Friends with Brains

My mind has been a shallow water these last few weeks, drifting along on autopilot, enabling me to do just the bare minimum of what needed to be done. All those unremarkable thoughts didn't really require being written down and I really don't want to abuse this blog as some sort of private message board to remind myself of things like must eat or have to re-count taxes because those thoughts may have some significance for my survival, me being a living entity, having to suffer the daily numeric horrors of payroll accounting. I am almost dozing off as I write about it, dear goodness! 

Truly entertaining is only a thought that doesn't occur on a daily basis. But how to create these thoughts out of thin air when you finally have the time?! At times it's really hard - virtually impossible - to strife for novelty. The thing that ordinarily helps me jump-starting* my brain is listening to progressive music.
(*Jump-starting refers to my brain's natural tendency to infinitely loop between vital, yet unremarkable annotations to a much more productive course.)

When I listen to music, sometimes my mind gets overrun by strange images. I imagined the pope wearing UGG boots and nothing else under his robes while giving a lecture in the Bundestag. Little Dragon made me come up with that idea. This image surely doesn't qualify as a novelty thought, but it certainly amused me for a little while. I see it as a welcome and necessary variation to my brain's daily routine. Brain's day off if you will! Me and my brain are intertwined, pretty much like a clingy person that lives with you and follows you from room to room, while talking to you tirelessly. You have no other choice but to make friends with it unless you want to be in a constant fight with it aka yourself. 

Outside distraction is a short-term solution, but really, your brain is always there, talking, whether you choose to ignore it or not. Even if you're not aware of it. It may tell you things you don't want to hear, saying that you are incapable of doing certain things, that you really are a stupid egomaniacal ape minus all the fur (mine told me that once).  

Who are you kidding is one of my brain's favourite catch phrases. I try to listen half-heartedly to those thoughts, but I know, it leaves a mark on my consciousness. I have to take my good friend Brain as it is and appreciate all its merits. Brain is a product of my genes, my parent's ideas of who I should be and my own critical nagging voice canned in a little box, talking in an infinite loop. It's also the thing that gives me hope, makes me excel, and sometimes enables me to leave my gloomy shadow behind, understanding new things, recognizing new patterns.These patterns were there all along but certain forces make it increasingly hard to keep an open mind. Prejudice, in little doses is necessary and it may even enable you to safely navigate towards new insights (unless it completely overrules your curious side).

In general, Brain means well by you. It is at and foremost you, the thing that steers you while you think you're in charge. So I (and it) demand you give it some love. After all, mine made me write this post. Take your brain to dinner sometimes to show it you care. Order some wine and the conversation between the two of you will be much more pleasant. (OK, that was not my idea..) Brain won't ever be quiet (unless you are as well, for good..) but it sometimes makes some valid points while talking to you, so listen inwardly, once in a while, and you might hear something nice and unexpected in return.

Madly in love with another person's brain: Dr. Hfuhruhurr

One Day reviewed: Read it and weep

Cover of the movie tie-in edition paperback

Rarely do I get angry at authors for doing something unexpected to storylines, but as disappointed as I feel right now, I can't think straight. Over the last days I read David Nicholls' One Day and it seriously led me to the question of what happened to romance. The genre. Maybe it has something to do with its stale stereotypes, but over time it seems to have gotten used and abused by everyone clever enough to hold up a pen. Loss seems to be the strange denominator of many of the books in the realm of romance novels at the moment.

Once upon a time, it all started with knights, saving maidens from the hands of the dragon somewhere around the dark medieval times. Now it's chain smoking drug addicts, who, for a reason nobody can relate, just can't bring themselves to commit to another human being until they finally do - but then something else happens. The end. It's called contemporary romance. I normally don't lose my way into this genre, except in the form of romantic comedy, but I don't usually read modern romance novels. This one came highly recommended by Nick Hornby. Never again.

What writers of romantic fiction traditionally do is, they create some sort of attraction <chemistry> between two protagonists, then stall the reader, maintain the attraction in spite of adversity and thereby indicating some sort of feeling of providence between person A and person B.

Now, the thing David Nicholls adds to this formula is that about 3/4 into the story, he finally gives the reader what he was longing for, the two get together and become a couple. Unexpectedly, the author doesn't allow the reader to enjoy it for a second, quite the opposite, he immediately dismisses the whole thing as a trivial relationship with all it's mundane problems. Sure, Dexter, the protagonist is now happier with Emma, but unlike his first wife, she is not a cheating, snobby dumball. So, we, the readers, are not that surprised and remain underwhelmed.

But Mr. Nicholls (who is in desperate need of some really angry emails), made me read more than 400 pages, leading up to that great moment, and then, manages to immediately disqualify their relationship by showing us a fighting, discontent couple, scarred by their everyday lives. This is what it boils down to after everything. Ordinary. Why the hassle?

I am seriously not mad about the tragic things happening to those characters, I realize that the genre has certain demands, but, what I seriously want to understand is Mr. goddamn Nicholls' point of view regarding relationships. Explain that to me.

Take a pick, as a writer, you either chose this genre, because you have some kind of affection for it and I then may happily assume, that the coming-together of those two protagonists is meaningful, and romance per se has some meaning for you as well, fine, but why write something with the pretense of meaning - to dismissively throw in our faces?

After the long will-they/won't -they barren run, they end up a not-so-happy couple. Meh.
Maybe they would have broken up if circumstance didn't have a say in it. Who knows.

What's even more disgusting is the ridiculous attempt to mobilize the PS, I Love You fan crowd again. Yes, we noticed that. They will happily open up their wallets and enjoy all nihilism thrown into their faces. Damn, I opened up my wallet, too... But I didn't enjoy it!

I really can't bear the horrible desolate hopelessness those kinds of stories spread.
Life itself is not that cruel.

Midday and Me

Remembering certain events in my life is something that rather naturally happens to me during the warm months of summer. It may have something to do with the fact that many of the incisive things I experienced took place during summer, not necessarily the days, but long summery nights. There's just much more going on in our lives when the weather is warm and pleasant. So I thought back to something that happened about ten years ago. TEN years! Ten years is an eternity for someone who is about 20 years old. It's heartbreaking that this is even possible. Oh well.

For someone who is currently 20 it means that ten years earlier, this person actually was a child. In my thirties, ten years back means I was a grown woman as well. Or at least pretending to be one.

10 years ago I shared an apartment with 3 other girls in Munich. These were crazy and great times. We celebrated excessively, went to clubs all week until the sun came out, but still more or less managed to study at university during the day. Most of us girls didn't have steady boyfriends to slow us down, but there were always some interesting prospects and every social gathering turned into a felt once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to meet potential Mister X. Most of us were crazy obsessive when it came to boys, and even all those not-so-glorious times with all the heartache and misfortune have in retrospect become bittersweet memories of turbulence and awakening.

It's a completely different mindset when you think that your life is just starting, and inherently assuming that every experience is a positive one in disguise. There is some giant lesson about life around every corner you turn.

Now, there are still many corners, but it's not the same when you actually start calling yourself an adult. The sun is a silent reminder for me, that change is not an astronomic phenomenon, rather than I, the one it revolves around, have changed my constellation. Which, of course, means everything to me, the one little ant, waving towards the heavens. And I think it is all due to the fact, that somewhere around 30, you suddenly wake up and don't find yourself in a habitual state of waiting anymore. It's not a prequel to something bigger. Waiting stops when you suddenly realize, that your life has already begun, big things have already happened and you're in the midst of things.

It's high noon. And it supposedly is also the time when the sun's rays are most intense. I like to think that's true for life as well.

Still, there's nothing more satisfying than looking at a sunrise. It's good to know there's something ahead. Some new variances with every orbit. Undenieably, A magic dwells in each beginning.