Parallel

The fantasy's come true. A professor of mine actually read part of the Bible in ancient Greek, to show that audiology works better in Greek than German. Duh (I imagine that you'd agree with me: pretty much anything would sound better in other European languages than German.) There are some who seem to attract the strangest energy, after being struck by the feeling of "all the sudden, nothing makes sense anymore", occasions happening around me seem to be running parallel to each other: family drama while attending a lecture "King Lear", my Tuesday seminar professor happened to mention an article I should give a presentation on Monday; personal tragedy served to explain her course of philosophy. If time is qualitative and conscious, does it mean that the times goes not well when I am unconscious, but what about the moments I spend just starring at the ceiling?...

....Someone stopped me in the middle of a hallway:"Strike with us! Today at noon." he handed me a flayer: "The strike continues, what would happen in Berlin? The universities in Vienna, Cologne, ... are on strike."

"Are you striking because other people are on the strike?"

"No. Yes. We want better education conditions. We want them to eliminate the tuition."

250 Euros for one semester! With ABC zone transportation included. That is 102 Euros for normal people, per month. You are holding a more than 600 Euro transportation ticket, including all the airports and Potsdam, and the discount for almost everything, why is that a reason to go on a strike? Did you know how much I had to pay in the past 8 years in non-German universities? It is a number you can't start to imagine in your almost academic brain. Plus, you can have as much as Paella on your plat for 80 cents, which is the most convincing argument for me, to stay in this school. Go away and let me stay semi-conscious.

"OK. I have classes. I've got to go." -- I've actually got shit to do, and you guys are striking because others are doing it.

Lady's room is fully occupied around "o'clock"s. Girls are lined up in front of mirrors powdering their nose. (Yes, they are literally powdering their nose). And I saw a classmate of mine-- one of those woman who gives you their presence with a "bang". You are too polite to stare, but you don't know where to look anymore: long ginger hair, large black rimmed glasses, high boots and tie-dye sarong. You begin to imagine her being in a riot for woman's rights in the 60's or 70's; maybe she'd be phenomenal one day, someone who stands out to lead a revolution because you can easily recognize her from her long red hair. But something suddenly distracted your day-dreaming as she took out her organic make-up kit, took off her glasses and powdered her nose, relined her lips and checked her teeth. She was a couple of minutes late for the lecture, but I suppose it was totally worth it for that "bang."

I turned in a note for my boss, saying that up next week, I am not able to work on Saturdays anymore because I have a project to do at the school library from 12 to 19. She squinted at me and ask:"Is it gonna be long?"
"Just for a couple of months, for this semester."
"Put the note in my office," she said, and went on organizing cauliflowers.

Letter to a Tisorrel Fish

Jump in, the water is fine
you heard him say
you plunged in.
The poisoned water turned you into a piranha,
but you were my favorite fish.

The wizard cast a spell on you
but you had a choice,
in that split second
when your logic would have won...
you gave in
for wizard's charm was irresistible.

Without me, my dear Tisorrel fish,
you could have been flushed down the sink,
the reward for saving you from the whirlpool is,
your teeth dug into my skin.

Maybe I should pull the plug
and let you drown;
I don't have to justify myself,
I shouldn't have to justify myself.
My hand are clean,
my conscious is clean,
and I don't belong to the business
between you and the wizard,
nor the war between him and greed.
I have been nothing but a saint,
play fair, Tisorrel
because I don't have to be one.

Note on November

I sat at the cash register and the store was almost empty -- Monday night. I looked at my watch, 4 minutes had gone by since the last night I checked. I should just tape it like Emilia Fox did in the movie "Cash Back". After seeing that film with a friend of mine, we both got a supermarket job a few weeks later. But it seems so long ago now. I scanned through products mechanically, then suddenly someone pointing at a small six-pack funky milk and asked me :" It is healthy right? You are Japanese, this is healthy right?"

"Eh... sorry... what? I am not Japanese." Maybe I didn't meet an artist like Fox did, but there are certainly plenty of materials scattered around.

"Which brand is better for my sweater?"
"I don't know."
"Oh God, you know nothing!" A customer stormed away angrily. Some people can neither take honest answers, nor read.

"I want that frying pan on your special offer list. Can't you go and get it for me?" An old woman threw the ad on the counter. I had the urge to tell her that I was not her butler, and not suppose to leave the cash register. But I left and looked for the drying pan. Just because you are old, you don't have to boss around others. I fancied throwing the pan at her face:" Here is that fucking special frying pan!" But at the same time, I get paid by the hour.

Humid and chilly air appears to be tapping everyone's nerves. Twice had we almost an accident on the bus. An old lady fell as the driver braked abruptly. I was late for school. A professor of mine had a break-down in the middle of class because something triggered her. A passage that we read reminded her the misfortune happened this summer, she almost cancel the class and always felt a ghost following her. Lunch at the Mensa around noon is war. I decided to put 2 kg of risotto on my plate and checked out. A girl sat across from me had a big suitcase under the table, she put both of her hands on her ears, head down. I couldn't see her face. I wondered if she had been waiting for someone, who might eventually stand her up. If she was looking for a quite place to block out the world, Mensa is a bad choice. Maybe the person she had been waiting for was caught up in a series of strange events (Patrick Wilson in "Little Children"?) I had wanted to ask her if everything was alright, but I picked up my tray and headed for the dish washer.

There are more than a docent of leave letters at school, I am hardly ever bothered. I look foreign.

I love to dine near our huge aquarium under candle light. These moments remind me of everything what my distant biological family was and is not. Change is good, breaking a vicious circle is good, a full-of-love-prepared meal is good; life is good.