I have been too busy catching up on Joe's blog to do any updating of my own.
I'm still having fun, still trying to figure out the best way to stay indefinitely, drinking less, and trying to settle down (we still don't have a permanent apartment!).
Jason is here until the end of the week. Julia and Jordan the First are coming to visit tomorrow.
My entire class just returned from a week-long "excursion" to Munich, Vienna, and Bratislava (the capitol city of Slovakia). I put excursion in quotes, because that word makes me think of hacking through jungle vines with a machete, rather than 70 overpriviledged kids getting Fahrkarten and perusing expensive cities at their leisure.
Hannah visited me for a week in Berlin and it was amazing. Then, when I was in Vienna, she came there for a couple of days. Now I miss her more than ever. Really. I don't think I've ever missed her this much before.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Transcription
For some reason, when I sit down in class and draw out my pen to take notes, inspiration comes freely. Here is one such thing that I wrote. I wanted to avoid awkwardness, so I fictionalized all of the incriminating details.
I don't know why he reminds me so much of Daniel. His face isn't similar, and the way they behave is nothing alike. Initially, outwardly, their bodies have the same silhouette. Daniel is taller, but they're both skinny -- in a way that is bony but not sharp -- with wide shoulders. Each shoulder is horizontally level; barely any slope before the arms, hanging down in perfect right angles. His hair is slightly similar to Daniel's, but they both have kind of boring short hair that is not uncommon for boys who don't care. The faces themselves don't look alike, but the way they speak is as if they dual personalities. Both speak with an easygoing gentleness that feels like it lands on you from above instead of directly attacking you face to face. A big difference is that I have only seen him smile maybe once, whereas Daniel's voice reflects his constant half-smile. His voice is very reserved; quiet, but in a way that makes you want to lean closer to hear, not that breaks your interest.
When Daniel spoke to me after a long absence, his voice struck me as so beautiful; far more so in person than on the phone. The way he addressed me was so melodic in a masculine way, so complimentary and safe that I immediately felt at ease. When I first saw his form, backlit, on some corner in Sacramento, I was surprised at how wide his shoulders were, much wider than his hips. Combined with huge muscles, this would look distasteful, but without bulk it's the shape I prefer. I was intimidated to see someone with whom I'd been distantly in love for two years, but after 30 minutes, when we were facing each other in bed, I felt completely at ease. Not that I felt confident, far from it, but the way he looked at me so fondly allowed me to feel his gentle approval, though it didn't seem pompous. He acted expectant towards me, in such a way that it seemed like he knew and approved of every word I said before it reached my tongue. When he kissed me, I realized how large his lips are; we were pretty much a perfect match in that respect. From the angle I could see him, he looked so much like my friend Nick; the way his eyes glowed down at me from their place above his nose. Nick was in love with me when he gave me that look; I think Daniel just loves people in general. The look in his eyes has a way of entering your pupils and extending to the ends of every appendage. He looked at me like a painter appraising a model -- a truly talented artist who loves every square millimeter of paint on his canvas.
I don't know why he reminds me so much of Daniel. His face isn't similar, and the way they behave is nothing alike. Initially, outwardly, their bodies have the same silhouette. Daniel is taller, but they're both skinny -- in a way that is bony but not sharp -- with wide shoulders. Each shoulder is horizontally level; barely any slope before the arms, hanging down in perfect right angles. His hair is slightly similar to Daniel's, but they both have kind of boring short hair that is not uncommon for boys who don't care. The faces themselves don't look alike, but the way they speak is as if they dual personalities. Both speak with an easygoing gentleness that feels like it lands on you from above instead of directly attacking you face to face. A big difference is that I have only seen him smile maybe once, whereas Daniel's voice reflects his constant half-smile. His voice is very reserved; quiet, but in a way that makes you want to lean closer to hear, not that breaks your interest.
When Daniel spoke to me after a long absence, his voice struck me as so beautiful; far more so in person than on the phone. The way he addressed me was so melodic in a masculine way, so complimentary and safe that I immediately felt at ease. When I first saw his form, backlit, on some corner in Sacramento, I was surprised at how wide his shoulders were, much wider than his hips. Combined with huge muscles, this would look distasteful, but without bulk it's the shape I prefer. I was intimidated to see someone with whom I'd been distantly in love for two years, but after 30 minutes, when we were facing each other in bed, I felt completely at ease. Not that I felt confident, far from it, but the way he looked at me so fondly allowed me to feel his gentle approval, though it didn't seem pompous. He acted expectant towards me, in such a way that it seemed like he knew and approved of every word I said before it reached my tongue. When he kissed me, I realized how large his lips are; we were pretty much a perfect match in that respect. From the angle I could see him, he looked so much like my friend Nick; the way his eyes glowed down at me from their place above his nose. Nick was in love with me when he gave me that look; I think Daniel just loves people in general. The look in his eyes has a way of entering your pupils and extending to the ends of every appendage. He looked at me like a painter appraising a model -- a truly talented artist who loves every square millimeter of paint on his canvas.
Muenchen & Wien
Tomorrow I leave with my class for a week-long trip to Munich and Vienna. I am very anxious about spending a week quarantined in a youth hostel with 70 people I'm expected to communicate with. When did I become so antisocial?
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Oh, the horror.
Orientations of any kind bring out the worst in those people who are already unbearably annoying. I consider myself to be a rather social person, that is, I like getting out of the house and meeting people with whom I can have a decent conversation. I'm not pretentious enough to presume that every one will be life-changing, and I enjoy them nonetheless. However, when people (particularly college students) gather into a group for the first time, there are always those girls (and yes, it's only women) who feel the need to go out of their way to make it around the room and personally introduce themselves to EVERYONE. These introductions are alway done at top speed, the girl in question trying to cram as many names into her head in record time.
The thing that irritates me to no end is that usually during these already painful orientation gatherings, you usually have to go around and say your name individually at some point. There is a way to learn everyone's name in a way that is not... I don't think "vicious" is too strong a word. I personally am much more impressed by someone who comes up to me after I've announced my name to a group and begins the conversation with, "Jordan, right?" than someone who makes me repeat my name for a thirtieth time after it was crowded out by all the others she just HAD to learn.
So, yeah. Today was my first day of orientation. Everyone's American, some seem to be annoying, and the second person I met was from Sacramento. It's pretty much exactly the same as when I started at USF, only this time I had to travel 40 minutes to the misery instead of it living with me. That's a rather negative bright side, but I dig it.
I am now drinking tea in my apartment while my roommate paints in the other room, and I still don't have any money. I wish I could burn banks down long-distance.
The thing that irritates me to no end is that usually during these already painful orientation gatherings, you usually have to go around and say your name individually at some point. There is a way to learn everyone's name in a way that is not... I don't think "vicious" is too strong a word. I personally am much more impressed by someone who comes up to me after I've announced my name to a group and begins the conversation with, "Jordan, right?" than someone who makes me repeat my name for a thirtieth time after it was crowded out by all the others she just HAD to learn.
So, yeah. Today was my first day of orientation. Everyone's American, some seem to be annoying, and the second person I met was from Sacramento. It's pretty much exactly the same as when I started at USF, only this time I had to travel 40 minutes to the misery instead of it living with me. That's a rather negative bright side, but I dig it.
I am now drinking tea in my apartment while my roommate paints in the other room, and I still don't have any money. I wish I could burn banks down long-distance.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
And, for the sake of a real update...
... the roommate I had never met finally came home. It turns out, there was a cancellation in her flight, so she really was supposed to be back on the 20th. So ends my isolation.
I am obsessed with this passage
from David Sedaris' story "The Ship Shape" in the book Dress Your Family In Corduroy And Denim. Although I have no specific reason for loving it, I suspect it is beacause this is the kind of over analysis I am prone to, and I am envious of the way Sedaris applies the analysis to other parts of his life (case in point: the last sentence of what I am about to meticulously type out). Here goes:
My mother and I were at the dry cleaner's, standing beside a woman we had never seen. "A nice-looking woman," my mother would later say. "Well put together. Classy." The woman was dressed for the season in a light cotton shift patterned with oversize daisies. Her shoes matched the petals and her purse, which was black-and-yellow-striped, hung over her shouldder, buzzing the flowers like a lazy bumblebee. She handed her claim check, accepted her garments, and then expressed gratitude for what she considered to be fast and efficient service. "You know," she said, "people talk about Raleigh, but it isn't really true, is it?"
The Korean man nodded, the way you do when you're a foreigner and understand that someone has finished a sentence. He wasn't the owner, just a helper who'd stepped in from the back, and it was clear he had no idea what she was saying.
"My sister and I are visiting from out of town," the woman said, a little louder now, and again the man nodded. "I'd love to stay awhile longer and explore, but my home -- well, one of my homes -- is on the garden tour, so I've got to get back to Williamsburg."
I was eleven years old, yet still the statement seemed strange to me. If she'd hoped to impress the Korean, the woman had obviously wasted her breath, so who was this information for?
"My home -- well, one of my homes": by the end of the day my mother and I had repeated this line no less than fifty times. The garden tour was unimportant, but the first part of her sentence brought us great pleasure. There was, as indicated by the dash, a pause between the words home and well, a brief moment in which she'd decided Oh, why not? The following word -- one -- had blown from her mouth as if propelled by a gentle breeze, and this was the difficult part. You had to get it just right, or else the sentence lost its power. Falling somewhere between a self-conscious laugh and a sigh of happy confusion, the one afforded her statement a double meaning. To her peers it meant "Look at me, I catch myself coming and going!" and to the less fortunate it was a way of saying, "Don't kid yourself, it's a lot of work having more than one house."
The first dozen times we tried it, our voices sounded pinched and snobbish, but by midafternoon they had softened. We wanted what this woman had. Mocking her made it seem hopelessly unobtainable, and so we reverted to our natural selves.
"My home -- well, one of my homes..." My mother said it in a rush, as if she were under pressure to be more specific. It was the same way she said, "My daughter -- well, one of my daughters," but a second home was more prestigious than a second daughter, and so it didn't really work. I went in the opposite direction, exaggerating the word one in a way that was guaranteed to alienate my listener.
"Say it like that and people are going to be jealous," my mother said.
"Well, isn't that what we want?"
"Sort of," she said. "But mainly we want them to be happy for us."
(a couple of pages later...)
We went to Emerald Isle for a week every September and we were always oceanfront, a word that suggested a certain degree of entitlement. The oceanfront cottages were on stilts, which made them appear if not large, then at least imposing. Some were painted, some were sided "Cape Cod style" with wooden shingles, and all of them had names, the cleverest being Loafer's Paradise. The owners has cut their sign in the shape of two moccasins resting side by side. The shoes were realistically painted and the letters were bloated and listless, loitering like drunks against the soft faux leather.
"Now that's a sign", our father would say, and we would agree. There was The Skinny Dipper, Pelican's Perch, Lazy Daze, The Scotch Bonnet, Loony Dunes, the name of each house followed by the name and hometown of the owner. "The Duncan Clan - Charlotte," "The Graftons - Rocky Mount," "Hal and Jean Starling of Pinehurst' -- signs that essentially said, "My home -- well, one of my homes."
My mother and I were at the dry cleaner's, standing beside a woman we had never seen. "A nice-looking woman," my mother would later say. "Well put together. Classy." The woman was dressed for the season in a light cotton shift patterned with oversize daisies. Her shoes matched the petals and her purse, which was black-and-yellow-striped, hung over her shouldder, buzzing the flowers like a lazy bumblebee. She handed her claim check, accepted her garments, and then expressed gratitude for what she considered to be fast and efficient service. "You know," she said, "people talk about Raleigh, but it isn't really true, is it?"
The Korean man nodded, the way you do when you're a foreigner and understand that someone has finished a sentence. He wasn't the owner, just a helper who'd stepped in from the back, and it was clear he had no idea what she was saying.
"My sister and I are visiting from out of town," the woman said, a little louder now, and again the man nodded. "I'd love to stay awhile longer and explore, but my home -- well, one of my homes -- is on the garden tour, so I've got to get back to Williamsburg."
I was eleven years old, yet still the statement seemed strange to me. If she'd hoped to impress the Korean, the woman had obviously wasted her breath, so who was this information for?
"My home -- well, one of my homes": by the end of the day my mother and I had repeated this line no less than fifty times. The garden tour was unimportant, but the first part of her sentence brought us great pleasure. There was, as indicated by the dash, a pause between the words home and well, a brief moment in which she'd decided Oh, why not? The following word -- one -- had blown from her mouth as if propelled by a gentle breeze, and this was the difficult part. You had to get it just right, or else the sentence lost its power. Falling somewhere between a self-conscious laugh and a sigh of happy confusion, the one afforded her statement a double meaning. To her peers it meant "Look at me, I catch myself coming and going!" and to the less fortunate it was a way of saying, "Don't kid yourself, it's a lot of work having more than one house."
The first dozen times we tried it, our voices sounded pinched and snobbish, but by midafternoon they had softened. We wanted what this woman had. Mocking her made it seem hopelessly unobtainable, and so we reverted to our natural selves.
"My home -- well, one of my homes..." My mother said it in a rush, as if she were under pressure to be more specific. It was the same way she said, "My daughter -- well, one of my daughters," but a second home was more prestigious than a second daughter, and so it didn't really work. I went in the opposite direction, exaggerating the word one in a way that was guaranteed to alienate my listener.
"Say it like that and people are going to be jealous," my mother said.
"Well, isn't that what we want?"
"Sort of," she said. "But mainly we want them to be happy for us."
(a couple of pages later...)
We went to Emerald Isle for a week every September and we were always oceanfront, a word that suggested a certain degree of entitlement. The oceanfront cottages were on stilts, which made them appear if not large, then at least imposing. Some were painted, some were sided "Cape Cod style" with wooden shingles, and all of them had names, the cleverest being Loafer's Paradise. The owners has cut their sign in the shape of two moccasins resting side by side. The shoes were realistically painted and the letters were bloated and listless, loitering like drunks against the soft faux leather.
"Now that's a sign", our father would say, and we would agree. There was The Skinny Dipper, Pelican's Perch, Lazy Daze, The Scotch Bonnet, Loony Dunes, the name of each house followed by the name and hometown of the owner. "The Duncan Clan - Charlotte," "The Graftons - Rocky Mount," "Hal and Jean Starling of Pinehurst' -- signs that essentially said, "My home -- well, one of my homes."
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Eine Woche
Today officially marks the one week aniversary of my Berlin solitude. I'm also beyond broke. I haven't cried yet, but if no one comes home by tomorrow, I probably will.
I'm very lonely. I'm also running out of food.
I'm very lonely. I'm also running out of food.
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