Happy Thanksgiving!  I hope you have a wonderful day today and that you aren’t alone. Take good care of yourself!
Wordpress has decided to put ads on this blog. I’m paying a reasonable annual fee to have this website on their framework. What I didn’t read was the fineprint in my contract. I trusted WordPress because the fee seemed appropriate (and is the same rate most other hosts would charge) for my own domain and website name and possibly my own ads, but certainly not someone else’s.

I don’t like ads, certainly not ones I have no control over. And the ones I’m seeing are not just any little one-liner adds (like e.g. the one-liners on gmail– but my gmail is free). No, these are large, obtrusive eye-catchers. WordPress is now offering me to pay an additional $30 (per blog per year [crosseyed emoticon here]) just to get rid of their ads. That made me laugh.

I told them that I’ll take heikewrites and its contents somewhere else instead. It’s a real pity! And I’m sorry! Because I have enjoyed writing this blog and it has rewarded me in so many ways, most notably with some of the wonderful friendships I was able to build with you.

But until I’ve reopened somewhere else, and I’ll let you know when I do, the shop stays closed.

Yours,

Heike

I hope you get well soon, kiddo

…Thank you people…

[can't resist to say this: The reason there are more people on food stamps is because the Obama government is handing them out to more people who needed them in the first place, not because there is a sudden surge in freeloaders. ]

Happy birthday! Today you are four years old. The day you were born was far and away the most beautiful day in my life. When you’re in all the places you’ll go don’t forget: Mom and Dad love you more than anything in the world!

I have to go now to prepare your party. You are celebrating with your friends this afternoon and we have lots of things to do before they arrive. Have a wonderful day, my love.

With Love Always,

Your Mommy

Happy Birthday Leo . I Love You Very Much.

God, what was I thinking?

clouds on fast forward, golden

leaves

dance, twist in circles, ah—

the brisk

wind!

naked branches

smack

against the wall all night.

here comes the marching band:

cling clang badumchi bashhhhh

Fall I am, fall I will,

into your arms as

they brush me off the cymbal,

melting, your laugh flies through me

as you reach

for your keys and your coat and the last of summer

fades, my sweetheart, feigned

a love for dancing!

what a terrible

mistake to think

I saw your arms

forever open.

I fell!

from the softness of your hands

I fell!

Miles Davis, Autumn Leaves. Isn’t it perfect?!

Saturday is practice night.

ya, ya!

1. Take lots of vitamin C supplements with your gallon of freshly squeezed orange juice (take every two hours until you get runnies, then stop).
2. Vitamin C / Zinc lozenges are good.
3. Make yourself hot herbal teas on an hourly basis to ensure that you take in lots of fluids.
4. Sit in front of an infrared lamp to feel the lovely warmth deep inside your sinuses (only for a little while; follow instructions and keep eyes closed).
5. Eat, but eat lightly: lots of vegetables and stuff that your body can break down easily without taking too much energy for digesting (and without taking energy away from fighting the nasty little gangs of viruses that have infested your blood stream.
6. Sleep, a lot. Rest is priceless.
7. Air out the rooms, air out blankets (shaky shaky), change sheets regularly to kill off the germs, and dispose of the three buckets full of used tissues twice every hour.
8. Wear a scarf, a hat, ear muffs and wool socks at all times.
9. Every now and then, sit down in your hot shower and inhale the steam until you go red in the face. Oh, and you can take off the wool socks when you’re in the shower. Too late? Change wet socks for dry socks. (If you absolutely have to, you can also take off the scarf and the hat. But whatever you do, don’t take off the ear muffs!)
10.  Vaseline helps to soothe sore nose. Note: if you can’t breathe through your nose no matter how hard you try, it is recommended that you try to breathe through your mouth. (Have you ever tried putting a red hot chili pepper into each nostril? Me neither. Not sure I recommend that).
11. No disco, no dancing!
12. Antibiotics are useless against viral infections (because they affect bacteria only), so don’t build up resistances when you don’t need to (best to listen to doctor on this one though).
13. Cough syrups, lozenges, pink bell peppers, burnt oak tree bark, spider legs and other well-known ancient remedies may well help take the edge off (ask doctor).

None of this helps? You tried the burnt oak tree bark? Woof woof. I don’t know then. Suck it up. I’m going back to bed.

… [Leo last night: “I’m going to give you a kiss and that will make your fever go all the way down to your shoes.”

Mommie: “Brilliant idea! But I’ll need more than one please!”] … Aaah:

14. Kisses–best remedy of all!

If you don’t have ear muffs and are too ill to go out and buy some, try making your own: here is an example of mint colored towel ear muffs

Dear Annie, I agree with you 100%. A lot of what I do in therapy in my battle with depression every week has to do with being introspective and willing. Great strength lies within me and I am always honing the “positive thinking” neuronal pathways– which we have control over and can train, over time, to be used in different/better ways. Our powers of self-healing are amazing!

But there is a limit to that monstrous, constant, intense effort of using different neuronal passages than the ones that have the pull and have the say in my brain. I can’t speak for many, because my condition is –thank God!—fairly rare. But the first time I remember that I was severely depressed, I was five years old. The first time I stood on the roof of my parents’ house wanting to kill myself, I was eleven. I’m not dismissing what you say, AT ALL, because you are right! But you’ll agree with me that that was too early for me to contemplate inner contentment on that scale.

It’s somber up in *this* noodle, and I had a very small part in the making of that. In retrospect,  my dad seems to me like  someone  who suffered –massively, all  his life refusing any sort of treatment because of stigma, prejudice and misinformation.  He fled from his suffering and agony by becoming an alcoholic, on most nights mostly mute and catatonically staring at the same spot on the wall for hours on end. When he wasn’t mute, he spent a lot of his time threatening or planning (and asking me for help to plan) his suicide, or he went on violent anger rampages, or he searched the house for hours in paranoia, looking for a cooking pot he insisted I had stolen and hidden somewhere. He even turned the trash can in front of our house upside down to search through the rubbish. Everything was checked and double-checked.

I was often afraid of that, walking on eggshells in my own home and expecting him to blow up at any time over any old thing. If I hadn’t folded the linens just so, he’d throw them on the floor and make me fold them again. The power over me was such that still in my thirties, he could stop walking, put one foot forward, silently point down to his shoe, and I’d kneel on the sidewalk to tie his laces. Then, without a word being spoken, he’d walk on.

Many of the memories pain me. Those of the many public breakdowns especially: in restaurants, on buses, in the middle of a crossroads….where he’d scream that my mother was a whore, or he’d call people who were trying to help “assholes”, push and shove strangers, and make you wish for a hole in the ground to disappear into: “he’s not with me [shrug shoulders]. I’ve never seen the guy before.”… There’s a lot there… a disturbing lot. The day my father died, I was sad … and *very* relieved. It was the day I was set free and allowed to fall apart and to then slowly put myself back together.

Surely, these were some very complicated, difficult circumstances and when I was little the only means of staying afloat was by pulling myself together. And pulling yourself together does not solve the problem. But my brother grew up in the same household and he seems well. He seems happy, healthy and well, just like that. I think apart from accompanying me to mine, he has never seen (and never needed to see) a psychiatrist. A good portion of the dark streak is a gene and a package of chemicals with a propensity to crash that I was dealt at conception. It’s nobody’s fault—not my dad’s, not mine!

This chemical misalignment is something I have learned to live with rather well over the years. I still fall into potholes and can’t seem to wrap my clever head around why that happens. I am lucky that I had a lot of help and met amazing people who helped me get my derailed mental health in line. I am also incredibly lucky to be so loved by my amazing, wonderful, kind and caring husband. My life feels slower now than it used to, but for the most part happy. I am better now at identifying triggers and mechanisms than I used to be. I can stand back and breathe and I am grateful. The lesson of yielding in order to cut myself some slack and learning to forgive myself has been a healer as well.

But unfortunately, constantly fine-tuning and adapting (increasing, decreasing and changing) the meds plays a crucial part in my wellbeing. I can’t stress enough how important and how good the right medication is for me (and, I might add, large amounts of it). I must say this out loud for my sake and for the sake of the people out there who need the meds and who couldn’t (wouldn’t) live without. In the years when I wasn’t on antidepressants and antipsychotics, I was a regular in the psychiatric emergency room and on various wards, on drips, or in a valium haze for weeks to kick me out of the rage of choking despair. Because depression is to despair over. It’s fucking hard. It’s a lead wall, it’s a bed of nails, it’s an infinity of vacuum, it’s the 100 pound dog on Megan’s chest. At the bottom of it there are no tears, there are no cries for help, there is just a black hole that constantly fills itself on you without ever filling. The black space of what must be a lot like death closes in around you without an exit, without a window, and slowly takes your breath away until you’re cross-eyed — and you don’t even feel it.

So there.

I don’t want to leave you with that gloomy perspective. I want to leave you on a positive note. Because this *is* so positive: the world we live in today is so much better in so many ways than the world our parents and grandparents lived in. We have come so far! I am so grateful that I am able to live a normal life, be a consistent and reliable friend and partner, and raise the most wonderful, lovely, giggly and perfectly healthy little boy. My husband seems to think that I’m a good wife, and my son seems to think that I am a good mother. I’m probably more like “so-so”. But God knows I try! There is love. There is friendship. And a heckuvalot of respect. My psychiatrist is a ten minute drive away– the world is good! MWAH, MWAH, MWAH. That is something that must give people like me a huge blast of hope! It’s entirely possible to live well within this thorny framework.

Sigh.

Little song for ya: Pearl Jam, Just Breathe. Have a nice weekend.

Thank God for antidepressants, and thank God for modern psychiatry. I don’t know that I would be without them. And just to be perfectly clear: severe depressive illness is a neurological illness that can be traced with blood tests. The chemicals of depression show in the metabolism as well as in brain scans. We will soon be testing for depression in much the same way as we test for diabetes or markers for cancer, and that will be good.

What annoys me (less and less) is that from time to time I run into people who are convinced that you can opt out. You can opt out of clinical depression the way you can opt out of having brown eyes or dementia, or dying: which is not at all. Treat it you can; opt out you can’t. But it’s a tedious discussion with people who insist to cling to an outdated education overhang of false and wildly imaginative tales told by past generations. I’ve moved on from it.

Be well, my friends. Good night.

here is The Joy Formidable: The Whirring

and Cradle (same band)

Austere (still the same band)

A Heavy Abacus (and more of the same)

.

I’ll leave it at that. If you think I like this band, you are correct. Rare is the bliss of finding a band I can play . all . day . long . and not get bored.

To hear more of their music, go to The Joy Formidable channel on YouTube. As I am writing this, they are updating their website at www.thejoyformidable.com and I don’t know if that link is going to work for you. But what’s there already is looking goooood. It won’t let me right now, but also keep trying http://store.thejoyformidable.com/ to buy some of their stuff. I’ll go back to it in a week or so to make sure I’m not posting a broken link. Stay tuned

And then there is THIS: Pearl Jam with … you all know this song … a live version of Alive.

The thought of them playing together held me captive and I had to venture a bit off mainstream before I found my way around just how versatile they all are…and talented far beyond my narrow-minded imagination. Check it out.

Glen Hansard is able to do this:

(Smile – Glen Hansard with Pearl Jam live at PJ20 in 2011)

And now watch Eddie Vedder do this:

(Falling Slowly – Eddie Vedder with Glen Hansard, live at PJ20)

Have a look around the internet—maybe you can find the videos of the other seventeen people who are holding up their cameras there in the audience. I personally like the girl who is poking her camera up into the air at around 2.47: she isn’t filming, hehe, she’s dancing! Way to go, girl.

Anyway. Eddie Vedder and Glen Hansard. It all makes perfect sense to me now (and I have no idea why I was ever questioning it). If you want to see more of them together, check out http://pearljam.com/tour for 2012 tour dates.

Patti. Have an awesome time tonight. I’ll be there with my spirit and soul, sparkling long distance photons around to illuminate your stage.

Go to 0:35 on this video and listen to Banga:

By the way, if you couldn’t guess it from the band members’ barking (1.01 to 1.04, 3.11 to 3.15, and 3.18 to 3.22), Banga is the name of Pontius Pilate’s dog in Russian author Mikhail Bugakov’s novel The Master And Margarita. In the book, Banga waits two thousand years for Pontius to throw him a bonie and Pontius waits two thousand years for Jesus to say something.

slept under a staircase with my Robert Plant autograph that night because the guy whose couch i was meant to sleep on never showed up. don’t make friends with idiots–take it from one who knows!

must find a photograph for you of what i looked like in those hang-loose-bellbottom- and platformer-days. i had a pair of cat eye sunglasses like these:

marilyn monroe wearing cat eye shades

did i look like marilyn monroe does in this picture? mmmmh no! more like a librarian on LSD. but i can’t show you because the autograph and all the photographic evidence from that time are somewhere in a moving box (phew!).

i would like to find the autograph though.  not a chance: we still have boxes stacked up to the ceilings in the hallway, the guest toilet, along the walls, next to the beds… and it all still feels and looks and IS very much like a construction site. i called the Bau-Polizei, the municipal building inspection, over the other day because these small but heavy metal cylinders between the walls and the banisters in the main hallway started falling out; just fell out, PLONK (because they hadn’t been screwed in. and that’s not as in “not screwed in properly”, no, that is as in “not screwed in AT ALL!”). and without anything connecting them with the walls, the banisters were swinging back and forth. apart from the guy in the lobby who could have had a hole in the head when those pieces of metal smashed down, i wasn’t sure if the whole banister wasn’t going to go down next with our son hanging on to it (we’re on the third floor). it’s been fixed in the meantime. but then just one day later one of the builders forgot a step ladder on our balcony (i didn’t see it from the hallway). he left it standing right next to the banister, RIGHT next to it. and while i bring him to the door as he leaves, my 3-year-old makes his way up the ladder, because he wants to be “mamma’s big helper”, fix stuff, you know? the way all those men do who are in and out of our apartment all day.

i *totally* *lost* *the plot*.

and the poor kid is completely lost and has no clue what’s going on here. it’s just so DANGEROUS! WHY on earth did they give us the key?! when the whole property is in a state that clearly isn’t suitable for any type of normal life; it isn’t LIVEABLE.

i can’t tell you how badly i want the builders with their step ladders and broken stanley knives and live wires and plugged in drills to leave the apartment for good, and TAKE their STUFF (!), and how MUCH i want the building to be finished. the last two months are easily in the top three of the most stressful months of my life.

i just want to close the door behind us and settle in here. i hate, HATE moving! but the whole unfinished-screwed-up-full-of-lies-and-dirt-construction story adds a whole other layer to the moving. and (if only he’d ever show up here!?!?) i’d twist the building manager’s neck. juuuuust a little bit,  ggrrrrraaaAAAH–like that. and a looooooot of other people feel exactly the same way about it. is there a lot of fun still to be had? you bet!

anyway. robert plant’s the man. this is a live recording of Whole Lotta Love from 1970. enjoy:

lets change this blog’s title from heikewrites to heike’s-awesome-NEWS-channel! whaddoyathink?!

The XX works well for me. i also like their older stuff–here is Crystalised:

i am green with envy: Rick saw them live in New York the other night. good times. wish i was there!

Zero

Heads Will Roll 

Maps 

Gold Lion

what do you think? like / don’t like / have liked the yeah yeah yeahs for many many years and it looks like heike missed the boat? ehem. this band was nominated for grammy awards in the best alternative music album category in 2004, in 2007 and in 2010 — and i totally missed it. missed it! i only just read about it on wikipedia, two and a half minutes ago. i missed all of it: their grammy awards, their quick rise, their tour dates, their really good albums … where was i????  i feel like i just got rattled out of hibernation. guys, you need to keep me up on this stuff! seriously. this pains me.

and something fun and peachy: Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros, Home

fun stuff. found this on birp.fm once again — i love this website!  hey, i haven’t heard from you — how are you? are you feeling groovy / okay / bored / high / depressed / super well / [fill in your own adjective HERE] ? and why? if you don’t trust your words in this very public domain, then you can write to me at hrb3 [at] columbia [dot] edu and i’ll be soooooooo happy to hear from you! xoxoxoxoxo

have a great day.

Youth Without Youth 

Lost Kitten 

Synthetica (acoustic awesomeness)

Artificial Nocturne 

wishing them all kinds of great success, turbomega record sales and Letterman-type attention … and when you hang with her, can you please tell Emily Haines that i *still* think she’s so hot …

And just so you know, I love my friends. LOVE! my friends. MWAH!

If you feel like me at all, click on this music video for a laugh: Kicked Your Monkey by Bad Lip Reading

Aaaah – what a relief. That is so refreshing. (source: Bad Lip Reading Channel on Youtube; for more go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=js3BYcHmBhE&list=UU67f2Qf7FYhtoUIF4Sf29cA&index=8&feature=plcp – SO much fun!)

Here is the original song by Gotye, if you aren’t up to date with the pop charts and have no idea what I’m talking about: (skip to 1min 33secs, if you are bored to tears by the first minute)

–wow! 255 million hits?! Incredible. A showcase of worldwide Volksverdummung!

And here is the original for We Are Young – oh yes! I am going to do this to you:

when you reach 1min 10 secs you sing LUCY IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS instead of We Are Young, and again (one two, three, four—now), LUCY IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS, AAAAAAH. Do it real loud. It’s better that way, trust me!

More relief, here: Lucy in the Sky, the original.

Have a great day!

The Lion’s Roar by First Aid Kit came out in the beginning of the year. First Aid Kit are a Swedish duo of sisters, Klara and Johanna. Am I dreaming, or are they 22 and 19 years old?! Definitely worth following what they are up to.

Hope this finds you well. May June shower you with the light of golden afternoons. Don’t forget to bring a sweater when you go out; the evenings are still kinda cool. Keep me up on the music you like and good thoughts to think.  xoxo

Thank you for being there and thanks for friendship and thanks for warmth and love and kindness. Drop me a line sometime – I always have time for and look forward to a personal email!  Cheerio

—————————————————END OF MESSAGE

this is Malvina Reynolds, Little Boxes:

  you can also hear this song on Cindy Archer’s wonderful new photography website. Check it out: http://cindyarcherphotography.com/index2.php#/home/

Let’s hear one more strong woman before I pack it in: Maya Angelou recites Still I Rise. I love this:

Still I Rise

by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

love rules

I haven’t been good to this blog even though it has been nothing but good to me. Let’s have a break from the gloom I’ve been spreading in this place of late. Here are some of the nice things that have been happening to me:

The other night my friend Annie laughed at something I said and when she caught her breath she said that I always make her laugh so much. I asked back in disbelief: “I always make you *laugh* so much?!” – did she say laugh? Of all things! You wouldn’t guess from my blog that I can make people laugh, would you?! With topics ranging from rape (right around Easter) to the pharmacological treatment of severe depressive illness (right around Christmas), humor hasn’t really featured here lately. But on second thought, yeah, I do love a chuckle when I’m done hackling the depravity and wickedness of the world into verbal Spätzle. Anyway, it was the nicest thing anyone said to me in a while and it was especially nice coming from someone in whose company I am the way I really want to be and say whatever I really want to say. It doesn’t get better than that!

Another very nice, uplifting moment was when the Running Thriver, fellow blogger, abuse and PTSD survivor, nominated me for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award and the Sunshine Award. I’ve recommended the runningthriver blog here before and am happy to do it again, so go check it out if you haven’t already: it’s always inspiring and it’ll make you get off the couch for a walk (at the very least) when you hear the details of this woman’s workout schedule. I feel like I’ve exercised just reading about it. When you read deeply enough into the blog to find out what she’s been through, you’ll agree with me that there couldn’t be a healthier and more optimistic way of coping with trauma for her than to become a tough mudder. And she really is a tough mudder! You go gettem, girl! Thank you very much for the awards, my friend; sunshine coming right back at you.

Since these awards come with the recommendation of nominating other bloggers, I’m happy to point out some other ladies who are tough mudders in their own right. I am honored to pass on the Very Inspiring Blogger and Sunshine Awards to the following four bloggers:

-          Stella Marr is the writer of mybodythecity. As much as I think this is an important blog, I need to praise it with a word of caution: if you are not feeling well and strong within yourself, or if you are under 18, skip it for now. This blog will take you to some of the dark places that exist and unfortunately thrive in this world. It’s as heartbreaking as it is powerful. Hearing about Stella will hopefully stop you from asking for the legalization of prostitution and from asking questions like “why didn’t you contact the authorities?”, or “why didn’t you walk out?” Stella is also the author of a new book called “My Secret Life as a Manhattan Call Girl”. She has written about prostitution and sex-trafficking in the New York Times among other places and is giving a voice to trafficked women.

-          There are other blogs, some of them very good, by survivors of sex-trafficking.  I’m choosing one more to recommend: 9to20 is an extremely well written blog by a survivor who was trafficked by her father from age nine to twenty. I recommend going back in the archives of this blog to post 001 and read it from the beginning like a book. Again– if you, yourself, are struggling with trauma or are not an adult, it might not be a good idea for you to go there. If read you must, read with your heart full of love and respect. And then go make a difference!

May God give Stella Marr, 9to20 and the many wonderful, important writers like them the strength and the safety they need on this journey out into the public.

-          Carey Fuller is the writer of careyfuller.com. Carey is a very tough cookie. And she has to be: she is a homeless woman who lives in a van with her two daughters. When you read her blog you will forever chuck the illusions you have about the availability of shelters and medical care to the homeless. There is the illusion and there is the reality of homelessness; and one will have to go. I wholeheartedly invite you to come along with me and get uncomfortable with the illusion here! I recommend reading this entire blog and watching the videos of Carey as she is trying to get through on the telephone to shelters and social workers. Surviving every single day is like wrestling with a beast for this woman and if you are one of the people who think “go get a job” when you walk past a homeless person – once you’ve read this blog, I hope you’ll think again.

-          While we’re with the abuse survivors: Joss is the warm and deeply warming, insightful and spiritual writer of the Crowing Crone blog. I’m lucky to have found this blog because it makes the world a better place for me. It’s solace; it’s balsam for my soul and it makes me hopeful about my own story to see what is possible in the context of Healing. I am close to convinced that Joss has achieved some kind of peace of mind, a sound and positive serenity that sends ripples through all her articles, even the ones that deal with abuse, somber memories, frustrations or drawbacks that (any) life serves us with all the time.

I am meant to recommend some outrageously large number of blogs but am going to break the rules. The ones I named are tremendous and have exponential impact. So I leave it at that for now.

I’ll also skip the part where I am meant to answer ten questions about me. But if you want to ask me a question or make a comment (see link below), I’ll answer it as always.

SUNSHINE AWARD

And VERY INSPIRING BLOGGER AWARD

The Rules:

1) Include the award Logo in a post or in your blog.
2) Answer 10 questions about yourself.
3) Nominate 10 to 12 other fabulous bloggers.
4) Link your nominees to the post and comment on their blog, letting them know they are nominated.
5) Share the love and link the person who nominated you.

The second article is the response to it in the Daily Mash. It’s called “Why I Am Leaving the Empire“, by Darth Vader.

… oh dear …

I feel a bit bad for Greg Smith. I do. I’m poking fun at someone who is brave and talks openly about the douchebag club that is Wall Street. And Goldman Sachs holds a special place in my heart there. The only line that really puzzled me in Smith’s op-ed was his description of Goldman Sachs when he first joined; he says “It revolved around teamwork, integrity, a spirit of humility, and always doing right by our clients”.

Oh please!

Are you having a laugh?! That’s the HR drill of a credo for starting analysts — you’re not required to memorize and chirp the tune. The company was a client of mine for several very intense years and I dilliedallied around their Frankfurt office for a summer as an intern in college.  And from what I have seen of the culture at Goldman Sachs, even just the little I have seen, integrity, humility and teamwork are not in the top ten of what I would list. The intelligence of the majority of the staff I dealt with, yes. How hard some of them work, yes. A general financial savviness that borders on aggression, yes, absolutely. They are extremely ambitious, bright first row players.

But humility?

No.

The spirituality and brotherhood culture of Goldman do-good-manship that they so love to celebrate is a well-orchestrated hoax. We’re all friends, until we’re not. How anybody could rise so high through the ranks and not notice it is a mystery to me. Let’s just leave it at that.

I don’t want to pee on this man’s party, because maybe his intentions are noble and sincere. And he is saying some important things about how fucked up the industry is. So it’s good that Smith’s letter will raise a discussion (and it will). It’ll shake things up a bit. And I am sorry if I’m lashing out at one of the good ones. (Who is Greg Smith? Is this the Greg Smith who is good at pingpong?)

Anyway. Now that the good word is out, I hope for Greg Smith that he has some savings for his retirement. And for litigation of course, because as one commentator in the NYT wisely noted: “Now comes damage control, as GS attempts to destroy the messenger”. It’s a classic case of throwing the baby out with the bath water. The letter deals the blows in broad strokes. I’m have an inkling that unfortunately it will end little more than Mr. Smith’s career in finance. Was it worth that? I don’t now. I’m not Greg Smith. And I can’t tell what his intentions are other than to vent his anger. It’s not going to change industry standards and he must be aware that he made himself unemployable. I wish him the best. Maybe he has his own hedge fund already lined up with its own shiny, sparkling mission statement; or he is going to fly one-way to his house in the Bahamas. Let’s hope his noble pursuits don’t end there.

The mom said “sure, great” and handed me her card while I scribbled my name and address on a piece of paper. She then said that I could pick her daughter up from nursery school that day along with Leo. “We don’t both have to come” she said. And then she asked “when shall I pick her up from your house? Six, half past six?” It took me until I was in the car on my way home to register and turn completely lopsided about what had just happened – you mean, you’re not coming?! I should add that even though our kids are in the same nursery school (with 150 other kids) I never met this woman except in the hallway and in the parking lot, saying hi in passing. I don’t even know her name except from the card she handed me.

How does she know I’m not a member of the Feed Children Grass Association? (And I was only thinking about regular front garden grass…).

Aside from the fact that she is leaving me by myself to look after two *very active* three-year-olds for four hours, has she lost her marbles to let her (three-year-old) daughter go home to a stranger’s house by herself and leave the kid to sort herself out? Have I lived in New York for too long or is that totally out of order?!

I so want to cancel. But Leo and the girl were jumping and screaming with joy, holding each other in their arms. That image won’t quit me, them being so excited about their play date. I don’t want to disappoint them. And it’s not her fault.

Can I have your opinion please?!

Oh, and just on a side note: if you were hoping to build a friendship with me, don’t start it that way.

dustpile art (photo: Trish Scott)

I started sanding down some of our old furniture in a project I embarked on (because I have nothing else to do). Our cupboards are going to look all shiny and new, yey! I will be happy to do your furniture once I’m done with ours: I charge ten dollars per hour and it’ll only take me fifty-seven weeks. Cough cough.

the coat of cold that is your love

the snow that is the soft

quilt of death inside my heart

the swinging of the room

the violence, the light bulb far above, the pattern on the rug

reds blues reds–

it’s all the same to me

now [this is the wine this is the bread

this is the blood this is the body]

this is my son this is my life

this is the ice inside my mouth

fuck you you

son of a bitch

God, how I wish I’d never met you

the coat of cold that is your love

Reblogged from Madison Woods:

***

Intro: I'd met Debra via Twitter a few weeks back when she mentioned the concept of finding 100 pre-sales for my book before even approaching editors or agents. This was during a chat with agents on Twitter, and some of the agents agreed. Have heart, though. Some didn't think it mattered ahead of time and that a platform could be built after a publishing contract.

Read more… 1,020 more words

I could have left it at that, moved on and never looked back. So my friend Gregor is not only clever and rides his bike to work for an hour and a half; he also bakes the toast for his four kids’ sandwiches himself every other day—like, whatever! I can live with that. My son Leo gets a bish-bash-bosh American sandwich toast with mayonnaise, pfft—stick it together, off we go *by car* to the nursery school that’s three minutes away from here. I don’t care. I’m in my pajamas, where’s my coffee, and please don’t talk to me before ten thirty.

But then Alicia Paulson took this bread-baking thing to a whole new level for me.

I first stumbled across Alicia’s blog about two months ago. It’s eye-candy. The Pottery Barn is getting all its decorating ideas from her. There are fresh flowers in cute vases on every table in her beautiful house and on birthdays she makes picture perfect five-layer cream cakes. Aaaaaand, whipped cream for the perfect pie: ……….. she bakes bread like a goddess!

I won’t go into the details of the state of affairs in my house. Let’s just say that the other day I found a yoghurt with a 2010 sell-by date. (tasted fine)

It was time for change in my life, a new dawn.

I put on my baking hat, followed the link in Alicia’s blog to the recipe for THIS

picture by Alicia Paulson of her Dutch oven bread as found on her blog (see link above)

unbelievably yummy looking loaf of bread, drove to the supermarket to get the ingredients, pulled up my sleeves (washed and blow-dried my hair, put on a pair of high heels, pinched my cheeks and tweaked my eyelashes) and went to work. [Bonnie Tyler with an apron].

And here’s the recipe I used:

No-Knead Dutch Oven Bread

1/4 tsp active dry yeast
1 1/2 cups warm water
3 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting. You may use white, whole wheat or a combination of the two.
1 1/2 tsp salt
Cornmeal or wheat bran for dusting
(Read full recipe here)

Sounds easy enough: you take a quarter teaspoon of yeast, eleven half cups of warm water, three cups of flour and eleven half teaspoons of salt and follow the baking instructions.

I did that.

Looked.

Looked again.

Hm.

Somehow something didn’t look right (those of you with a strong gag reflex, look away now):

delicious little-too-much-water-and-salt-beer-bread-dough-soup™ by ME! Tadaaaaaah

Just — be quiet.

Please, go to the website I linked to above, look at the recipe and tell me if that looks like ONE AND ONE HALF cups of warm water, or if it looks like 11/2 (ELEVEN half) cups of warm water. That looks like an eleven to me! It still does. I should have used common sense? (Common sense, how you spell that?) You can brew your own beer with six cups of water to the quarter teaspoon of yeast? Oh yeah? Good! Because I wanted to make beer. Did I say bread? Well, I meant BEER.

I can change my mind. I can! Beer it is. Let’s put it this way: thank God this is not a knitting, cross stitch and baking recipe blog! Okay? Okay! I’m going to pour myself a pint now.

…

And then I AM GOING TO TRY AGAIN!

i collapse back into

me over

and over

and over

and over

and over

over me

sea, black, see, i lack

the words i lack

the heart i lack the

eyes betray me see

me feel me

touch

me

hold me

such an awesome site for readers and writers alike!

have a nice weekend.

side note: the layout template that i’m using for this blog doesn’t let me use tabs (i mean the way a MicrosoftWord document can have tabs), so i made the last three lines right-bound and then empty-spaced to a period at the end of the line so the template wouldn’t autocorrect and delete the empty space. that is the only reason why there are periods at the end of lines that i want to be indented..

[coherent title HERE]

I swim in laps

of cream,

of some wicked dabberness

of shame, of dream

I lean to light

a cigarette on

sordid metal clangk

my eyes like tiny slits

dark covers me (cuts

me up in bits) with a shawl: shame

makes me crawl

down the hall we ambulate

your drip is ready

intravenous lead, relax

I’m FINE now

let me go  to bed

good god

your soft—

warm—

hands!

it’s all slipping,

my bob lipping,

I can’t hold

on to anything— silent

screams and valium dreams—

echo forth into the hollow

depth of you,

of the soundless listless void of me.

I cannot feel

my tongue [I laugh]

it gets worse as I get older

I tell the young psychologist

who is made to sit with me for

hours,

days, in catatonic bliss

I slip through speechless, staring silence—

down into the abyss.

where are you all? Aah, you

lift me, take me up

against the wall, the floor, the wind

is cool                                                                                           .

on my face                                                                                                     .

as I fall                                                                                                                       .

]]> http://heikewrites.com/2012/02/23/coherent-title-here/feed/ 2 heikewrites http://heikewrites.com/2012/02/20/joachim-gauck-nominated-for-german-presidency-my-thoughts/ http://heikewrites.com/2012/02/20/joachim-gauck-nominated-for-german-presidency-my-thoughts/#comments Mon, 20 Feb 2012 11:06:45 +0000 heikewrites http://heikewrites.com/?p=1154 Continue reading →]]> Joachim Gauck was nominated for the German Presidency last night and I couldn’t resist but sniff around what people in the internet would have to say about that. The summary of opinions can be divided into two camps: that of the people and that of the media. The people are happy, full stop!

The media, hmmm, are slightly careful – my best guess is that they are CYA-ing after the good bashing mudfest that has led to the circumstances. Sueddeutsche Zeitung wrote last night that Gauck was heralded as an angel but wouldn’t keep angel status for long, reason being that he’d rub politicians of every party in the wrong way. Oh well, my darlings! Isn’t that one of the better reasons why we need him as a President? In the best possible scenario I can imagine, Gauck would put an end to the political shuffling game and bragging for (and with) power, mudslinging and blasé attitudes of Germany’s political know-it-alls. We need someone in this office who is free of party politics! And note that I didn’t say ‘someone without politics’, because he isn’t that, is he?!

We nominated here a civil rights activist, a freedom and democracy believer to the core who combines the best of conservatism and social liberalism in one person, and someone who acts on and stays true to these beliefs. This is a rare fetch! There are many things Gauck will not do, but one thing I am particularly pleased with, and that is that he will not back down from what he believes because of party politics. And I’m sure he’ll handle the criticism for it gracefully. Oh no, Angie, it won’t be pleasing to the ear, and I watched your eyebrow twitch in the press conference when Gauck said he was sorry for the mistakes he would certainly make once he was in office. It made me chuckle with a good degree of delight. And I am sure that even Sigmar Gabriel will wish he hadn’t made Gauck’s conference into Gabriel’s stage. I hope, I really hope, that under the new aegis we are going to shed some of our pumpedupness.

Something that reliably defines the nature of our President-to-be is a deep humaneness. Humility and Humaneness are part of this man’s emotional and intellectual fabric, and always have been. I was a rookie journalist for one of Berlin’s daily papers in 1994 when I had the opportunity to meet with Joachim Gauck for an interview and subsequent chat that lasted an hour or two. He didn’t have to meet with me and was probably ill-advised to do so: I was the writer of our paper’s shadiest column; gossip was my trade. He gave me what I needed, a humorous story about how one of Berlin’s most important and prominent figures had a paper clip holding his glasses together (and how his coworkers at the Gauck-Behoerde had once hung a whole plant full of spare glasses as a gift because he kept losing or breaking them).

And then he gave me so much more: he gave me the feeling that I wasn’t the useless sleaze-shit writer of a paper that had lost direction after the wall came down (and it changed hands in so many ways). When I walked into his office I felt so far below this person of – even then – grand stature, grand history, grand actions and grand wisdom.  But when I walked out the magic had happened: I felt good about myself, real good. He had talked to me like I was an equal—there was none of the common cockiness, self-importance or pretention. He generously volunteered opinions and thoughts on a variety of topics, since I wanted to find out everything I could in this rare and precious meeting with someone who was busy even more than he was important. I had questions, and he had many answers, and then suddenly, he had questions! We wandered through thoughts we were having, respectfully but honestly contemplating together. It was so interesting, activated all my neurons in the introspection section of my brain: after the short space of one or two hours, I walked away feeling like I had met one of the important men of our time.

Some of you will say I fell into the fangs of a relentless charmer; we all know he was a man of the church, a preacher (and very good at his job), before he started fielding through buildings full of Stasi secret files to lay open an important and, alas, sleazy part of German history. And even then he preached, HA! But if we wanted something like a German Gospel, wouldn’t it be one of democracy, and peace, and love, and freedom? Here is someone who dares to go on camera, talking (among other things) about LOVE in his nomination press conference, oh dear! Someone who admits that he is confused to sit there, and confused to be nominated – as opposed to ‘honored’ or ‘pleased’ which, to me (especially recently…), has an air of “gosh, finally! I deserved this a long time ago.” Love, confusion, freedom, … I can see all you cynical journalists cringe at that in your morning meetings: “did he say — Love?”. I know because I’ve been there, that there will be jokes. There are some shallow shits among you.

But I don’t think the people of Germany feel that way today. In the endless strings of comments and contributions in the internet there was, of course, relief! But there was also happy anticipation! We are so due for a different kind of message! Something that touches us as humans and that brings us together, AND, by the way, that is going to makes us look better abroad. Joachim Gauck said things in the first minutes of his nomination that were more meaningful, humble and humbling, to the German people than anything Wulff said in all his time in office combined.

At the end, oh beware, we might even find ourselves something like “proud”, and “proud” as Germans, to have someone like Gauck speak on our behalves. Albeit given our backgrounds, I doubt that most of us will admit to such a thing as pride. Wouldn’t it be shocking if Gauck was to deliver us with an identity as a people that we will actually like and embrace? One that is not so focused on prosperity, car-production and proper accounting and not so full of self-damnation, sarcasm and guilt.

I can’t begin to tell you how pleased I am that we found someone who is a walking piece of “German history AT ITS BEST”, someone who has many rare traits: integrity, and moral fiber, combined with razorsharp intelligence, modesty and manners. He has a long track record of fighting for freedom and democracy. This is a man of the people. And of course it helps that he is a marvelous speaker, charming and charismatic!

There couldn’t be a better candidate at this sourpuss time, someone more worthy of Germany’s presidency than Joachim Gauck.

Joachim Gauck was last night nominated for the German Presidency

Oh.

And I’ve only been scratching the surface these last two or three days, you know.

Don’t we all want to be a little bit like Lady Gaga? But speak truthfully: would you really want to be married to her? This is fun to watch as long as we’re staring through the peephole into someone else’s household. My name is at the top of this blog; it’s not exactly like I’m keeping it a secret (nor do I want to). I just don’t want to go down in family history as The inconsiderate asshole. I would live forever harvesting my shame.

If you have any suggestions about how to resolve this dilemma gracefully, without walking all over my husband or hurting anyone, but without compromising or being untrue to myself, go ahead and tell me. I suppose the inbox will stay empty on this one.

//

Let’s go on to today’s business: I revised an entry that I posted here a while back and will bore you by reposting an excerpt from it. Then, when you’ve read that, if you make it through until then, I’ll let you out of this post with a WordShuffle, and some music.

The excerpt first:

“[...]   The writer Andrew Cowan (author of What I Know, Pig, and Common Ground) said in an interview with the BBC that there is a lot of work that goes into writing that has nothing to do with writing. He calls it nest-circling. All our thoughts must be cleared, the garbage taken out, the dog walked, phone calls made, until there is just that left which needs to be written. Well, if that is the case, then I am just finishing up a round of ten years of solid nest-circling. Hooray: I can finally begin. Now I just need to take little nest-loops like I did over the last two days. I’m going to start laying eggs any minute now.

I can’t say I totally agree with Cowan: I still think I’m a procrastinator. That’s how I am; I beat up on myself a little bit, because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here. A bit of self-flagellation gets my juices going. I certainly don’t take the trash outside and think “oh, I might have accomplished something necessary for my book. I must be nest-circling.” I assume Cowan is taking himself very seriously to be thinking that. I just think of myself as a time-waster when I swerve. I waste time and space and precious oxygen that a real writer might have used to get some work done. And sometimes that stops me writing altogether!

But it’s nice to hear somebody put a positive spin on it. In the last couple of days it certainly helped to circle away and then to slowly, carefully circle back with a gentler, more respectful tone in the voice of mine that judges me. I get upset with myself quickly when I rush into some of the chapters that are now past traumas. I could avoid letting them upset me; a lot of the time I could have avoided getting into such a bad situation altogether! Experiencing trauma, recapping trauma, all seems to me like an outstanding sign of my own weakness.

And I don’t know how to overcome it.

My father was an alcoholic; his behavior was that of an alcoholic. Part of my book is going to have to address that. I don’t know how yet, because I loved my father, dearly, and I needed him and I looked up to him, and I looked after him. I struggle with treading on a memory of somebody dear to me, and sore and needy. I have this thing about believing that everybody deserves Love. And then I turn around and struggle with it–catfight: scratching biting kicking the very thing I hold so dear. So how do you tell the wider public, the wider family, the wider circle of friends, –and why would you remind those in the inner circle– that the only time your Father was sober was for several hours between midday and six p.m. or so. The rest of the time he was drunk, and a lot of that time he was really drunk. –just like that. That’s how you tell it. But it makes me feel selfish, ashamed and guilty. I’m having this wonderful catharsis while I go swinging through my house with a giant flail, leaving shambles in my wake. How is that good for anybody? And can I reason through this? Do I have to make sense of this? Can I? Should I?

I like reason; and I resent it. “Let’s be reasonable”, “what’s the reason”, “can I reason with you”, “the reason is” … I guess it’s part of what defines me. I am –hypervigilantly– sensitive and reason means order, some degree of organization and control, and not being so exposed in a chaotic, feelings- and senses-driven environment. You’d think…

But what if reason doesn’t apply? It still annoys me that all through his life I insisted on reasoning with my dad, until he passed away. It was a battle of unequal minds. I refused to see the same stupid trap doors that were always open for me to stumble upon them. I think it amused him. And confused me. And he’d always get me where it hurt the most. And then there was the other side of the coin. There were things that defied any kind of logic. The fact that my father was such a well-educated, knowledgeable, handsome and very gentlemanly person didn’t gel with seeing him punching (instead of thanking) a bus driver who climbed out of the crowded bus to help him pull a ticket from a machine. It didn’t gel with him hollering through a restaurant: “your mother was a whoooore”, making the room immediately fall silent.  What do you do in that moment, with your Father? Punch him in the face. I can confidently assure you that, no, you wouldn’t punch your Father in the face. I, for my part, would sit there wishing there was a hole in the ground that would swallow me and close back up over me, leaving no trace of my existence. I poured his glass of cognac into my coffee and said “I think you’ve had enough” while he hit the table, cursing me. And then I had a good look around the restaurant to see if people really had nothing else to do than stare at us. Eye-contact usually does the trick. If you make eye-contact with the bystanders they tend to turn away and mind their own business.

I’ve had pretty bad moments like that. And not a few. Many a times towards the end of it I’d drug myself before I’d go out with him. I’d be out of it while he was getting drunk, I’d be heavily sedated while he was shoving waiters around crowded restaurants. A slow-motion, blurry, silent film is the only memory I have of some of the scenes. I am pretty sure that when I was sedated I did not intervene. The Moulin Rouge, Montparnasse and bars, bars, bars– I was game for all of it. Why did I go out with him when calamity was such a sure thing? Oh, simple. Couple of reasons: first, he begged me, every time he begged me, and I didn’t want him to be so alone, so lonely. It did something to my heart, cracked it, to see him hurt like that; the loneliness was what got me the most. I could stand his pain less than I could stand my own. And second, I had a bludgeoned, crushed, totally deflated sense of self.

I’d like to talk about these moments with regard to the impact his treatment had on my self-esteem. But I also want to try to talk about them in a respectful, deeply empathetic way. I don’t want to expose my father’s loneliness, his despair, especially after my mother died, in a disrespectful way. I know a thing or two about despair myself and I can see and feel what he went through. I always knew that he was not just someone who lashed out and repeatedly insulted me, and us, his family—he was also someone deeply vulnerable and needy. And part of me can’t stop thinking that “he didn’t mean it.” He was an addict who needed help. The first time I dialed up the AA to get help for us and for my dad, I was eleven or twelve. When they told me he had to come there himself, by his own wish, I hung up the receiver. When I introduced my dad to my future mother-in-law he came to the opera with a wine bottle hidden inside his cashmere coat and whenever he thought we were engrossed with Verdi, he’d turn to the aisle and take a swig; my dad would sneak out of hospital in his pajamas pushing a drip along to find the nearest bar, but there was one thing he would never do: he would never admit that he was an alcoholic.

But I was there, stood by him. I don’t know if that is something to be proud of or if I was just an idiot. A poll would probably come out with an even number of votes each way. When my dad threatened with committing suicide I came. I always came to the rescue. Twenty times, thirty times over the years, I don’t know. I spent hours on the phone or sitting with him, trying to talk him out of it and taking it seriously. I don’t know if I did the right thing or not. Of course the thought occurred to me that he would have never killed himself regardless. But maybe he would have. There is no way of knowing. There was a loaded shotgun in a cabinet in the hallway, next to the vacuum cleaner. There was a pistol in his desk, the bullets next to it. And there were several more shotguns in a cupboard in his bedroom. There were years when I feared that I would walk in one day to find him dead in a pool of blood, and he made bloody sure that fear never left me.

Now, there is a thing in psychology referred to as enabling. And I’m almost sure that I was an enabler as much as I was a supporter. My brother who was much more removed and had no qualms about leaving my dad behind (and literally taking off, leaving), rarely stayed for the really bad stuff. I hung around. I took my dad with me on my vacations, enduring everything, thinking I could help or make things a bit better. And I was always that much worse off for it. I was a happy target. It started being a self-fulfilling prophecy that when I came to visit or when we went away together, there would be some nasty stuff unwinding, usually in the evening, after the second bottle of wine was gone. But late in his life even the afternoons were horrid. I’m assuming that all the morphine he took to alleviate his pain was a potent agent mixed with alcohol in bringing on my father’s near total delusion.

My dad was one of the most educated, detail-oriented and constantly perfecting people I ever met. He was very good at everything he did. He had great depth of knowledge in astoundingly many fields from history to physics, maths to accounting law. He was successful in his career, a great sailor on raging seas when everybody else was hanging over the bulwork puking, an enduring sportsman: sailor, cross-country skier, and (on occasion) a fierce ice-hockey player– he was good! He was a well-trained engineer and manager in a mortgage house, and … a great drinker. I’ve seen people drink, and I drank, but I’ve never seen anyone as stout as him.

The only problem with someone who is always better and always wants everything to be perfect is that if you hang around him, you are never good enough. No matter what you do: it’s never enough. My mother and I especially tended to get the bad end of the stick. I cannot remember being praised or congratulated or hugged or high-fived for a great achievement—not even when I published my book in 1994, not when I graduated from Columbia in 2002, he just wasn’t like that. He’d find a darker well to dip his hand into, one in which I hadn’t yet made ends meet, and scold me for it.

If we got lost, it was I who hadn’t told him the right way. If the driver who was meant to be there at the airport had taken off without us, it was I who had made us late, and it was definitely I who was going to pay for the cab. If I fell behind because I was carrying both his suitcase as well as mine, it was I who was slowing us down. It was I who had that face on her, the one that spoiled everything. It was I who was no fun when I wanted to drink no more and go home. It was all my fault, always. He walked ahead always and only stopped to wait for me if his shoe needed tying. Then he’d stand there, put his foot forward and point to his shoe. And I’d go down, kneel on the pavement and tie his shoe. Then he turned away and walked on, the whole thing without a single word being spoken.

I can think of a curse word or two when I dive into these memories. The constant verbal abuse–and the occasional physical abuse–have burnt a hole in my heart.

[...]“

————————————————————-end of excerpt

And now the WordShuffle I promised:

white, lace, dress

No, it wasn’t you,

it was he who shot me:

I was five or six or seven–

my hair was very long.

My dress, white lace, was blowing

in the summer breeze,

swirling like with song.

I walked into the kitchen and found my mom

beheaded

and stayed, too cold to freeze.

When I found my breath again I screamed

and ran

out into the backyard, on that

little path, you know? I was fair and wan

I turned back to look at him

and he stood there with his gun

Clungk, it went and something stirred

Deep inside my stomach.

I looked down and saw

how my dress was going

red,

a little circle, red. Then a big one, red. Then the whole thing

Red!

The cobble stones came closer: I yielded, melted.

And by the time I hit the ground, I was

Dead                                                                                            .

———————————————————

Anybody still here and up for some music? to leave you wholesomely perturbed: Charles Ives, The Unanswered Question.

.

Thanks for being here and reading and listening.

(Like that’s gonna make you teenagers click away from it!)

I’m going to give it away: yesterday’s WordShuffle was (vaguely) inspired by the following (boring) video: White Stripes, Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself.

.

Boring. Shallow, I know. But it’s part of the instructions of the exercise I am doing, to poll dance. No! To write everyting down that comes to my mind! That’s what it says in the book. And I take instructions well. (What can I do? It is what it is. The only thing I can do is ‘not do it’. And something tells me there will be people who would much prefer that. But now that I am starting to warm up to it, please don’t sink my boat.)

[comment edited in December 10th: the user since removed the music video from youtube and I am glad they did. Because it was actually worse than boring. It was awful]

Today’s WordShuffle is about a photograph of a fruit basket.

Picture Time!

traveling with a macro lens

along her iphs

a tender Y and my finger

on the shutter

release: the beauty

of her

ripe plums, against the background of

wet beaches in a

basket full of juicy tibberness

my eyes like tiny slits as I

take the picture

First, here are some songs I like:

Iggy Pop, The Passenger, with a great video to go along with it:

And a favorite: Iggy Pop, I Wanna Be Your Dog – you didn’t think that about me, did you!?

I also like the Pixies, Where Is My Mind (and like the video someone made for it)

And I’ll let you off easy with Beirut: Nantes, which (by the end of the song) always has me strutting through the room with my back arched, arms high up in the air and swinging my hips around. Feels so good!

.

Since I have a problem with poems, I just won’t write poems. That’s it. Chapter closed. I will, however, attempt to craft little WordShuffles™.  Ahaa! I think that might work better for me. If you have time, here is a rough draft of a small WordShuffle™ as a side note for you.

I should have been a –  

smooth metal, draggit,

sliiide (She’s alright but

I am better) down turn shoulder’s

last Lilly

of the valley

I flap my wings and I can’t

feel

my lips open

with her palms she parts

the pink curtain

don’t look, don’t

look this way

gosh I like her

wits

my thighs tight [rope

rips] I should have been a –

you know, there is this option on my wordpress blog dashboard, at the bottom of the Tools menu, that allows me to “delete site”. the truth about how i feel about this blog, and my writing and my thoughts in general (truly deeply) always takes me in circles back to that button. i hover over it. i stare at it until it starts glittering like a mirage, the blistering heat over an Arizona road, and one day i’ll click it. today –oh today! i am SO close.

low self-esteem (or lack of talent, HAH) paired with constant, ear-ringing, nagging depression and the struggle against feeling like this … worthless, useless, meaningless shit waste of fucking time is my personal poison. Poison, in my soul, in my mind, acid that burns my thoughts from all sides. it leaves me in the hollowness of my dark mind a raging beast, gagged, my hands tied to my feet behind my back and i can’t come free. the tears roll, i’m drenched in the sweat of this nightmare, my nostrils and eyes are ripped open wide with the rage over this fucking despair. and there is nothing i can do. it’s been so long, so long, that i think i will never come free.

————————————-

Keith Jarrett: The Köln Concert: Part II C (1975)   …this makes me love life so very very much!

have a beautiful Sunday

It’s called The Chowhound

Junk food, and my dog is pissed:

the fry for him is safely kept

within the confines of my fist.

He’s licked my hand

he’s licked my face

he licked my feet

and licked the sand—

‘over THERE’ I shout, ‘you hog!

Don’t be a gulo, be a dog!’

Urin dribbles, oops he’s mad!

I shout ‘LIE DOWN!’ he’s deaf

and blind—things are really getting bad.

But he’s my friend

I say ‘GOOD LAD!’

And in the end

I’m merely glad

that he did not pee

on me                                                                                                           .

——————

oh I loved you, bubby… Shall we have a music pick of the day? Yeah, let’s. Hound Dog, by Elvis Presley. My favorite part of this video is the girl clapping at 1min15 and again at 1min33. That woudda been me!

have a great day!

my 2012 mini road map for more Love, Peace and Gratitude

On a very regular basis:

1. Tell Leo that I love him
2. Tell David that I love him and that he is my best friend
3. Tell Nonna, Rosie and Gillian that I love them
4. Tell the boys, our nephews Luca, Gino, Franco, Paolo and Sean that I love them
5. Tell all my relatives that I love them
6. Tell my friends how very much I love them
7. Thank my psychiatrist and tell her that she is amazing; she always knows when to pull, gently nudge or adamantly push; also thank my psychologist for her empathy & compassion
8. Thank all of you for hanging out with me, even when I’m no fun to be with, for being there and having fun, for telling jokes and playing cards and board games, for laughing, for helping me to carry on, for telling me about your favorite books and movies
9. Remind myself, like, every day: the world is a beautiful place, every second in it precious, our time in it limited.
10. Say Thank you: I am so deeply grateful for all the love and warmth and friendship in my life and I feel so lucky to share with you this moment. I’ve been so scared recently and come back to you more humble, very humble, humbled; and more astute; probably a little tougher and definitely a lot softer.
11. Say Thank you:    for music, kindness, blankets, rainbows, and clean air;   thanks for hospitals, health and happiness, the New Scientist Magazine, stars, the sun, oceans and trees;   thanks for cell phones and computers that help people communicate when they can only move one finger;   for love in abundance that my family gives me;   thanks for being able to feel with you every step of the way if you lost someone you loved or are sick or suffering—I hear you.   Thanks for having a roof over my head and for being here today in this beautiful place and for being able to hug a homeless person when they usually only get touched to be told to move on.   Thanks for online help forums and for anyone listening and for meals-on-wheels;    thanks for my wonderful family, for Love, children’s books and digital cameras;    thanks for having been allowed to be so close with my mom who was marvelous and good-hearted, who asked the cleaning lady and the Hoover man to sit with us for breakfast and made us hand toys we didn’t use over to children who had no toys: we’d go to their dark rooms in dripping wet, molding attics in parts of town we’d never been to and hand over what we didn’t use.   She was fearless of the eastside and of people with chronic bronchitis and she touched so many lives and she cared for the elderly and the weak and her cup was always full.  Mama, I learned so much from you.   Thanks to all of you who saw me through tough times and taught me about selfless sharing.   And for my little boy holding his teddy in his sleep (I’ll be there when you wake up in the morning);   for having come so far and for my lovely home and for central heating and spring, summer, autumn and winter and for understanding and for good times and being together—that’s all that matters—and for enough bedding, towels and hot showers for thirteen people at Christmas and for everybody carrying on as normal when I asked them to;    thanks for being a woman and being allowed to speak out and wear dresses;   for running water and for a break;    for the Dinosaur Train and Fireman Sam;   bread and whole milk and democratic elections;    thanks for dreams and sleep and waking up;   for antibiotics, antidepressants, healthcare for everybody and affordable medication;    for Marsha Linehan, nice nurses, doctors who care and all people who care and for peace, famine early warning systems and a cure for AIDS, Malaria and cancer;    thanks for every day without pain, for clean and safe homeless shelters that don’t have a quota and for someone who helps fill out the papers and for getting up for a pregnant woman on the bus;   for sharing and caring;   for making a difference;    for affordable rice, a ban on short selling, the food on our table and for a day without drugs;    thanks for Alcoholics Anonymous, social workers, for saving a life and making a day and for the strength to sit with someone in their last hour so that they don’t have to go it alone.    Thanks for Hope.    Thanks for Love.    Thanks for chocolate not tied to child labor and for altruism informed by science and parents who love and take good care of their children (I’m trying, I’m trying) and …, you know, for everything.

so yeah, i won’t be writing much these days. i have a mountain of things to do. and Leo hasn’t been at nursery school; he’s home with me. he was in the hospital for five days and then home this week and next. and when he goes back to nursery school i’ll have to catch up on homework for my writing course. i also need to start packing for our move that’s getting nerve-wreckingly close and david is at work, so i have to pack little by little whenever i get an hour. i just can’t get anything done with Leo clowning around in the house in an endless search for games to play (and preferably not alone). as i am writing this, he is calling for me incessantly from upstairs. he wants to see his friends but he’s still contagious, and he isn’t supposed to go outside, so it’s all been a bit upsetting for him.

he’s been such a good soldier though! what an unbelievably good kid! always friendly and sweet with everybody and smiling and stretching his arm out for the next drip to be hooked up when he was in hospital last week–really moved me! it was painful to see him suffer. and it touched me deeply to find that he trusts us blindly. brought out my inner compassionate-lioness-mom instincts and helped me rise to the challenge (two weeks of solid sleep deprivation, lots of vomiting, coughing the days and nights away, lots of meds for my little guy, and inCREDibly high fevers……..maaan)

anyway, he’s much better now. we did take him outside for a little while today because the weather was so beautiful; we wrapped him in eight layers of clothes and  scarves around the face and two hats…: it’s -10 degrees celsius here. i went ice-skating on a side-arm of the danube, daddy and Leo watched from the shore. felt so good to get out!!! i hadn’t been outside since we came back from the hospital last week; just to bring the mail in and take the trash out. i’m not bothered though; i’m too tired to do anything anyway.

calling for mommy has turned into full-blown hysteria one floor up from where i am, so i better go. i’ll talk to you soon. be well. drop me a line sometime

Ok, let’s go.

—————————————————————————————-

Diamond-studded kittens

The door creeks as I open it just enough for us to slip through. A bike with one wheel is leaning against the brick wall. Spider webs run from the broken chain up to the saddle. Musty and still, the stale air in this part of the hallway receives us. My heels click on the uneven stone floor. You follow me up the art nouveau staircase. The rusting banister with its fragile swirls and shapes is barely hanging on to the crumbling walls, a beauty at one time, long ago. Broken colored glass panes have been replaced with clear ones over the years and occasionally offer a brief view out onto an empty courtyard. This is where trucks, and before them carriages, used to unload their coal. There is nothing there now, just a small square, a wind pipe that sucks in the winter wind and spits it back out over the shallow tin roof of an empty garage. Across the yard pale windows stare up at the leaden sky like a blind woman’s eyes, hollow, aimless. No one has lived here in a long time.

Graffiti runs up the walls to the second floor. It runs so close to the ground, its creator must have sat and slowly crept up the stairs to spray it. A door is swinging back and forth in the cold draft. I look over my shoulder and see your breath curdling in front of your mouth, a little damp cloud from beneath your scarf. You take my hand. The warmth of it goes through me like through electric wire. Swiftly it takes hold of me, I smile. You laugh, like a boy. We are almost running now. Hand in hand we reach the top floor. With blue, frozen fingers I turn the key to a wooden door from which the cracked paint drizzles as I push it open with my boot. A dark hallway lies before us. The lights don’t work. There is running water but it’s cold. The echo of a dripping tap from the kitchen to the left of the hallway. The door shuts behind you with a scream and we fall against it in a crowded embrace of shuffling arms and legs in search of shoulders and hips to hold on to; my hand finds your hot, damp neck, heat flushes my face and our lips meet. Your tongue searches my mouth; I close my eyes and moan. You are in my mouth like fire while your arms hold me like a shaking leaf in your embrace. Your hand runs down the small of my neck, buttons come undone, I moan, your hand makes its way to find me wet and waiting, yearning for your touch.

‘Come,’ I beg, ‘here. Come!’ The bed, our bed: a makeshift mattress placed on top of plastic crates, those that large water bottles are in, the ones you find behind supermarkets. On the grey wall above it is a white square where a picture used to hang.

I can feel you hard, pressing against my thigh. A feeling takes hold of me that halves my heart: the steady hum of loyal friendship in one half, and a callous, reckless urge, the selfish, irresistible passion for my lover in the hidden other. Swift, rapid little breaths, I hold you close before I come and then collapse, a leaf, a washcloth in your hands—complete surrender. I feel you shake, you come like thunder. You groan, just once, as if you were lifting a heavy box onto a truck, almost despairing. You let your forehead sink onto my forehead; your eyes are closed, your open mouth draws hard breaths, a drop of sweat falls from your temple. We stay like this in our clinging embrace. I close my eyes to the image of dancing swirls and spirals in the falling banister: it falls and falls into the depths of me and disappears.

You slowly slide down on the mattress next to me and leave me staring at the ceiling. I can see your face in the corner of my eye. You put a strain of hair back behind my ear and follow my hairline with your fingertips, a touch so tender that it floats into my heart on silken wings. Your eyes follow the gentle caress as if to draw an outline. I open my lips; I want to whisper something but I don’t have words and cannot find my voice. I want to tell you that I feel…you seal my mouth with kisses…complete. I love your musky smell, your rugby arms and legs. I love the way your skin feels on my skin, the way you look at me. I love the way you rise and stand so tall with your broad shoulders. I love the way you never open your shoes before you put them on and the way dark colors look so good on you. I love the way you smoke, leaning against the window frame, looking down to the street as if you were waiting for someone, and the way you put your cigarette out on the window sill in that careless manner of yours. I love everything about you. Minutes follow that are like hours but I want them to be days and days that fall into each other, multiplying, moving time aside for the precious place that we call ours. You look at me, caress my face and smile with something of frustration, or an imprint of despair—I cannot make it out.

And then you’re gone.

The door screeches and slams shut behind you. There is no way to close it quietly: it has swelled with humidity and cracked and you need to pull it hard across the wooden floor where it has left a semi-circle of a scratch mark. That avalanche of feelings overruns me, every time the same. I sit up and lean against the wall. The taste of you lingers in my mouth: caramel and salt. But your warmth is gone. My lips slowly turn as cold as the room. The shadows of the winter afternoon close in around me, a shade of grey, then a darker shade of grey and darker yet. The stale, humid air muffles the sounds that come up from the road, passing cars rumbling over the cobble stone, the wheezing of an old motor, a horn, the rumbling is more distant now. Then for a long time nothing.

And here they come: the tears. Dark and heavy they are rolling down my face. I sob. There is no consolation. The pain, the choking, bitter anguish. I rise and shuffle over to the bathroom. It is completely dark by now. I turn the water on. I don’t know why they haven’t turned the water off. Any day now this building will be bulldozed. I wash our love away with ice-cold water; scrub away your smell, your sweat. There will be nothing left of it, just rubble and memories, and huge hole in the ground. The water is like nails, its cold pierces through and through. I try to imagine the new building that will be here; maybe glass and steel. Everything utterly foreign, telling of nothing but of stories lost. Teeth chattering I get dressed again, wrap my scarf and coat around me with tight knots. I sit back down on our mattress, clutch a pillow, stare. Night falls. The street lights in the road beneath have sprung on, I must go, a look at my watch, must go!

‘Where were you?’ Nick runs towards me as I walk into the hallway but doesn’t need an answer: ‘I tried to call you a hundred times. Everybody is here already. Bunte, Stern, The Morning Post … everybody! The catering guys have no idea where anything is. Marlena has the director talking to the press. Of course they all brought photographers’ he laughs, ‘even though Marlene said strictly no photographers. But we can take one or two pictures and then send them home.’

Nick follows me up the stairs.

‘Vanessa,’ he frowns as he grabs hold of my upper arm. Our eyes meet, ‘tonight is important. It’s everything we want.’ I turn away and walk on. ‘We need this!’

‘I know, I wrote the goddamn script,’ I whistle through my teeth. ‘Just give me a minute. Okay?’ I lift my shoulder to pull away from him and he lets go of my arm. I switch the light on in the bedroom and close the door in Nick’s face. It’s everything we want, echoes in my mind. We are the celebrated symbiosis of rare talents: the producer and the writer, perky, petulant, disheveled. And absolutely brilliant.

I stare into the night. You are standing by the window of our hideout. The red glow of your cigarette in the dark. Smoke is marbling through it in a slow dance. I can just make out your eyes and furrowed brow in the receding light.

‘Tonight is the last one before we leave.’ Nick whispers through the bedroom door, ‘I promise.’ I imagine his lips brushing against the door—seduction trickles through me: the last reviews were good, amazing. Nick pulled it all together. We had thirty million euros just to make the pilot. I am nothing without Nick. Our life is in this. Everything.

My hair is perfect. I worked years for this, I earned it.

My head spins.

I open the door and Nick takes my hand. He holds it firmly as he leads me down the stairs and into the brightly lit living-room. They moved aside the grand piano and the canvas with the giant nude is gone, transforming the white wall that it was on into a movie screen. I hear Anna laughing crystal bells. I smile. Just best friends tonight, that’s how Marlena sold it. I scan the room, a handful of familiar faces. Press kits disguised as Thank You notes complete with Nestle and Raiffeisen logos are being passed around.

‘Aaaah’ the director’s arms fly open as he comes towards us. Eyes turn our way.

‘Vanessa!’ and another person uttering ‘aaah!’ Kisskiss, a flashlight, click, Vanessa and John, smile, Vanessa, Nick and John, click.

‘Congratulations.’

A musical murmur from within the crowd: ‘Yes, congratulations!’

‘Can we have one just Nick, Vanessa, Anna?’ Anna, clutching her teddy—I don’t like this, click. When Marlena sees me grimace she takes Anna’s hand, my little poppet, nudging her through the photographers and taking her away. I told her, no pictures of Anna. And who put on that fucking flimsy dress? Nick saw it and said nothing. Adrenaline, something spiky floods my gut—rage! Nick squeezes my hand, rage, over how they’re using her. I squeeze right back. Why was I not here? It stabs me in the diaphragm how I let her down tonight.

‘You look gorgeous.’

‘They are the perfect team.’

‘Did the Berlinale change your daily lives?’ Of course it did.

‘No, not at all!’ Nick says, ‘most of all we want Anna to grow up normally. That’s the most important thing for us.’ That’s the most important thing for me— ‘we have dinner with Anna every night,’ I have dinner with Anna every night, ‘and Friday night is still movie night, when we cozy up on our old sofa and have takeaway pizzas.’ He lets go of my hand and as his arm swings past in a broad gesture I catch a glimpse of his cufflinks from the corner of my eye: diamond-studded kittens.

‘So, are you ready for New York?’ someone asks from within the group of people. Nick rehearsed our answer:

‘Vanessa, Anna and I are leaving for eight months or so on Friday,’ and the nanny and Marlena and fifty other people. ‘John is on the first plane in the morning. And with the generous help of our friends at Nestle and Raiffeisen’ a wave of the hand and the sponsors rush over, ‘we’ll start shooting as soon as Tuesday.’ Tuesday? Aahs again, raised eyebrows. Vanessa, Nick, Georgiana, Mike, clickclick, Georgiana, Mike, Vanessa, ‘this way,’ click.

Then, just for a moment, a thick veil wraps itself around me and drowns out the voices, leaving me in perfect silence.

I swim against a tide of people on a staircase. A revolving door drags against the floor in slow motion. I fly into your arms. You say ‘it’s cold, come here my love’ and put your coat and arms around me. You hold me there, so fast and close to you, it makes me chuckle. You just stand there and stab me with your eyes. How can you be so sure? ‘You know I miss you always’ you whisper, as if you saw what I was thinking. How, for heaven’s sake, I will peel you out of me without taking my heart apart, I do not know. I can’t, I can, I can’t let go of this. I guess I won’t. I will.

‘…Vanessa?’

‘Let’s toast!’ I’m slowly getting with the program.

‘Let’s start the pilot.’

‘Excellent idea.’ Nick hands me a glass of champagne and nods: well done. Marlena squirrels past and escorts out photographers:

‘do you have what you need?’ She has linked arms with two of them, their voices fleeting, drowned out by ever growing noise as she walks them down the hall.

‘Did you read the article in Bild last week?’

Someone says ‘a RIOT!’

‘Vanessa, how ARE you?’ Someone hands me flowers. My face is radiating smiles. Do I know this woman? I clear my throat and tilt my head just so: ‘Oh, we are doing great’ I shout over the voices, ‘ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS.’

—————————————————————————————

———————————————————————————END

Commentary on the creative process that I wrote as part of the class assignment

Of our readings, the ones in the Show / Tell section of our textbook were most influential in my creative process. The Showing piece, ‘I could see the smallest things’ by Carver (1985) intrigued me: he explores his environment with poignant, almost tender perspicacity. Our Show versus Tell tutorial made me revisit the way I approach language and veer from journalistic writing: as a journalist, I was drilled to avoid to tell; and to show without adjectives (Schneider 1992, p.37). I now learned to distinguish between Showing and Telling in fiction, which is a different ballgame. I have become better at identifying and then using the two methods to my benefit in my own writing. It turned out that the cognizant use of Telling, especially in the latter half of my story, enhanced the very thing I needed it to do: speed up! There are adjectives. But the mix of Showing and Telling helped me send Vanessa’s emotional integrity slipping down an icy incline.

Unfortunately, I lost sight of our readings in November. They got drowned out by large amounts of valium, antidepressants and antipsychotics for a month or two. The greatest hurdle in this assignment was to find my footing again after interrupting the daily writing exercises due to my illness. I learned from the stark imbalance of writing and then not writing how important it is to write daily, write up against odds and even the lack of any inspiration whatsoever.

Over time, I have excessively rewritten and edited the story, part two in particular. At one point I had amassed 7,000 words, most of it useless overhang. Then I cut that to 1,000, only to change it completely. The fine-tuning of the first half took about fifty rereads until my E-meter audits came back anechoic. I don’t know if that’s thorough or just quirky and (incredibly) irksome. There are things I hear or read or see with a need for repetition that borders on obsession. Diving deeply into the chapters on editing in our workbook (Anderson 2006, p.359ff) was a no-brainer. Am I happy with the result of editing ad nauseam? Never. I’d probably bin and rewrite the piece if I didn’t have to meet deadlines.

But in spite of the fact that I am a follower of the religion of editing, I find that our textbook doesn’t do it justice. Editing is a subjective method of approaching a text. No two editors are ever the same. I read with knee-jerk resentment that only work edited in a certain way could be good work, that ‘writing really doesn’t start out “good”; it only becomes it’ (Anderson 2006, p.360). No surprise then that our textbook makes no mention of writers like Kerouac, Burroughs or Ginsberg—writers of groundbreaking but sometimes sparsely edited work. Just because the western world uniformly edits, and I tend to edit until I regurgitate, doesn’t mean that’s better for the outcome. On the Road: The Original Scroll (Kerouac 2007) was published largely unedited. Is that not a good book? Who says? Scribbling, scrolling scruffiness has its place in literature.

References

Carver, R. (2006) in Linda Anderson (ed.) Creative Writing: A workbook with readings, Milton Keynes/Abingdon: The Open University in association with Routledge.

Anderson, Linda (ed.) Creative Writing: A workbook with readings, Milton Keynes/Abingdon: The Open University in association with Routledge.

Kerouac, John (2007). On the Road: The Original Scroll, New York: Viking Penguin.

Schneider, Wolf (1992 [1985]). Deutsch für Profis: Wege zu gutem Stil, Hamburg: Goldmann.

Saint Lu, Here I Stand

also check out this girl’s website: http://www.saintlu.com/videos/here-i-stand . let’s hope she goes on with the same kind of awesomeness as in this song!

have a super nice weekend. travel with God.

read the running thriver’s blog for more on how to become a tough mudder.  you rock, my friend! I am going to catch up with you. in my next life hehehe

check out this live recording of Paolo Nutini singing I’d Rather Go Blind

and one more! Paolo Nutini singing Buona Sera

just that today.

the world feels beautiful.

Her music has been important for me, I love it, and I am so sad to hear the news. Let’s remember her music, let it touch your heart:

Sodade:

Petit Pays:

Angola, at the Grammy Awards for best Contemporary World Music in 2003:

Mar Azul:

.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

[a poem by e.e. cummings]