ddorfwidorf-blog

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Change of Platform

I have decided to change platforms to Medium.com. The layout is better, the options for making a publication are there, and the copyright laws are more to my liking. Hope to see you all there! Zondern Poetry and Culture

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Walking Like a German

Bad language in this one. I realized it helps to throw in the f-bomb every other sentence to get a nice rhythm. Read on>

After three weeks in California for the holidays, I’m back. This week and a half has been quiet. I have really sought to find some inner peace. I am tired of searching for a paradise to long painfully for.

This is it. Today’s the day. I have figured it out. I have figured out how to fit in here in Germany—maybe even Europe. Walking around casually, smiling from face to face doesn’t cut it. One’s got to be tough as petrified wood here. Walk fast. Eyes forward. Not a glitter of pleasure can you have on your face. You’re pissed—but not really—just playing the game. 

Pretend you’re as important as shit. Damn, that’s a fine girl—who cares—you’re walking to the store. Don’t show any weakness. You’re pretty much Napoleon on his way to Russia, except you’ll only bring back some damn shallots because you forgot to get them before. And you had to go out again because without these two shallots your vegan red lentil curry won’t taste nearly as good. Fuck those shallots you don’t even have yet. 

You let everyone know that you’re not just out on a stroll, fucking off like some nice guy. You’re a temporary German resident. Damn right. Carry your soon-to-expire visa proudly tucked into your fanny pack. 

Shit. Someone just got run over behind you—nope, you’re not looking. You’re actually made out of cinderblock. You’re a cinderblock practically jogging down the walkway. You’re on the Autobahn. You’re spreading groups apart like Anakin Skywalker. Oh, eight people just had to move out of their way because you can’t step over a half foot—fuck them—they’ll excuse you once they smell how European you are now because you’re walking fucking fast, man, eyes forward. Fast. 

There ain’t no slowing down because someone just walked out of a store in front of you. Nah—fly by that bitch—they’ll see how European you are. “Look at that guy’s concentration when he walks.” “He must be after some fucking rude shallots or something.” “I bet he’s French.” “My bet too—kind of a dick but on some kind of schedule I guess.” 

Whatever you do, do it fast. Who gives a shit if it’s wrong. It’s better that you fucked up doing something fast than doing something well slowly. Nobody has time for that in their innumerable days. In this part of the world, you’re better off running into some old farts while going fucking light speed than stepping off to the side to wait for them to pass through the narrow strip of dry soil. They’ll stare you down like a dumb ass alien if you are nice. It’s like, “That poor idiot alien thinks he blends in even a bit. What a sad thing, or? If only someone told him to fucking blast through the sidewalks like a cannonball ignorant to friendly fire, he’d fit in perfectly.” 

In that store that you were in just thirty minutes ago but forgot to get those poser onions, you better not look at anyone. Dude, don’t even think about making small talk. The whole fucking store will peer out from behind the aisles and let you live a few moments in guilt trip purgatory. Keep you eyes on the target, you imbecile. You’re hypnotized, remember? Unless it takes more than 90 seconds to get through the fat ass line, don’t complain to the only clerk on duty to open another register. “Can’t you just fucking open another lane, you lazy fucking piece of shit store clerk, it’s fucking late and I’ve worked all day, I want to be home already, can’t you fucking see that, stupid shithole? Can’t you swipe those groceries faster—fuck!” Then when you get your fucking slick piece of plastic out that your so proud of because it has a chip in it and no card you’ve ever owned had a fucking chip in it to pay for those shit shallots that you find out later didn’t change the taste of your meal at all—you pull out your card to pay for those things—you hear an audible sigh from the three old twats in line with pointed black leather shoes and briefcases and claw nails you want to rip off and throw into Mt. Doom to finally redeem humanity—they sigh because it’s going to take fucking eight more seconds to complete the transaction than if you used cash. But you’re the idiot because you don’t see how these eight seconds actually put people off schedule. Fucking—just to make up for the fact that you ruined everyone’s day for even buying those useless bulbs you decide to get the courage to tell the cashier, “I wish you a good weekend.” Yeah—Ha!—you just wasted 2 more seconds of everyone’s day. Now the cashier is smiting you, too. You can feel everyone fucking mocking you in their heads. “Just fucking leave,” they’re all screaming in their heads but of course without showing anything else but eyes forward on that distant horizon. What the fuck is everybody rushing toward? It’s like there’s this underlying sense of painful mystery that’s commanding everyone to work as fast as they can to build a new track for the train that’s already on its way. This is fucking progress—the pinnacle of the world’s existence. Dinosaurs ate shit just for this. There is no time for fucking around. No time for being nice. No place for it, even if there were time. 

People look at you like a fucking freak if a new check out line opens up and you let them go ahead of you. They mutter something in German to you—you chuckle as if you’ve understood and thought it was funny—their mutter turns into a fucking full on glare and a head shake. Fuck off! I just did something nice for you. That’s what you want to say, but you can’t. No matter what, you lose. Forever. 

The only hope to redeem yourself is to get back onto the walkway, put on your hood like fucking pissed off Anakin, don’t look at anyone, split your way through groups, play chicken with oncoming pedestrians—whoever has the conscious to evade a direct hit is a fucking pussy and a simultaneous asshole—“Did you see that twat? He just moved out of my way!”—walk out in front of cars on side streets, sigh occasionally to show people you’re a big shot and people are taking up your space—yeah that’s it. You’re back riding high. Back on your horse. Fucking damn shallots in hand. “There’s that sexy frenchman again.” “Told you he was going to get shallots.” “Look at him walk.” “A bear trap wouldn’t even stop that guy.” True. You’re tougher than serrated iron jaws, bitch. Your hood up, hands in your jacket pockets, tall as street lamp, you can walk through anything and people know it.

You finally fit in. Proudly about to cross the crosswalk on green—nothing can stop you—light turns red. “Fuck me.” The red figure says no. This is the only damn time that people wait in this country. The one time they could actually go, when there are no cars, they don’t. It’s worse than sex before marriage to cross on red. Alright that’s the only thing that could have stopped you. Who cares. You stop. That won’t get you down. You’re trying to fit in, right? You look around, raise your chin, glare at people just because that’s what looks normal. You’re good. A true German. Maybe even true European. A true man of the city. Tough. Straight. Mega important. Not nice at all. Who cares if that lady just fell and broke her ankle. You sure don’t. You could move to New York City, fuck it. Finally after you’ve spent months like this you go back to where you’re from. People in your small town say things to each other from behind the trees, “Where the hell does he need to go so fast?” “Yeah, Europe made him into a prickly dick.” “I’ve even tried tripping him to get his attention, but even then he just stumbled and fucking rolled back up into upright position staring straight forward as if he was hooked on a lure or something. Big fish.” “Yep—he’s a socialist.” “That’s what I thought too.” 

Too bad, mate, you loose. You’re always going to forever be a bad ass prickly dick fish stuck between water and air but nowhere at all forever more. Get used to it and just be happy with yourself. Naw��that’s too genuine and nice. You better just fuck off, you big dick. Yeah, that’s better. Now you’re one of us.

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

No Poems! No Transexuals!

No Poems! No Transexuals!

These are repulsive! Topics on which we've no use spending time! Inappropriate! Never mind my comments about women! I am loud and I will yell "I know!" When he was a woman he used to stay inside and clean the house all day. When he was a woman he used to be bad at parking. When he was a woman he used to wear mini skirts. When he was a women he used to nag nag nag. When he was a woman he used to be a lesbian. When he was a woman he used to shake his hips. —Next. When he was a woman he used to shake his hips. —Next. When he was a woman he used to shake his hips. —Next. —Next.

This is too hard! Not appropriate for B2! I understand only 10%! Poetry has no use! I will not try! Do not try to walk me through! No more poems! Give me the ABCs! I know those! There is proof that individual letters exist. Where is that proof in this poem? Letters become words. That I can do. But when words become pictures, I'd rather not.

No poems! No transexuals!

This will the title of a series of poems based on the awkward conflict between the closed and open mind. The catch is that no mind is the right mind. Or indeed each mind thinks it's the right mind. Or does it? Can one fight against aggressive ignorance by drawing "fire lines" around the speech?

People who are able to be themselves while allowing others to be themselves yet also feeling some sort of repulsion from them are exactly whom I'd like to tell to change, to improve their understanding of the world. But then again they are not doing anything wrong. Of course only because they are being them. I cannot expect to tell others how to behave, if I think it's wrong that they do the same to others. In such way, the trauma synthesis continues. This circular feedback loop has to be broken. It can be broken by contradictory poetry and oxymoronic dialectics.

The thesis of trauma is appropriation. The antithesis is victimhood. The normalized synthesis is perpetration. The exceptional synthesis is integration.

A formula is crystalizing It's the essence of my life's work.

Ego management

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“Quick” Update 14/10/15

Many things have happened since last posting. I haven’t, however, wanted to write everything down. Here’s a quick recap of some of the thoughts I’ve had recently: **Middle schools and high schools said no drinking or eating in class not because it’s an inherently bad activity, but rather because the chances of that food/drink being a sugary swamp was about 99%. I fatally let each kid in my teen camp buy a can of coke and some candy for the afternoon because they were good in the morning. The boys began to grope each other and throw things at each other the second I said Please don’t throw things. **Going home to use what I have left in my cupboard feels better than sitting in a warm restaurant. Living alone and cooking for one can be pretty expensive due to marginal costs. I’ve got to utilize my left-overs and my dry goods. **I’ve had to let go of some friendly acquaintances. I couldn’t keep up with their desires to get wasted. Not to mention their conversations consisted of different forms of “SO WHERE CAN WE FUCK SOME BITCHES?!!?” I tried desperately to inform the one out of the two that that sentence drives women away like a car does pigeons. He didn’t get it. He also didn’t get it when I stopped answering his messages. I like the dudes, but they need to help themselves before I can hang. **The most awkward part of having a conversation with a German (let’s say waitress of your same age) is deciding mid-sentence to use or not use the formal Sie. This millisecond of contemplation (To Du or not Du?) clues the listener into your foreignness. There’s nothing bad there, except for the self-abuse you’ll give yourself (Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!) for getting a slight smirk. It’s not any sort of big deal at all really. **Sleep is something I desire. I’ll now know how hard I worked during the day. If I don’t desire to be in bed with eyes closed by 11, then I know I haven’t worked hard enough that day or won’t work hard enough the next day. **I connect with some students instantly. At the beginning of this week, a 15 year old came into class and the first thing he did was make a noise exactly like the noise my friends and I make. It’s the noise that makes fun of singers. Maybe you’ve heard it. YEAHEHEAHH!! Immediately I felt an affinity for this dude. As the days went by and he started to feel more comfortable, he didn’t begin to wine or roll his eyes like the other teens. He has never said, “Awww, but that’s totally unfair!” and he’s actually offered to work with the girls (unlike any other boy in any previous classes). But today, something really interesting happened. At the beginning of the week I asked the teens to write down their dreams so we can share them at the beginning each class period. Only one girl has done the homework each morning. This morning she reported that she had a dream in which all her friends were getting murdered by a monkey with a gun. I instant made this the first subject to discuss. I made some notes on the board about how dreams work; for example, dreams communicate the right meaning but with inaccurate symbols. Death in dreams is a symbol for something that our waking minds can only realize as death. But our dream minds use the symbol of death to communicate more of a transformation. So I wrote transformation on the board. Then I spoke a bit about how our waking psyches can only picture abrupt transformation (death) as something that comes from being shot, or getting hit by a car, or crashing in a plane, or whatever. Our brains have these certain images of death stored, and we apply them to the meaning in a dream. This causes us to believe death is coming or whatever. But hardly ever does it actually come. Usually it “means” that someone will have an epiphany and shed some former beliefs. This could have been the case with the student’s dream about her friends being murdered by a monkey. But of course the symbols are skewed and up to interpretation.  But then a student to my right mentioned déjà vu and its connection with dreams. Like if the déjà vu feeling comes from a previous dream. I asked how many of them have had a déjà vu moment before and if they had been connected to dreams. The boy who I like and feel connected to (but have never shown him any preference) raised his hand and said that he was having a déjà vu moment right then. He said that he dreamt of me giving this short speech about death and dreams before and now it was happening in the waking world. Everyone (including me) thought he was full of it. But the look on his face and the type of guy he is made me realize he wasn’t pulling our legs. That shook me. And then I realized where we’d met before. In our collective dream. He’ll be a powerful concealed shaman one day. He was able to realize he was having déjà vu right then and mention it without being phased and without destroying the feeling. That’s like being able to lucid dream. **I haven’t ever journeyed outside Düsseldorf since I’ve been here, besides for trip to Warsaw or Berlin. I’ve realized that there’s not really an end to Düsseldorf. The city’s chained immaculately together to the thousands of other towns and small cities across NRW. **The Syrian and Iraqi refugees are here already. Are they crawling like zombies across Germany and turning everything they touch into a terrorist-harboring mosque? Ehhhm, not quite. I actually can’t even notice them. Düsseldorf is already so diverse that not even 4% more variously colored skin can make me do a double take. The only thing that may be a clue that these certain people over here may be refugees is the starry eyes and smiles they wear as they walk hand-in-hand through their new home. For the first time in years they can walk though society without fear that someone’s going to come from around the corner and accuse them of something false and take them forever away from the rest of their family. That won’t happen again. Unless the fear continues to spread and convinced German nationalists do the same thing that IS is trying to do. So easily does the mirror of perpetration appear in front of the self-perceived victim.

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

Roseburg [Poem]

I do not want to know the details of every tree cut down.

I do not want to watch the feller sharpen his saw.

I do not want to memorize the facial features of an early autumn freeze.

I do not deserve to have to witness the dismay of clear-cuting.

I have seen too many animals lose their homes in the hearts of  

     boughs and trunks of forests green sliced by cyclical metal.

I know the path of a bulldozer all too well, the pyres left to      to dry and burn but ultimately be forgotten.

I do not want to hear the excuses anymore that manicure the razor.

I do not want a saw to protect me against axes.

I want old-growth forests. 

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

Conditional [Poem]

In such condition

I could only guess

my mind’s had no heart,

my heart’s had no gut. 

In such condition 

where no present exists

I make my bed in 

the future,

but I’ve nothing

tangible to lay my fictitious 

linens upon.

In the future, I tend to preserve 

a statue not yet built.

No erection stands into the heavens

except my boner of tension and 

procrastinated creation.

The future brings nothing but shadows out its mirrors.

If I am not now, then

it could only be that I’m the noxious fiction of tomorrow’s dismissed possibilities.

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

Work on Saturday (better with it)

I had to get up at 8 this morning to make it to work by 10:30. I need at least an hour to wake up in my bed, then another hour to actually make food, shower and prepare to leave. It takes only 10 minutes to ride my bike from Dreieck, down Moltkestraße, across the S-Bahn tracks, right down Rethelstraße, and arrive at work on Grafenberger Allee.

I was happy to leave my house before 10, even on a Saturday. The truth of it is, I would waste more of my day if I hadn’t gone to work for three hours. Being responsible for others and forcing yourself to be reliable is a much more enriching activity than floundering through internet archives looking for the illusion of good feeling. 

Unfortunately the routine on Saturday is wake up past 10:00, an hour in bed on phone, some remnant of food from the night before, thought of a shower, thought of real breakfast, go online to search for good feeling, don’t find it, drink  coffee, feel inspired, get distracted by new video, feel bad for abandoning creativity for passivity, be sad drink water, drink sad, lonely, world so far away, be blind, shower, feel better, long for close friends, long for easy button, eat chocolate, look at clock, fuck it’s three, look for courage to emerge into sunlight, walk across street, sit at cafe, try to read, can’t concentrate, go on phone, nothing there, eat roasted potatoes and salad for breakfast at 4, go back in room, reminisce about the passed over responsibilities still able to get done, convince myself I’m an asocial parasite, try to write, fuck it, late enough, ride a bike to get a drink, the bike feels good, why not ride earlier?, sun starts to set, meet new people, finally night time, my comfort zone. 

Yeah, so that was a bit melodramatic, but many of my emotions are. I’ve found it’s best for me to just get out early, not matter what for. Even if it’s just to ride a bike around the block. It’s something that gets me out and gets me talking to others. If I don’t open my mouth all morning, by the afternoon I’m struggling to remember how to speak properly (even in English). 

It’s only 13:50.  Already worked 3 hours. Plans for the evening. Already written this. I’m feeling like 25€.  

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

(We can always trust Blame.)

Here it comes. That excuse to not write. The perfectionist that can’t be because he doesn’t even start. The perfectionist that would rather avoid beginning so that he doesn’t need to experience the failure that he rigs for himself. The excuses follow and sound better than the failure that is only an illusion. “Make popcorn. And because you can’t type while eating popcorn, watch videos on reddit. You only need one hand every now and then for that. Writing will come a different time.” That voice casts a spell on me. I’m the source of that voice. To forget that I’m the source of my own delusion, I ignore it in favor of blockading lures. I begin to crave unsubstantial substitutions. I get my fix on mindless junk that hollows time so that it doesn’t exist for me to say I wasn’t doing anything. 

Work is a blessing. I must rise out of bed and emerge from my door by 8:45 latest. I must speak and communicate, help others learn, for hours upon hours. Then talk with colleagues about common issues and jokes. After a few hours of that, I’ve forgotten the morning pains of waking up out of a warm cloud of sleep. Without work, I am an impotent sperm. I flounder where I lie and create fictive narratives that explain away the need to set myself into motion. Motivation comes to an ironic end when it becomes tense and reason to distract myself from actual deeds of fortune. 

 Today I woke up to the rain. Usually the clouds burn away by noon. Today was different. It’s still raining. More than 12 hours after I woke up, it’s still throwing water onto the concrete. Blame would reach out to the rain for an excuse, and it  did. (We can always trust Blame.)  The excuse that I’m not going to get up and make breakfast is that I’m not that hungry. I blame my hunger for not feeding me; thus I’m hungrier. 

I’m not finishing this. If I did it wouldn’t be posted. 

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

Boss Level Bureaucrat (regretfully gives me my visa)

The time has come. The time to sit back and relax in contentment and complacency because I’ve finally received my work permit. Yep, it’s that time again. The time to give up what I’ve earned because I’m afraid of the power of the possibilities before me. Well, this time will be different, because this is how I feel my life has led me, and I love what I’m about to do. Teach. English. Probably my best topic. And the adventure? It does scare me, yes — living in Düsseldorf for a year.  

    The temporary paper visa that Frau Schulter impassively placed on the desk in front of me, which she read out loud to me, from memory or her computer screen (I couldn’t tell because her eyes would swoop upward and to the left and right every three seconds), wrote, “in Düsseldorf”. The place of my dreams.

    But I am thrilled! Just like I have this urge now to read bad books, I’m revving up my passion for living in the city where I’ve found work. I believe Frau Schulter realized that I actually found work. She may have been as shocked as I, but didn’t show it. Earlier in the meeting, when the outcome of the meeting was still indifferent to every logic but bureaucratic logic, I presented her with the third letter from a credible language school, stating legitimacy, jobs descriptions, and salary. I slid it too her along her desktop, because once I gave her the first piece of paper, she stopped looking at me, starred only at the paper. Other personnel have behaved similar to her, so I knew the trick. Slide it under her view of vision like sliding a slide under a microscope lens. It caught her attention and she picked it up. She read it in an illusory mutter, set it down, looked toward the corners of the room, as she does, touched her mouse pad, frowned, then said, “It says here that you’ll sign a contract.”

The scientist found a specimen!

    But I knew this specimen, too, although I didn’t know her. So to navigate through the swamp, and dance and move to amuse and placate the boss crocodile, I had to also sing a song. And the words to the song went like this, “I can only be payed by invoices. I am not going to be hired anywhere. I am only working freelance contracts. Only freelance, no contracts, just invoices.” Don’t devour me. She almost got me to forget how to dance. Just by sitting there, and looking at the corners of the room, slowly pressing one key at a time on the keyboard. She managed to frighten me; however, I didn’t fall. The song I sang wasn’t sung like to the effect of a snake charmer. I wasn’t doing anything but jumping off the ground and shouting my defense spells as she bit at me. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked because she changed the subject and asked, “Where is this school?!” as if she just realized that an outside world existed outside the workplace. I told her. Stopped asking me questions.

Silence.

     “I need to see proof of health insurance,” she commanded as if motioning in front of a legislative body. I showed her what I had. “How can I tell this is anything at all,” she exclaimed in question. I scrambled to get my shitty plastic, off-gold color card with only my name printed on it.     “These show no proof of health insurance,” she said.     “Yes, they do.”       “Where?”     “Right here.” I pointed to the certificate, where it wrote, “Health Insurance” in English.     “That doesn’t mean anything to me. It needs to be translated.”     “Umm…” I found that my strategic ums were in fact small meditations where     I found strength in the humor that she brought me by her ritualistic office behavior.     “Umm…” I had to be careful, but I began to become frustrated in her blockade made out of indifference. I found myself say-asking her, in order to debate the need for it to be translated, “Ehm… You must speak-ehm-English. Just a little bit…? You do speak English, right? Just enough to read these words here?”     “But this is not insurance.”     “Sure it is,” I exclaimed. “I struggled with getting proper German insurance because I don’t have a visa, and no Germany health insurance company wants to accept someone who doesn’t have insurance. I tried to go Hallische. I even had a health insurance advisor help me with it.” That caught her attention.     “What’s the name?”     “Dennis K_____,” I said, barely managing to pull his name out of the cracks, actually only due to the undertone in her voice.     She sighed and looked into the right corner of the room where she longed to see cobwebs. Snapping out of her daydream she fingered her keyboard and cleared her throat to say something.

Silence.

    “FINGER PRINTS!” That’s how she decided to brake the silence. Not like “Okay, good, so then we’ll move on.” No. She decided (or maybe out of habit) to shout “finger prints” at the top of her deep voice. “Left hand pointer finger!”

    That was it. That was how normal people would say, “All right. You’re good to go, but first we need to take your finger prints.” She didn’t want to concede any form of congratulations out of fear of boiling over from a sliver of kindness. Open-heartedness to her was Kryptonite. Nothing came out of her mouth but regurgitated habits. And to change that ritual would be like inciting the anti-being.

    There was no thanking her either. I didn’t dare risk giving her a taste of gratitude for accepting my application. She could’ve so easy retracted my newly awarded visa status just for the crime of encouraging her to smile.

    She told me to go to the machine outside of her office and around the corner to pay for the visa, then come back. I did that. Not very climactic. I was expecting to insert 100€ and have the machine poop out a pristine new visa for me, completely outfit with my info, picture, and resident status. In reality it just took 15 seconds to scribble out a receipt. Again in the room Frau Schulter told me it would take a few weeks for them to receive my visa in the mail. I’d have to come pick it up once I receive word that it’s arrived.

    That was all there was to it. See? Wasn’t so hard. Just had to enter into the lair of the belief-defying, sacrilegious Eurocrat. In the end, the toughest weapon she had to throw against me was the German language and the unspeakable language of impassivity (the later being the tougher of the two nuts to dislodge from the holes in her back—once I knocked those puppies loose she gave up the fight). Yeah, I picture her as this massive Suriname toad, ripe with marble-sized eggs of lawful excuses tucked into the flesh of her back under her skin. At each appointment with a new visa-seeker, one of these marbles squirms around in her back in preparation to emerge as a fully mature excuse. When it starts to writhe, it must itch, but she cannot give away her secrets. This is why she remains all the time sitting, back against the synthetic leather bureau chair, moving her eyes into the corner of the room as if she were trying to itch something that is helplessly out of reach.

    I escaped unscathed and uninfected. But I had problems of my own to deal with. The tendency to avoid taking risks because I was afraid to fail left me depressed and stagnant. But now I had a visa. Start date: immediately. There was no reason for me to aimlessly dog paddle around this city any more. After two and a half years trying, I finally received what I’d interchangeably under- and overestimated. Despite my self-doubt, I discovered the strength within me to outplay the toughest opponent yet—impassivity.

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

Willy Wanka’s Wetiko Factory

U STOL FIZZY LIFTING DRINK

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

This guy has a perfect explanation on how to stop the trauma synthesis. His metaphor is traffic. Believe it or not, sometimes, to break up a traffic jam, all you need to do is disengage from it. It’s the same as any back and forth fight for minuscular profit, when this is fair because you profited, but that’s unfair because someone else gained a hardly perceivable advantage. Being the better person for everyone’s benefit requires you to perceive the rat race for what it is and to disengage from it, despite the nagging voice from your conditioned and competitive ego. 

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

   I haven’t written much recently. I’ve started a few stories, but not brought them through to the end. The excuse could be that I’m busy, for once. I’ve taught every weekday from 9 to 5 and longer for the past two weeks. Tomorrow I start my third week of work. I’ve been blessed to have found work at the Junior Language Club (JLC). It’s the second of two schools (I work at both) in the same building. The JLC focuses on teaching children and teens, from 8 to 16. The summer is the high business time, since school is out and parents still need time to do their jobs. This makes the JLC the place to leave their kids, to avoid trouble, and teach them English.      I teach at two JLC camps—the English Soccer Camp and the JLC Teens Camp. The soccer camp is more like baby sitting, because every 15 minutes there’s a skirmish between two or more boys; but not on the field, rather in their seats with pens and pinches. I like working with the kids, but I’ve seen some things that disturb me; the must disturbing of all is their constant blaming. One kid draws on another, then he draws back and there’re limbs flying and high and low pitch whining. I’ll let them do it, for 10 seconds, then I’ll tell them to stop. One boy inevitably understands English better than the other, so when they don’t hear me, I have to choose one by name. Then that kid looks at me, complains that the other did it and it’s his fault. That happens so much that the first rule of the camp has become ‘do not blame’. But good luck telling that to them and then they comprehending it and remembering to think back on it over the course of the week. In both ears, out both ears.      The Teens’ Camp is different. The first week was difficult, because I was not prepared, and there was a 15 year old girl (who constantly reminded everyone that she turns 16 in two months) who felt she was the top tier and treated others like it, too. While playing games to learn English (we play Cranium a lot), she would be in the lead but still complain about how unfair it was that I helped a girl way in the back answer a difficult question. I can’t recall how many times I’ve heard every child/teen say “Das ist aber unfair!” (“But that’s not fair!”). I told my last week’s Teens’ group that if I hear that once during the game, we’ll do grammar exercises for the rest of the day. That seemed to work.      I don’t tell the kids that I know German. As soon as I would do that, they would default to German on all occasions. But after a few days with them, they soon realize that I understand it quite well, and, because I reply to adults who speak to me in German in their presence, they catch on. But they never say, “But you can speak German?!” in German when they figure out that I can speak German. They always say that in English, for some reason. It’s like when I first came to Germany in 2011 and sat in a reserved seat. The man who reserved them spoke to me in German, then, seeing that I didn’t understand, he asked in English, “Do you speak German?” My response—“neon.” That was the only word in German I could get out of my mouth. I think that’s similar to why the kids ask me if I can understand German in English. So I make the excuse that whatever phrase I heard and responded to is actually the only phrase I know in German. Then they look at me skeptically and know I’m full of shit.      I’ve had to break up some major bickering and violence that ended in tears by commanding them in German. While taking an exercise break and playing a few rounds of a game out on the field, things started to get intense and accidents led to intentions. For example, one boy (F.) accidentally scraped his cleats on another boy(N.)’s unprotected shin. The boy who was stepped on (N.) thought it right to show the first boy how it felt, so he dug his cleats into F.’s calf flesh (red card). Pushing and shoving ensued and then it was time for me to lay on the German. I told everyone that we were done, we’re going inside. F. was boiling with rage, glaring and fuming with his head down, but his eyes still up as if he were glaring over the lenses that have, up until that point, provided him a reasonably peaceful perspective. Now he wanted revenge, but that feeling only came out in tears and stares. Once we got inside I told N. that his actions, “showing F. what he did to me,” were absolutely not okay, people just don’t do that (“Das geht gar nicht. Man macht das einfach nicht.”). That bit of German I heard from a father who told his son the same when his son threw a strawberry top onto completely crowded steps. The boy was ashamed, but he wasn’t disgraced by his father. I think what I said to N. made it clear to him. At least for 20 minutes. In both ears, out both ears.      I made the two boys write letters to each other, honest accounts about that they felt just happened, including intensions and accidents. They wrote the letters, handed them to each other, I made them shake hands, then forced them to read the things (F. initially just shoved it into his backpack unread). Ten minutes after the letter exchange they were on speaking terms again, but they never became friends. I would have liked to tell them that in 5 years they’ll probably be best friends, or at least ask themselves why they disliked each other so staunchly at that soccer camp that one year.      My greatest worry is that the kids get bored. But there’s no reason to be worried, I just need to come up with better solutions to lag time. I think about all the games I have in storage at home in MS that we could play, but that thought doesn’t do much for activities here.      This last week I told the teens right from the get go (just after going over the ground rules for the camp, rule number one being ‘laugh responsibly’ i.e. look into the eyes of who you’re laughing at/with) that we’d be making a magazine for the week’s project. That was great. I let them choose what they’d write about; they came up with articles on weight lifting, top songs and movies, stuff to do in Düsseldorf, strange facts about strange animals, and the Euro-Greek financial crisis. One day I told them that we’d be writing individual stories about getting lost, in the wilderness or wherever. After I helped them correct their mistakes, I asked them to type up their stories in order to better edit the content. Then, as a surprise I told them that the stories will go in the magazine as well. They felt a bit tricked, but they enjoyed having their works in physical copy form, complete with a front and back cover (hand drawn by two students). The name of the magazine was The Teen Zine.

     This week starts tomorrow. For kids, I’m planning on playing hackysack with them, and with the teens I’m thinking of making our own board game. I had the idea to design a text based game with them, but my programming skills stopped developing 2 months ago.

     On weekends, I meet people; I have no time to prepare. Yes, that’s true, but it needs to change.

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

In this track you can hear and see all that you love. Its swiftness is the wind that blows your hair, that fills your lungs. The cicadas are the sound of peace in a combined world—technology and nature. 

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

SCHMETTERLING!!!!!!

Yesterday I left my house specifically to walk to the Altstadt to sit on the steps next to the Rhein. The steps are great. Something about steps makes a congregation. Everyone’s doing their own thing or doing it in their groups. Most everyone is drinking, smoking, chatting, jumping around trying to get other peoples’ attention, meeting new persons, an so on. 

I went yesterday to write and drink two small bottles of wine (50 cl total). Before any of that started happening, two guys sat next to me and we started talking. It soon came out that I was from California, and as soon as that comes, it’s all clear from there (at least until the shock wears off). Most people respond, “Well, then, what are you doing in Germany? We all want to go to California.” Then the tale is told, starting from the beginning. I’ve gotten good at giving the elevator version without taking away from my sincerity. 

After drinks, smokes, the collective atmosphere shifts. It’s the moment when you and all around you are smiling for no reason, and groups are mixing assertively. You and your company start to get brave and openly approach newer groups. 

Speaking in German and English, translating for them and having them translate for me, we start talking about words. Specifically how there are many videos that make fun of German, exaggerating the pronunciation to sheer yelling. The most famous video features a few people who say various words, like ‘airplane,’ ‘butterfly,’ ‘pen,’ in a few languages. They pronounce the romanic languages with a soft, ballerina attitude, moving hands and exaggerating the niceness of it. Then the German guy yells every word as loud and violent as possible. “FLUGZEUG!!!”, “KUGELSCHREIBER!!!!” (Okay, so there is one word in the video that’s pretty funny. It’s the formal word for sex, “GESCHLECHTSVERKEHR!!!” The funny thing about it is that it comes from two words that mean ‘gender’ and ‘traffic’.)

We agreed that this video is slightly irritating because of how it portrays German. “Schmetterling is a really nice word,” I explained. “It’s normally not yelled, it’s spoken softly, ‘schmetterling’.” They agreed, obviously because the fact is that German is quite a nice language, and it need not be yelled to be understood. 

But then something came to my curiosity. What does ‘schmetter’ mean? Because ‘-ling’ is a way to make something cute and small, a diminutive. I asked them. Stefi, the company law student, thought about it, said, “O, that’s a good question...schmetter...hmmm.” He thought, then make a swinging motion with his hand, no, his whole arm, almost like if he were pretending to punch someone on the side of the jaw. As he did that, he said, “It’s a fast...”, while pumping his arm back and forth. “It’s violent,” he concluded. “But anything with -ling on the end of it is cute and small,” he iterated as a last attempt to save the entire language. 

We all laughed at the irony.

Okay, German, I gave you a chance, but when I come to your defense you end up doing something like this. It may be over between our alliance. PARDON!!!

(By the way, I translated the verb ‘schmettern’ and it has meanings like ‘to swing/hurl,’ ‘to smash,’ ‘to blare (out),’ ‘to crash.’) There we go. 

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

  Since arriving in Ddorf after my visit to Warsaw, I’ve been continuing waiting.  I’ve spent much of this time reading, beginning and thoroughly enjoying Dune; learning Ruby, a buddy let me borrow a book from his work that puts me to good work; writing; and inside as well. That last part is a regret. But it can be easily overcome by a simple thing—go outside. 

  The buddy that lent me the book took me to a nice spot on the Rhein. It was a  shelly beach with larger rocks to sit on among water loving trees. There was a row of a single type of tree, like a willow, wading in the water. From what we could see, only that species of tree was standing in water. The water. Lots of it. The Rhein is powerful. And massive. Only after focusing on the willow type trees’ branches, we drifted through them. I mean, we saw through them, and what was on the other side was a river that I realized right then that I had genuinely underestimated. The river was so wide that the attention that would normally intrigue or irritate across stream neighbors was too far away. I couldn’t see the group of people.

  Düsseldorf is along the Lower Rhein, and the small river Düssel is a tributary. This is where the city’s name comes from, Düsseldorf. (Dorf is town in German.) 

  ‘Rhein’ comes from a long line of word acquisitions from various languages, starting from the Gaulish (‘Rhēnos’), working through Greek and Latin (spelled it Rh-, and then through the languages of today, many which use the Rh-, for example German Rhein.

  There are some great beaches on the Rhein Ufer. Ufer is a word that pretty much means, river bank. Uferhallen (art studios in Berlin), for instance, is ‘the river bank halls (workshop/hanger)’. Whatever.

  I ventured outside yesterday, walked to a park to meet newer pals for an outdoors birthday grill. Yeah, the sun was shining! but a fog layer prevented the warm, dry rays from drying out our soggy soles. Tones of meet action, I mean, meat action. Fifteen of the new people I got to know loved their meat. Four of them preferred not eating meat, but had the consultation prize of three aubergines. This is how meat eaters rule the playground. I actually cooked the plant’s eggs. Dave saved the day by slathering them in marinade. They turned out to be burnt eggplant wheels. I went around trying to pity someone into eating it, but that leaves a bad taste in someone’s mouth even before they slip it on the tongue. So, just like Dave put on the marinade, another fellow helped me with the advertising. He gave me quick advice concerning someone’s general interest in warm food and recommended saying, “Get them while they’re hot.” I did do it and it did work better than “Bland…burnt…eggplant?”

(scroll over the ‘i’ in the upright corner of the photos to read the captions)

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it.

Frank Herbert

[ddorfwidorf-blog]

The Bureaucrat

The bureaucrat kept stamping himself on the forehead, he was looking at the paper as if aiming right below the line but when he went to put his arm in motion, it flew up like a horses back leg and stamped his forehead with the date 15.03.15.     He began to rage within seconds of first discovering his arm was no longer working. I could feel that bug within his heart that, within seconds, started to want to laugh and cry and orgasm and yell and spasm on the floor out of want that everything goes its way automatically but yet doesn’t. I have to admit that this even began to infuriate me. Why the hell had his arm decided to switch hinges? I was suddenly overtaken by the urge to get up out of my seat. The other ausländeramt employees looked at me with real concern, not because i was about to go jump over the desk and help this poor man, but because i had gotten up without them having called any numbers. By all means it’s the average guy getting out of his seat before being called that baffles them, not the unordinary symptoms of this man spamming himself? Their faces made me laugh. Typical bureaucrats. They don’t see the out of the ordinary phenomenon before them. But i do, and i was on my way to help this dude with a bad problem.     Everybody else just sat there while this guy was stamping his head. He could’t stop just for even one second because when he wanted to just give it a break—man, fuck, i’m tired of doing this, i want to just rest my hand on the desktop, fuck the stamp, the paper needs no stamp—his hand would still move upward to smack his head. That would be hard to find the right position for your hand when you think it’s on your desk but then it’s actually on your head, and as you move it up (phantomly) from the desk, it actually moves down, and then when you really just need to take that rest (with your phantom hand) and let it down, it hits your face with a stamp. 15.03.15. By now this guy had enough stamps on him to register 60 immigrants, probably a broken nose, and looked like he was going to pass out. The arm slowly began to just rest against his head. His eyes were so wide open with disbelief yet as red as cherries from exhaustion. With the phantom right arm on the counter, but his real right arm on his head, he leaned forward thinking he had support, but fell face first down on the counter, smashing his real hand between the desk and his brow bone. But the whole time he was only worried about his phantom hand having just gone completely through the desk without any reason. I decided against jumping over the counter like a counterinsurgency acrobat to rip his arm off or strangle the life out of it or just pop it back into place, and settled on just talking normally to him.     “Excuse me, sir, can i help you?” It felt weird saying that from the guest side of the desk. By all means i thought that his colleagues would help him, at least ask him if everything seems to be in order, or get him a glass of water. At first he didn’t say anything. I imagined being in his place and realized that it would be pretty hard to explain what just happened to someone who you were supposed to be helping, who you hope with all of your heart had not just seen what you just did. I looked around and the other staff were looking at me as if i were intruding on a process, like if i had just walked back into the staff room and were standing there asking if i could help them figure something out. No, but i was standing before desk 12 where this guy had just sealed his eyes shut with ink. Sort of realizing that he was in need but just trying to gather his words, i remained there. I looked to the side of his desk and found his mini lazy Susan outfit with stamps. I could hear the tinny bearings whittling around and around the main support beam of the other 19 Susans around the amt. How many hours has this guy been hearing this whittling that sounded as if it came from 20 pygmy hamsters on their squeaking wheels? Has his hand malfunction come from overload? I did fine in biology, but i’m not a pure scientist, so i couldn’t give definitive proof for it, but i’m generally under the impression that physical joints don’t switch because of emotional distress. This guy looked totally blown out, though. He was one empty tire. 

     He stirred a little and murmured something.     “Heh?” That was me.      He didn’t do it again. I had to raise my voice.     “Excuse me, sir, are you all right? Can i help you? Can i get your a glass of water?” Right on water the entire room stirred and the other employers inhaled loudly, but didn’t say anything else, only looked at me if i were in the way of an oncoming train and they were watching me in slow motion. “Is this guy all right? He just stamped himself over fifty times,” i shouted at them. Some turned away in disgust, others jumped away like startled deer. Only then did i ask myself, where the fuck am i? A laugh came out long with it, because it was painfully funny what had happened, but now the aftermath of it looks pretty sad; disinterested employees and one dude who looked like he just lost a million dollars and had gotten run over. His colleagues were still calling out appointment numbers and people from the outside were still taking new numbers. To everyone else but this guy things were right on track. His desk was rather clean. His name shield read Herr Schade. It sat just next to his spinning stamp rack. His left hand was outstretched on his desk with splayed fingers. I thought about why he didn’t just use his left hand to hold him up instead of falling on his face on his right. The conclusion came to me that if my hand had suddenly and entirely switched directions, where my urge to press downward on the table resulted in a self-inflicted uppercut, i’d be facedown on the dam thing, too, having trapped it between my desk. And i’d be talking to it. I’d be fucking yelling at that thing as loud as i could. I’d explode. Perhaps this guy has exploded. Maybe the dissonance it caused him was enough tension needed to rupture all his organs. Fuck, i need to take this guy’s pulse. I reached out to his outstretched left hand and pinched his wrist between my thumb and two fingers. Yes, one heart beat. And another. It’s beating, but really slow, as if he were completely relaxed or in a coma.     Number 56024  Desk 6     That was my number. I’m up. I let go of the man’s arm and found my stuff at my seat and went to desk 6. A voice in the back of my head had to clarify with me, did you just leave that guy there? I looked back and saw Herr Schade with his outstretched left arm laying face down on his right. Yeah. He’ll be there when i get back. I walked over to desk 6, half in confusion why i had simply given up on the guy just because it was my turn, half in disbelief that i was still the only one to have approached him or simply mentioned him.     “Good day,” i said to the woman behind the desk. “I’d like to register for a freelance work permit.”     “Sit down. Passport, please. Thanks. What other documents do you have?”     “Well, i have my place of registration form, signed and stamped. I have also proof of companies interested in hiring me, two of them. Ehm, yea, and this.” I got out a brown form that had been sent to me in the mail. “I gave her the sheet.” She looked at the sheet, read it with a slack in her back that told me that my attempt so far was useless.” She handed me back my papers, passport and, without making eye contact with me, rather some distant corner in the building, proceeded to inform me of what i need to do.     “There is no official form for freelancers. You must write a letter to us that explains what you want to do for work. Then bring your credentials that show you’re capable of doing such work. Bring that together and we’ll look it over and tell you in a few weeks what we decide.” She turned back to her computer screen.     I learned that it’s best to just clarify, first of all because i’m not speaking English with her and it’s quite possible that i’m mixing up some important information. But they don’t care. They only care if i can understand enough to bring back a real application that they have to spend a little bit of time on. “So, i need to write a letter that explains how i’ll make money and bring with that my certificates that show you that i’m qualified to do this work.”     “Yes,” she said as if talking to herself or just placating an annoying voice that asks stupid questions all day. I felt real taken care of. This pissed me off because i had threw my entire savings to move to this part of the country because of a job offer, but i couldn’t start working because i didn’t have my work permit yet. Given all the money i’ve given out, i should just be awarded my work permit. I’ve already given so much money to the system, and they know that once i have my permit, i’ll be paying into taxes and social security. What’s the big problem. But she and her life have no interest in me. Are they on Tindr? What are they doing back there? I was pissed so while i walking out i turned around and mentioned the dude with a fucked arm.     “Take care of your colleague. He just had a real accident that i think goes beyond the psychic. Either his arm is broken or his muscles have switched their inputs.” The face that she made back to me reminded me of a goat that hadn’t taken a shit in 3 weeks and was really trying hard to use the words said to her to try to push it out. I don’t really know what she was doing. She looked at me as if she had never seen me before, even though i just got done sitting down and talking about my work permit with her. I left as soon as possible.     On the way down the stairs to the first level of the building, going through the broad open doorways i had a flickering of an existential crisis. I witnessed this guy have a phenomenon of fuck up. There couldn’t be much right about this man. He needed my help to come to his feet. The stone steps were no kind partner to my ideas.

++perhaps to be continued++