Seattle reminds me quite a bit of Chicago. Something about the neighborhoods and riding the bus, I think. When it rains, the city is like London. Strange, pollarded trees and Victorian apartment buildings. These recent days make me think of spring in Paris. The air has an excitability, freshness and aroma, as if my senses have just woken from a deep hibernation. Steaming espresso, wet dog poo and the fabulous avenues of cherry blossoms.
Seattle reminds me quite a bit of Chicago. Something about the neighborhoods and riding the bus, I think. When it rains, the city is like London. Strange, pollarded trees and Victorian apartment buildings. These recent days make me think of spring in Paris. The air has an excitability, freshness and aroma, as if my senses have just woken from a deep hibernation. Steaming espresso, wet dog poo and the fabulous avenues of cherry blossoms.
It is my personal belief that it takes two full months to become acclimated to a new environment. As of this date, Seattle has been my home for 1.5 times that long, although our apartment is still technically in its trial stage. My conclusion thus far? I think I like it. I still feel like an outcast. In fact, it seems to be a town of outcasts. As a city, Seattle definitely allows itself to be modeled to suit the needs of its inhabitants. And they, the individuals and their needs, are diverse.
I catch myself on the bus, playing the well-groomed young woman with important places to go, turning a blind eye to the goons, drunks, gutter punks who pick fights and dismiss the bus driver's orders. Other days I am the eccentric, dashing in front of traffic to make the bus, chatting up the driver, catching a free ride.
Outcast. To fit in. Does not every thinking man, whose existence is defined by his self-consciousness, feel apart from the masses? Most of my life I have felt, to some degree, an outcast. In elementary school, attending speech class made me feel different than the rest of my class. As I grew a little older and become too preoccupied with adult matters, I spent a lot of time hanging around my teachers and reading novels that should not be given to children. Every other weekend, the slight social life I had cultivated was disrupted to spend time with my dad in Traverse City. In high school I spent most of my time working on different extracurricular projects, and my social life was principally conducted online. I remember several Friday nights from my junior year spent hanging out alone at Borders, hoping to meet someone new. In Chicago, I was too busy working and going to school to drink and do the sorts of things many other college freshmen do. The first time I felt that I had truly found my place was, ironically, as a foreigner abroad. The expatriate community was one I could claim as my own. That gusto for self-assertion travelled back with me to Ann Arbor, and together we found happiness and home -- or at least, a sense of belonging. Somehow over the course of these past few moves it has become detached and has lost its way.
Anonymity. The plight (or pleasure) of every city dweller.
Most likely, society did not reject me at all, but rather I unwittingly withdrew myself.
How do adults make friends? Why do we need friends? Is it an instinctual, animalistic need to feel a part of a community? Apart, a part. Why do some people need more interaction than others? A simple chat over breakfast completes M's social needs, but I am not content to write my thoughts to myself. Happiness is a sunshine-infused cocktail and banter shared with a friend or two.
Do performers -- when they perform -- feel separate from the audience? Or is the urge to put themselves on display a way of connecting with others? When actors raise their eyes to meet the audience, do both sides not feel an almost awe-inspiring sense of solidarity?
Is it by becoming one with the crowd that the individual pulls away the most? By forgoing an exchange and forfeiting a contribution of independent thought, he is not working to benefit the collective.
What drives people to perform? How do they benefit from minimizing the distance between reality and imagination? Why is this lack of distinction between the two defined as psychosis?
The Eiger is a danger out of this world. The formidable north face juts 1,800 meters out of the Bernese Alps and has earned the name of the "murder wall" on account of the great number of climbers dying in attempt to scale its rugged and icy ascent.
During their climb, Tony and Andi, the film's central characters, are joined by a competing Austrian team. While I anticipated a story full of adventure and foreign politics, the film also contains a romantic subplot that many find unbelievable and unnecessary. I accepted it as a much-needed stress reliever. The drama and suspense of the action sequences themselves left me shaky, sweaty and moderately nauseated. (No, boyfriend, you will have to reconsider this cockamamie plan of yours to climb Mt. Rainier.) It doesn't take a check on the Wikipedia entry to know that the climb does not end well. The movie is built on a true story, though it appears that it incorporates elements from actual climbs in 1938 and 1957 (one successful and, the other, not so). Also, many of the details must be imagined due to the fact that foggy weather obscured the face from hotel-deck spectators, so no one can truly know what happened to the group.
As Matt pointed out to me, the movie is built on "what-ifs" and "if-onlys." Each step the climbers make represents, both literally and figuratively, a decision made -- or not made -- and a path not taken. Leave it to the Germans to make a film so gut-wrenching, so horrific and so delicate in its relation to everyday life (for us non-Alpinists, at least).
And for those who are avid mountaineers, you will find it an interesting study of how drastically sports equipment and technology have since advanced. These men sleep in canvas sacks and climb in what appear to be Alpaca fleece mittens.
North Face will be coming to the Detroit Institute of Arts on March 12-14, 2010.
Note: Don't get me wrong, I found it to be a wonderful film. If you take delight in films of physical and emotional hardships that you will (hopefully) never have to face yourself, then I can promise you that you will enjoy this one.
An amazing photo of Armenian-American dramatist William Saroyan and J.D. Salinger's former girlfriend, Oona O'Neill.
Note: Please pardon the spacing. I'll try to duplicate it as closely as Blogger will allow.
Long Lines to Stave Off Suicide
"One can live without having survived." (Carolyn Forché)
or
I could keep having children which helps a little (hurts
a lot) because everything for a long time is so
keep-the-baby-alive, or I
could keep more to myself gathering
daily facts inwards in towards but this makes for
less interior space
if the line's too short
drown --
too long -- I'm not the first to be beguiled by and not the first to feel
there's something [--hang--] I've swallowed that won't go down --
on Thursday at pre-K
I make pancakes with Abram's class and he asks Ami
and the teacher chose Luna and Derek cried and cried and I
let him measure flour because he kept saying,
that's your mom? your mom? I love your mom! it was weird
so I gave him butter and a blunt knife, hoped the teacher
wouldn't mind and later found out Derek's mom
died in the towers
I couldn't breathe when I heard it or believe what a good mother
I've been just by staying alive
do you think? Joan asks, it's better to die now or back when they were babies and didn't know better? I almost say better to have died when they were babies
but. not true. every good night book. spoon or puréed pear. banana
after brush-your-teeth time. how I held him (restrained in a hospital sheet)
while the idiot doctor who didn't want to dirty his dress shirt
stitched the busted lip. and when I weaned him off the binky and the boob
and the floaties and from biting and kicking and unbuttoning my shirt
in public and from climbing out of the crib and from standing up on the subway
without holding on--better, I say, to
die now
or,
when he reaches an age
(what age?) and I find I can finally swallow it down -- will I?
loosen?
perhaps if I can get the color just right in my study I will not need to stand
in the back of the synagogue and miss the shofar again this year
but it's not right, too light, like springtime. gray-green not gray
or green. not yellow. not blue. it will not do have I done this
on purpose? I picked the color of the inside of a seed I should never have opened?
...where is my breath is...
can barely hear above the clicking of my thinking why
am I so obsessed with paint color and the properties of the seasons
material objects I'm crazy so lazy and driven, relentless, no one could stand this
they call it cyclical negative thinking the constant self-checking
am I okay now? now? now? worse? better? now?
above the well-deserved charge of narcissism, above the thrum
of how many people alive now and now how many dead. I've not read
the New York Times for four years and one month but it hasn't helped.
or would I be
worse?
every touch too much but imperceptible perhaps a fever somewhere? and
people dying faster than I can write poems.
when my student want to write poems
I want to say wait for everyone to die.
instead I say: the poem must have a surprise and needs images
and where are the things? the real world matters. one fish
in a barrel of fish. one bird in a flock of birds.
was it a bass?
a blue jay?
oh, for fuck's sake, there's no difference between "stones" and "rocks" in Virginia's
frock, down, down, down into the world of objects
which the students haven't got
has nearly killed me.
my soon has a dream. cries. is afraid to tell me.
later he says that many, many people
came into his room at night all missing
something: an eye, an arm, a leg, a head
he knew them by their voices instead
and did not like what they were saying
I have everything. even a job.
a child. a child. notebooks I cannot quite
get down.
why, asks my son on the subway, should you
say something if you see something?
pointing at the poster of an abandoned black
duffel on a subway platform. I am trying
to breathe but he's asking and pointing. I say,
birds don't have teeth and need to eat
small rocks, stones, sand to break down food. he
nods, pats my hand.
I'm trying so hard not to show him
my worldview I can barely breathe. gave him
a brother want to give him another and never
tell him there are things
and things that explode and no easy way to know
the difference. I drop him off at school, go to class
where the students say something and say
something and rarely see anything.
I wonder,
what if the black bag is filled with not-bombs? filled with
long, smooth seeds surprisingly soft to the touch
each containing a human baby? shall I swallow one
down?
This morning, alone,
I'm listening to music so as not to hear
the explosion
if there is one certainly eventually will be one
(today an alert)
every moment is not yet
exploded or gaseous or biolgical,
not yet infectious. should I
not ride the subway? I ask. the husband:
you've felt pretty low lately
anyway. we both laugh.
In class a student says, living in a metropolis is good because it helps you have an open min which is good so you're not ignorant.
so here I am again with 8,168,388 people.
Good morning, I don't say to anyone, I'm experiencing panic. And
depression. No, actually, nothing's wrong but thanks for the Kleenex. Sometimes
the subway sets it off. Or the bus. Elevator. Small spaces. The vacuum
cleaner. Ambient radio. Things inside other things as if myself a Russian doll or
that everyone has masks my unmedicated eye can't help but notice --
I like short lines, say a student.
I like poems without images, says a student.
I wanted everything to sound very superficial, says a student.
You never said it had to be interesting, says a student.
I want someone to ask me if I like my job.
I want someone to explain why I put a large duffel bag of explosives
into my mouth and tried to swallow it down when I was just
trying to stay alive, terrified my sons could see my missings, and how is it the cops
don't stop me and my open-minded subway neighbors smile sweetly
as we hurtle along and I tell my jostling boys, no, no you must hold on, hold on,
any moment it could stop, suddenly, stop
short, I must
hold on.
Update: I really cannot recall with which book I started. But I recall afterward recommending all of the books, though they were (in my opinion) best when read in a particular order. I will have to see if I have it written anywhere which order exactly it was.
Here is one of the excerpts from "Raise High" (a very funny one, though not the absolute best) I quoted on my blog in 2006:
As the Matron of Honor followed me toward the bedroom, where the phone was, the bride's father's uncle came toward us from the far end of the hall. His face was in the ferocious repose that had fooled me during most of the car ride, but as he came closer to us in the hall, the mask reversed itself; he pantomimed to us both the very highest salutations and greetings, and I found myself grinning and nodding immoderately in return. His sparse white hair looked freshly combed - almost freshly washed, as though he might have discovered a tiny barbershop cached away at the other end of the apartment. When he'd passed us, I felt a compulsion to look back over my shoulder, and when I did, he waved to me, vigorously - a great, bon-voyage, come-back-soon wave. It picked me up no end. "What is he? Crazy?" the Matron of Honor said. I said I hoped so, and opened the door of the bedroom.
Salinger, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters
Is it an adequate substitute for Berlin? No. But what city in America is?
Am I better employed now than I was in Europe? Not really.
Do I feel the tiniest bit caged?
Does the jealousy of my youthful romps rot through the surface of my soul? Yeah, it does.
But nothing means that I can't again cave in to my wanderlust. For now I ought to accept some responsibility and put my education to "practical" use (if I can manage). There are some things that must be tended to.
While I have no doubts that we would have reached our destination just fine without the navigator, the Garmin helped tremendously in ways I had not anticipated. Whether we needed to find a Papa John's pizzeria in Billings, Montana, a motel to stay for the night in Kadoka, South Dakota, or the route to tourist attractions off the highway (Corn Palace, Mitchell, SD), the Garmin was there. Riding on those long stretches of highway with little in sight, you often wonder when you will have another chance to stop at a rest area or gas station. Even though it wasn't always 100% accurate, the unit was able to give us some inkling of what was to come.
Seattle driving is a bit of a mess. Downtown always has heavy traffic, streets intersect in the middle of steep hills, parking is expensive ($1.75 an hour at the meter -- if you can find a spot). There are many one-way streets and thick highways criss-crossing one another. It gives us directions to the entrance of the Arboretum, to the co-op, to the movie theater and, when we can't find it ourselves, to home.
Like I said, it's not perfect. It doesn't have every single destination in its pre-programmed list. Sometimes the route is not direct (three left-hand turns?!), but all in all, it is incredibly useful. The size allows it to be stashed in a pocket in case I'm shopping downtown and want to find a specific store. I look forward to taking it on all my forthcoming trips as I get more familiar with the city -- even if it means sacrificing the better (read, more engaging) way of doing things.
(Plus, it's just one new gadget to accessorize. Last week I ordered this little, leather protective cover in brown.)
With mountains as its jagged teeth, the horizon loomed ahead like a devouring mouth stretched wide, hungry. With nothing to block the way save for a rare tumbleweed or cornstalk snake, the smooth highway lapped us deeper inside.
Like this, we drove across South Dakota, through southern Montana and on into the slick, snowy hills of Idaho. The small towns along the way hosted truck stops and the occasional IGA, selling knives and bison jerky to the pilgrimaging hunters. Schools resembled penitentiaries. The pit-stop motels of these towns are tropes for the modern-day writer, plucked by the likes of Cormac McCarthy and the beloved Nabokov, signifying the simultaneous freedom and imprisonment of anonymity. No one knows you, no one can track you down. But no one will save you, and no one cares. You become a target.
On the highway, the scenery romances its tourist. A cattle ranch in Montana doesn't sound so bad after all, especially considering the easy access to four-packs of sarsaparilla.
The Badlands, as Matt describes them, resemble some alien planet or lunar surface. For hours there is little to see except for flat grasslands, then with a slight detour off I-90, long-eroded ravines and towering rock formations in gray, yellow and sienna dominate the landscape. Signs warn of rattlesnakes and cars pull off the road to photograph mountain goats. Just outside of the park, we passed a large prairie dog colony and, nearby, a patient hawk.
Idaho possessed none of the flat potato fields I expected. Instead, we drove nervously along high ridges, overlooking the snow-covered evergreens of national forests and wondering if it was too late in the season to spot a bear. Our iPod, fueled with over 24 hours of short fiction and other storytellers, kept us going.
We arrived in Seattle midweek, reaching our short-term sublet just south of downtown. The next day I began a Netflix account (our apartment has a projector and large pull-down screen), and Matt walked down to the central library. Yesterday - Thanksgiving - we went for a run around Green Lake on the north side of town, putting up with a little drizzling rain. Our dinner was late (9:00), but neither of us minded. We made a small vegetarian feast complete with pumpkin pie. For our main course, we made a broccoli-portobello-gouda quiche with homemade crust. For our sides, we had a cranberry-walnut sauce, garnet yams with a butter and mustard vinaigrette and garlic sauteed green beans. And with plenty for leftovers!
My new site will have separate divisions, based less on subject than on the type of entry. I am planning two types, one for a Twitter-like feed that still is not instantaneous, but archives short and sweet (one-paragraph) entries about what I'm up to and links to articles or sites that I find interesting or relevant. These will help my readers track my points of reference (in case you notice that I'm obsessing over environmental non-fiction, that one host on NPR, the latest SEO strategies or peanut butter-based Thai cuisine and question the validity of my sources). The other division will house longer entries -- products of my own writing, whether in the form of essays, stories or reviews.
I hope to make some long strides over the next few days in the development of my site. It's a slow process, as I taught myself CSS and am only now putting it to practical use. Once I get this site done, I can focus on other design projects (like the brochure for the animal hospital or my jewelry design portfolio). And then there is always the nitty gritty: the actual job search.
Now, back to rebranding the super-ego.
We sold our bikes earlier this week for even more money than we had anticipated (thanks Craig's List). Without wheels we have been bound to the limits of Kreuzberg. Today was absolutely beautiful. The sky beamed a bright blue and the air was warm. Matt explored photo ops around Köpenicker while I dozed on a bench near Künstlerhaus Bethanien. Then we went for ice cream and watched from the grassy meadows of Hasenheide the sun fall behind yellowed trees.
My job search has been active but so far without great success. It surprises me how many new listings pop up each day. I have quite a few bookmarked, though at this point I'm only applying for the positions that really excite me. I suppose in a couple of weeks -- if I don't find something good by then -- I'll alter my expectations. For now, I stay hopeful.
Still working on the new site. If all goes according to plan, I will have entirely transformed the set-up. Last week I finalized a site and started on the design. I will have to wait to pick up on it until I get back state-side.
The first thing I did coming back to the apartment was jump online and watch the second class of my six-month Photoshop course put on by CreativeTechs. The second thing I did was redirect to NYT.com.
And just what did I find? A new op-ed piece by Michael Pollan. I know there are some mixed opinions on Pollan (in case I didn't post it before, please read the article The Omnivore's Delusion), but I find it impossible to find any wrongdoing in stating the facts that America, condemned to eat itself sick and spend itself bankrupt, pays ridiculously low attention to nutrition, fitness and and preventative care in general. We are famous the world over for producing the largest and strongest athletes, but the average citizen seems to have no idea how many calories he is meant to consume in a day or how many hours of exercise he needs to log in order to make a significant fight against heart disease. For many, especially us Midwesterners, corn and potatoes count as vegetables. Seeing sugar as the enemy of good health, we turn instead to sugar substitutes so that we can still drink our daily Coke.
In Obama's recent speech on healthcare reform, he says that everybody needs to take responsibility to do his own part. This means that every citizen needs to have insurance, regardless of who is providing the policy, but it also means that we need to our part to not strain or exploit the healthcare system.
Please click "Read More" below to, you know, read more!
Last night, just before falling asleep, I started a post on yet another side of the healthcare debate, that of Michael Pollan. Stay tuned for more to come.
And while you're waiting, you should also read this short column, "Summer's End," by Judith Warner. Really, I do things besides reading the Times online!
Last night around 8:00 Matt took off to attend some sort of ambient, experimental concert in Friedrichshain. It was chilly and wet outside so I chose to stay in. I remembered that earlier that day, on our daily walk around the kiez, I stopped in front of a newspaper shop to read some of the magazine covers. Remembering how much I liked reading Monopol in the past, I made a mental note to go to their website. So there I was reading the homepage article on Monopol covering this weekend's Miss Read, an art book exhibition with related discussions going on at Kunst-Werke. I took a short trip to KW, where I found a list of other art-book and independent publishing events going on this weekend, one of which was a 12-hour self-publishing event at Motto near Schlesisches Tor. To Motto I went. There I learned about a presentation and conversation with critical graphic designer and theorist Zak Kyes at the art bookshop Pro qm in Mitte, starting in just five minutes. Yowza. So I threw on about four layers of clothing, jumped on my bike and started pedaling.
One of the most basic points discussed, but that I found the most relevant, concerned the politicization of graphic design. Apparently Daniel Birnbaum, the director of this year's Venice Biennale, described national flags as capable of “being broken down to basic visual shapes that display unexpected painterly qualities." National flags -- purely graphic interpretations of a country's culture, history, politics and identity -- as painterly? So the question that was posed to Kyes was approximately whether or not graphic design was losing its political power in the face of (excessive) formalism.
Kyes answered No, of course not. Certainly I agree with him. The meaning behind any given design is malleable, constantly evolving to fit its context and (previous and present) associations, of which new ones can also develop. For an example we can choose any iconic image. Consider how it was viewed when it was designed, first presented, when a generation changes favor, when a government changes favor, after being reworked by other artists. After being maneuvered through post-modernist dialogue like pulled taffy, an image only gains meaning. That most laden with allusion wins friends and influences people. Isn't that how any art essentially works?
But seriously, what's the deal with Murdick's fudge? Why can't they keep one name and franchise it to all their nieces and nephews?
Murdick's Fudge has two locations: one on Mackinac Island and the other on Martha's Vineyard.
Doug Murdick's Fudge is located only in Traverse City and Acme.
Doug Murdick's son, Dale, owns Murdick's Fudge Shoppe in Leland and Suttons Bay.
Fran Murdick's Fudge is in Mackinac City.
Then there's Murdick's Fudge of Petoskey.
I don't want to live in New York City. According to Facebook, approximately 85% of my social circle has made a break for it. It's a fascinating city. It's huge, a mammoth metropolis pulsating with creativity and cheap ethnic food. And it has Central Park and the Met. But it is an expensive city to inhabit, and I have no intention of overexerting myself so that I can afford a small apartment an hour's commute away from my workplace and then struggle to make time for my personal projects. I love cities, but what is about them that I love? I expect a good city to have a large selection of restaurants. Dining out is perhaps my favorite pastime. I want cheap food, fresh food, foreign food and the option of elaborate 5-course dinners. I want bakeries, specialty coffee shops and at least one hip bar with a dance floor. I need nature, whether it be found in a nearby ocean, mountain range or hidden arboretum. I like public transport, and I like being able to ride my bicycle wherever I go. Fair weather and flat landscapes don't hurt. I can't live in a city that clogs my skin and soils my shoes with pollution. I need personal space; studio apartments don't cut it, and I should be able to sunbathe in public parks without being harassed. Sure, I could find both an apartment and a job in one neighborhood, Brooklyn, for example. But if I don't leave my neighborhood, then why don't I just live in a smaller city? Having made more professional contacts over the internet than at bars, gallery openings or conferences, I don't buy into the argument that NYC is where it all happens.
When my back was turned, Technology excused itself and slipped out the bathroom window. For someone who went straight from dabbling in fingerpaint to pulling all-nighters tapping the keys on her family's PC, it's painfully embarrassing to admit. But that just goes to prove it could happen to anyone (and will happen to everyone, at some point). While I was plucking vegetables from the ground, my peers were becoming new media specialists and information designers. I'm sorry, what? Gone are the days when a firm understanding of Microsoft Office, Adobe Photoshop and Pagemaker, and a basic knowledge of HTML make the cut. In an effort to catch up, I have enrolled in a couple of online courses that start later this month. (Sign up for the free online courses put on by CreativeTechs in Seattle!) And over the next month or two, I will be working to develop a website and online portfolio for some of my creative work.
More of a reminder than a new revelation, but the world is constructed to crush hope. I hate to sound cynical, but the truth is that many people enjoy preventing others from achieving their aspirations. Insecurity coaxes them out of pursuing their own dreams and selfishness persuades them to interfere with yours. To put it less negatively, most people are naturally risk-aversive. And what sounds fun to you sounds to them like a terrible risk that they (and you, likewise) cannot afford to take. Compromising your desires for the sake of others is an open invitation for regret.
Setting aside all the information I absorbed during those two unforgettable months farming in France (like how to milk a goat), I have learned much in the realm of practical skills necessary for everyday living. I have learned to patch and replace the tubes on a bicycle. I have learned to successfully operate an old-fashioned, all-metal can opener (it's much more difficult for lefties). Out of fear of early arthritis and osteoporosis, I have overcome the terrible habit of cracking my neck excessively. It probably helps that I have a desk to work at, compared with my old routine of curling up on my bed against the wall with my computer set on my thighs.
I am through with working in retail.
If left to my own devices, I am susceptible to shopping addictions. Fortunately, my anti-capitalist boyfriend, tiny bank account and love of Berlin's aesthetic anarchy keep me in check. That said, when I shop for clothes, I dress to impress. But the sole target of my efforts, the object of my affection, couldn't care less how I dress (so long as it doesn't bring him unwanted attention). I should be falling to my knees in gratitude. He doesn't want me in heels! He doesn't like make-up! I can use the money on things that matter, on things I really care about -- on food! But it doesn't work that way. Instead I try twice as hard, committed to changing his perception of fashion and to show him all a woman can be.
Though I care only for his opinion, it's a grand shame that no one else was there to witness the farmer version of myself. Bearing a golden farmer's tan and a body overworked by manual labor suits me well. I discovered a new muscle in my arms (perhaps an appendage of the triceps), which unfortunately develops only after hours of lifting hoes and swinging sieves. I suspect it to be that muscle that forces bodybuilders to walk with their arms lifted from their sides. The sensation is akin to putting a little pillow underneath your armpit.
For myself, I have always been fond of one-length, blunt haircuts, short or long. Layers are associated with Jennifer Aniston and teenagers at the mall. But after being pestered for having just so much hair, I decided to give them a try. As it turns out, layers create movement, add volume and free my curls. Who knew. I went to a salon in Prenzlauerberg (Schlumilu), negotiated with the stylist and in the end lost more hair than I originally wanted. But when I walked out of the salon, I felt fantastic, young and sexy. I didn't take a picture and most likely won't be able to style it that well on my own. But I felt more chic then than I have in a long, long time, and that feeling will stick with me for awhile.
My second beauty discovery was another surprise. The secret to shiny, healthy hair is to not shampoo it. I tried the "no 'poo" method before with mixed results. Now I realize that I have to sweat. On the farms, I would sweat through most of the afternoon and couldn't shower every day (one must conserve the resources most precious to us, fudge excepted). I wash my hair with both shampoo and conditioner approximately once a week. I can't brush my hair much in the morning, otherwise it will fall flat. But if I brush it after I'm done sweating (either from yardwork or exercise) and before I go to bed, it keeps its body and most of the waves. In the past my hair was too fine and oily for this method to work. Now that I have more texture (and more hair), there seems to be no problem. The only downside is that it sometimes starts to smell like bedhead.
Moving in with a boyfriend is not as difficult as they make it out to be. When Matt and I first began thinking about WWOOFing and moving abroad, we discussed what it meant in terms of sharing a living space. It was proposed that we could either stay in the States and try living together, or to move abroad -- but that we shouldn't try living together while taking our first international trip together, that the strain it would put on our relationship would likely be much too great. But as it turns out, we are good friends and compatible living partners. We have not been separated (defined by a distance of 30 feet or more) for more than a total of 15 hours since the end of April. That is a lot of together-time. There are times we both get moody, but the experience has absolutely brought us closer together. Within our experience as a couple is an entire treasure trove gleaming with gems of self-discovery.
Once again, this is not a lesson recently learned, but of which I have been gently reminded. And that is just how much my family means to me.
I started my morning with a walk up to the Turkish market to grab a melon and some vegetables. Matt and I had our usual breakfast of oatmeal and fruit, then went off to Matilda on Graefestrasse for tea and coffee. Cake wasn't necessary; my mom mailed me three slices of Doug Murdick's fudge, straight off the slab in northern Michigan. In the early afternoon I rode my bike up to Mitte, where I helped to hang the upcoming exhibition at Komet. Denise surprised me with an impromptu gift of sparkling wine and several tubes of Crystal Balls -- a toy that creates colored, saran-wrap balls that are light and sticky, kind of like soap bubbles that don't pop when you touch them. After we were satisfied with the show we went to Arkonaplatz for cola and schnitzel. Matt met me there and we left the group to wine and dine at Belluno, an Italian restaurant with candlelit outdoor seating in Prenzlauerberg. By 11:30 we were back in the apartment, and I had finished the day without any angsty, tear-filled breakdowns about turning 25.
I was happy.
The Pit of Babel
-
Es muß ein Fortschritt geschehen...
Wir graben den Schacht von Babel.
Some progress must be made...
We are digging the pit of Babel.
(Franz Kafka)
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I am Katie Sharrow-Reabe and I am interested in structural and social architecture. Linguistic and cultural translation. Progress through retrospection. Subliminal and subterranean connections. And I would like you to help me put these fragments into a hole.
