Illustration by Lena Kulla

On the Ease of Moving (#CarpoolKaraoke)

Moving is soothing. On the plane, the train, in the car, by foot, I’m paradoxically slowing down. I slow my stream of thought. I dam it in the proper places. I see! I see what’s always been there and I hold it – a full sentence! I hold it until it streams confidently down my mouth.

The effect is striking! Moving – watching the country, the city, others, me move – is the bliss point of distraction. It allows one to listen, to think, while being so engaged that most ego-driven, excessively self-critical filters are off. Moving brings out people’s purity. It makes one likeable. It makes me like myself. It naturally causes authenticity.

Dear James Corden, perhaps, you should offer Mrs. Clinton your next ride.

Illustration by Lena Kulla

On Censorship (#WPFD2016)

The term “freedom of press” is often flanked by signal words of equal importance. Whenever its letters appear in bold, the words “democracy” and “human rights” trace their lines for support. But why? Why are they ultimately linked?

Democracies assume a free electoral system. They uphold people’s freedom of choice. Censorship manipulates that choice. It manipulates people’s decisions. To omit, to alter and to forbid information ploughs our factual grounds. It creates a limited truth, on the basis of which one may lovingly support a cause s/he indeed abhors.

This scares me. The thought of being denied to knowingly decide scares me in my human right.

Illustration by Lena Kulla

 

On Strike (#JuniorDoctorsStrike #Lufthansa)

If Twitter was a person – an embodiment representing the average of all twittery trends – it would be one hell of a choleric. Today’s tantrum: “How dare people go on strike?”

I get it. Strikes are annoying. They are for me, too. But that is the point. Strikes are supposed to annoy, or else they fail to make their point in the first place.

The subject doesn’t matter. The subject most of us cannot debate. What matters is to debate at all.

Consider the alternative. Consider that there is none. Your negotiations have failed. Your threats have proven to be feckless. What to do you do?

For a strike to work, it needs many frustrated people or many people sympathising with a frustrated person. You may not have been discriminated as part of a group. But you know the feeling of being treated unfairly. It’s nagging. It frustrates. Too often, we are alone, helpless against the cause.

Now, you don’t need to empathise with every cause. But you should try to remember the feeling that’s moving others to cause annoyances to your day.

Illustration by Lena Herrmann

 

On the UK (#HappyBirthdayYourMajesty)

Vodka-filled blood bags taped to suit jackets, women in less-is-naked dresses and hats. Countless feathery hats. That’s Twitter today. That’s the English celebrating their Queen’s birthday.

Being German and with that inherently hesitant to take pride in my country, I have always envied the sense of community and tradition the UK conveys. As a child, I ached to wear a uniform. I even collected signatures for their intro-

duction at school. I wanted to be part – not just of a family and a group of friends. I wanted to be belong to something bigger, something like a kingdom, 

a queen.

Although today’s Twitter pictures don’t resemble the clichés I dreamily viewed in my school books, I still get it. I still want to join in. Hand me the scissors. I’m shortening my favourite dress now.

Illustration by Lena Kulla

On Traveling (#TravelTuesday)

Each one of us connects the word “traveling” to a different memory, a different feeling. For me, it’s working at camp. It’s muddy-green Pennsylvania. It’s driving in that blue, rusty van. No air conditioning. No particular destination. Just the mal, sweaty legs sticking to the seat and warmth.

That summer, that bubble floating in-between two lives, is somehow blurring my other travels. It’s what pops up and stays until it stops to cover as it bursts.

Illustration by Lena Kulla

 

On the End of the Show

That's it. It's a wrap! Ms Misterman's Off-Off-Off... Off-Off-Bronlineway show is over. No more whims and whines! No more grudges and grumbles! I'm going off stage. I'm going to meet my graduation critics behind the scenes. Thank you all for applauding, booing and snoozing with me. It was stressful and strange. But it was also fun. I'm contentedly closing the curtains. See you in another season!

Illustration by Lena Kulla

 

On Choosing A Career

I loathe decisions, because I loathe the idea of me choosing foolishness over prudence. But what is what? I think I am torn between what I think I want and what I think I need. But are wants automatically foolish? Are needs always prudent? Maybe.

Maybe the answer is not important. Maybe it is enough to know that next to nothing is final. Decisions can be evoked. They can be changed. We change. Over and over again. So maybe, we just need to choose in order to start. We choose in order to test. It might only satisfy the moment, but at least we got that want, that need out of the way.

Illustrations by Büke Schwarz

 

On Graduation

A few days back, I wrote about a deadline, about how its corresponding fear both speeds me up and slows me down. That deadline, that random changes of gear, will dominate my ride for another four weeks. Then, I will arrive. I will hand in my thesis and leave the bumpy comfort of university life behind.

Up to recently, I was excited. I was excited to break free from the tightly woven cocoon that has been surrounding me for the past years. And although, its inside resembles a rule fanatic boarding school, some part of me wants to stay. Some part is craving for detention, for time to avoid the decision of what to do and where to move next. Because soon, everything will somehow be possible again and I have no idea which possibility I want for me.

Illustration by Lena Kulla

 

On Deadlines

A deadline is more than just a line to mark the finish, to mark the end of a race. To me, it's in the track, the team, the audience. The car! It's in potholes and grip, in sabotage and support, in cheers and boos. It's in my engine and my brakes. The deadline is in all influences on my performance.

Whether it is dirty potholes, sabotage, boos and brakes or an excellent engine, cheers, support and grip, the material, the motivation, the voices and the fuel are made of the same. They are made of fear. It's fear that works the tracks, chooses the team and whispers to the crowd. It's fear that fuels my engine and my brakes. And it's fear that influences my performance. Deadlines come with fear.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On This

Sometimes, this, cutting thoughts into clear written pieces, is like exposing an organ to grab it and dash it on paper. It's a martial act, a fight for and against every word I put down. It's bloody. It's bloody annoying. I am annoyed at hitting the letters on my keyboard just to press delete soon after.

This, it constricts me. The freedom allowed in writing constricts me. And yet, I'm urged to open a new page. I eagerly stray into the vast wonderland, where anything, LITERALLY anything goes. Of course, there are signposts to spelling, punctuation and grammar. And yes, there is vocabulary, collocations and style. But most routes are subjective. Directions vary. In the end, the number of words and ways to arrange them remains. Freedom remains.

So, I do what I do. I do what it takes to numb a fickle perfectionist’s pain: I press delete until the page is empty. And after awhile of starring, of hoping for a gracious mood, I resign over the endless opportunities ahead.

On the Special Ones

Now and then, we happen to witness the Special Ones. We watch them from a distance. We watch them, although we would like to get close, really close. But we don't. We stay away. That way, they will always be that. They will always be special.

He felt it the moment they met. He didn't need to hear the voice, hear what it was about to sound. He knew. He always did. Because the people he admires, the ones he calls the Special Ones, are the people who are the loudest alive. They are the closest to uncertainty. And that is where he wanted to be.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

On Emotional Writings

I dislike emotional writings. That is, my emotional writings. And yet, it's what I do. It's what fills my blog, my entries, this line. My words, they stretch for emotions, because they're easy to entwine. It's easy to whine.

Easy. That's the reputation we uphold. We spread and learn and spread that emotions are a threat. That emotions are for savages, for those who lack the mind to enforce control. Out of fear of the primitive, we leave the wild and hide in the cities.

Surrounded by ever-growing buildings splitting the air, we are thankful for the confined space to think. We embrace the narrow rooms to feel. And while I don't hide, I am scared enough to know that I should dislike what I do.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Being Alone in His Home

It's odd. Being alone in his home is odd. It's the closest he can be without seeing me. Instead I see him. The place is brimming. It's brimming with him. It's photographs, books and a countless kept things. Each detail so confident, so sweet, so effortlessly placed on its on feet.

All the things in this home possess their own wandering spot. They belong. They have for years. But the question is: to whom? I touch this. I touch that. But who is touching me back? Is it him? Is it her? I cannot help feeling a pinch.

Of course, this place has a past. And of course, the memory lasts. I have places and memories, too. But none that I loved, let alone for years. I want to feel at ease. And I want make peace, peace with his home, with the place nearest to the past of his heart. So, I accept and concentrate on the books. The books! He is in the books.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Büke Schwarz

I cannot claim to know her well, not yet, but that's what I know: Büke is an artist, a real artist. She is an artist that makes art, tangible art. She is tangibly real. Yet she is not just alive. She is lively, yes. But Büke is more. Büke is industrious, committed and true. She is everything I expect an artist to be. And yet she it not. She is nothing like the perpetual Berlinian dreamer. She is not hoping for some day. For Büke, all days are some day.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Trusted Inspiration

The things that inspire me, the ones that work, that I return to when the page wrestles for blankness, are things that promise comfort. And comfort, for me, are stories.

Stories flatter. It's beautiful. It's beautifully biased realities that offer comfort, that fuel me. Other people's dream machines fuel me. The noise, the sound of them huffing and puffing, sings my ego to sleep. So, I can take the leap. It's theft. I am a legal thief. I steal comfort to create blissful illusions of my own.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Being Irresponsible

It's been a day of irresponsible decisions. Decisions that deride my goals. I know my law. And yet I thought I could afford to forget. Today, I have been my defiance's pet. I ignored the tools and parenthesized my rules.

Again and again, I revolt against my own benefit, against what's best. To prove what? That I can? That objectives are no ban? Every time, I compete against me, I lose. That is, one part, the other wins. It is the moment versus the future.

I want balance between both, but the scale feels broken. Today, the moment weighs a ton. It seems I nailed its weighing pan to the ground, while my future dangles pettily in the air. And I doubt it's a pleasant view up there.

Of course, I'm being dramatic. But perhaps, that's not so bad. Perhaps, I exaggerate to see. I exaggerate to find the tools and to underline the rules. I use it. I use it to recall my decisions' infinite tie. It's drama! Perhaps, it's drama that bends my scale back into shape.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Remembering Who I Am

Whenever things get busy, I cannot keep up with myself. Caught in a brainless frenzy, I run. I run without knowing. Then I do, hear or see something that reminds me of me. And I stop. I realize that I am exhausted, that I am stressed, that I have been acting to make a better fit. And again, I am questioning my grit.

People have expectations. They play roles. People must conform to control. Deviating from the norm, is reserved for the foolishly free, for the long-sheltered brave. Unfortunately, I have learned to behave. My words obey. And what's worse: they rhyme. I cannot stop. I have no choice but to cover my ears and to close my eyes. So, I run.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Big Ideas

For me, dreaming up big ideas progresses like a story. In a short amount of time, I experience a five-act inner play. First, there is incitement. Then there is excitement, that soon turns into frightment. Frightment is my climax, my crossroad, my moment to decide whether to fight or flight. Usually, I resolute to run. Dreaming is easy. Dreaming is fun.

Some ideas are more stubborn than others. They keep driving me back. They force me to make the same painfully sweet climb over and over again: I rise, I hesitate, I run. It's frustration, not fun. It's a solitary dare with the objective to put my passion to the test. It is self-destruction at its best.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

  
On Being Hungover

I like being drunk. I dislike being hungover. Nonetheless, I know that my now would have no chance fighting my yesterday. So, I deal. I feel the throb between my brows. I feel the pressure of the sun light on my eyes. I feel the need to never do it again, to have not ten, but one. One pint of beer, instead of this body's jeer.

I'm not a drunkard. No, I'm not. I'm bad at moderation. Hell, I am. There is no balance. There is no restraint. Will I ever be the type of person who bribes her liver with an extra bottle of water? The one that knows that there are many more evenings to come. The one that stops, that is ready to let go. Do I want to be her?

I have been found by someone whose presence cheesily reminds me of tomorrow, of what is yet to come. So, the alleged final round is no longer final. It's no longer the last chance to buy. It's a decision made by two who had ten. And that is soothing.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Procrastination

I procrastinate. A lot. I sit and wait for the perfect moment to come. But it never does. It is never just right. It's a tease, a nasty promise disguised as cheers of encouragement.

He, the moment, keeps telling me to complete that one last assignment, to remove what's separating us from the beginning of my goal. But he never tells me to write. Does that mean I shouldn't? That I am not suited? Either way, I – very much like the moment - feel like a fraud. Because I always want, but never do.

Of course, it is easy to blame the untouchable rather than my lack of grit. But blaming the moment is the only way to beat him. Today, I know that he is wrong, that he is a tease, a nagging shithead. But what about tomorrow?

Illustrations by Büke Schwarz

On The Media Jungle

Working, as I sometimes do, in what people rightfully refer to as the media jungle, networking is every Tarzan's and Jane's best chance of survival. It is a necessary yet common tool that all survivors know how to use. That is all, but me.

As I am humanly prone to other people's validation, I admit this circumstance with great dislike. This is not to say that my ego is hungry as a hunter. No. Despite occasional appearances, this Jane's confidence is not obese. She is not shy either. I simply do not know how to work those flints. The consequence: no sparks.

Nonetheless, I am still here. I am still in the jungle and therefore quite suitable to deal with the subject in a dilettante manner. I have seen a number of people fall. People unable to climb the tree or to swing from one liana to the other. Hence, I feel obliged to share my observations with those eager to paint themselves a well-functioning, unnaturally pleasant mask to blend in with the natives.

So, here is a part-time survivor's advice on living in the jungle:

#1: Don't be fooled by the rare birds who get by with little jokes and a cheeky smile. As inviting it may be to avoid working, rough attempts to imitate the twittering are likely to end in jungled silence.

#2: In case you absolutely cannot score with good old hard work, be sure to run down everyone around you. Do not worry, there is always something to decry. And if not, be creative.

#3: All you Tarzans who just entered the thicket, start serving the God of Chauvinism now! I am aware that many of you happen to be in the unfortunate position of respecting women, but the sole act of hunting will not suffice to prove your manhood.

#4: You, Jane, have two promising options to survive. You can either assimilate or behave. You can act like a man or use your feminine charms. Provided you opt for number two, know that the traditional jungle fashion does not go well with time.

#5: Never ever go to your hammock, if all the others are still dancing around the fire. Not even when you are close to exhaustion. This is where the real work begins. If possible, nap during the day.

#6: Don't fall for the open-hearted social intercourse high in the trees. It is all mandatory. Thus, be personal, but never private.

#7: And most importantly, trust the leader. His word is law. If big kahuna passes you his pipe, smoke it. If he asks you tell on your friends, do it. Your uncertified moral code has no business in the jungle.

Illustration by Büke Schwarz

 

On Writing

For me, writing is no escape. No. It's the opposite. It's the closest I get to the moment, the closest I get to myself. It's a means of reflection, a feeling that grows into fragile judgement.

On this blog, my panicky public blog, I will do exactly that. I will write. I will write about whatever mutes my mental clutter long enough to make an impression.