referring to how I seemed to be totally unaffected when I ended my first marriage.
Ending my first marriage - or, rather, the reason for ending it - had a lot to do with secrets, namely with one that I chose to reveal at that stage.

Nowadays, I have secrets once again (like probably the majority of people, only that they call it privacy). Some of them completely innocuous, others a little less so.

Do they give me a bad conscience? No, they do not, and never have done.
I seem to be unable to feel those twangs of remorse that are often described by others when they have done something that is considered to be "not right".
And that, see, THAT is how my secrets are related to my cold-bloodedness.
Does it make sense? Have I managed to link the two aspects?
Actually, I am not entirely sure of it myself.