Tuesday, September 29. 2009
Commercial Power
My friends around the world don't understand me. Whether they are US American, Brazilian, Chinese or Japanese, or European, such as Italian, French or British, they all are proud of their countries. Not me. I have never been a nationalist, no pride whatsoever.
Even when I was little, I knew that it didn't agree with me when people were waving flags or playing a national anthem. I couldn't even tell you why. Of course, there is always the German Nazi past, but that's not the whole story. It's just not in my blood to be proud of blood.
But - isn't their always a "but"? - there was in fact one occasion, when I finally realised that I could do it, that I could be proud of the land I was born in.
It was in England, many years ago, when I was watching TV with some British friends of mine. In the commercial break we all, more or less attentive, watched a bobsleigh rushing through an icy rink. And when the bobsleigh had finished its round without losing track for a second, you could see that what had come to a stop directly in front of your eyes, wasn't a bob after all. It actually was a hoover, a very modern cylinder vacuum cleaner.
And into a silence, now that I could make out three quite familiar letters at the front of the hoover, a voice spoke voice over, and suddenly pride struck me like a bolt of lightning, when the voice firmly said: "Advanced Engineering Germany".
Even when I was little, I knew that it didn't agree with me when people were waving flags or playing a national anthem. I couldn't even tell you why. Of course, there is always the German Nazi past, but that's not the whole story. It's just not in my blood to be proud of blood.
But - isn't their always a "but"? - there was in fact one occasion, when I finally realised that I could do it, that I could be proud of the land I was born in.
It was in England, many years ago, when I was watching TV with some British friends of mine. In the commercial break we all, more or less attentive, watched a bobsleigh rushing through an icy rink. And when the bobsleigh had finished its round without losing track for a second, you could see that what had come to a stop directly in front of your eyes, wasn't a bob after all. It actually was a hoover, a very modern cylinder vacuum cleaner.
And into a silence, now that I could make out three quite familiar letters at the front of the hoover, a voice spoke voice over, and suddenly pride struck me like a bolt of lightning, when the voice firmly said: "Advanced Engineering Germany".
Sunday, September 27. 2009
How to Become a Writer
"Completely wrong", she says. "Anyway, I'm not buying it, that you don't remember anything. It wasn't that long ago!"
Should I try to placate her? I don't know how. I really don't know much at all anymore.
"I'm sure, I would remember", she says with a hiss, "if my best friend had a black eye. I had to be sewn up. Five f* stitches!"
When she has fallen into the f category, it is definitely too late, to bring something up.
But she has more.
"You quote Irving seven years after reading the stuff. But you can't remember what we were talking about two months ago."
That is true. But I try to call her attention to the fact that no one would be too concerned about a medic memorizing human anatomy, or a lawyer, who does not forget laws and provisions - even if they forgot a certain conversation.
"After all, I'm a scholar of literature", I say.
"Exactly", she says and puts the phone down.
I would like to ask her, why her affirmation made her cut off the conversation. But whenever she is so angry, there is no use in asking for reason.
I had written a story. A funny one, I thought. But since the backgrounds of the story were true and declaredly "not funny at all", I had attracted my friend's resentment.
That's the way it goes with fiction. Kurt Tucholsky knew it then, writers lack imagination. That's a skill of businessmen, he said. When they're not willing to pay their debts, they have a lot of ideas.
Alright. So I have become a member of this guild, eventually. It doesn't matter, whether you're not satisfied with your own writing, or whether you can't even make a living of it, nothing will disqualify you as a writer. As long as your writing annoys someone.
Should I try to placate her? I don't know how. I really don't know much at all anymore.
"I'm sure, I would remember", she says with a hiss, "if my best friend had a black eye. I had to be sewn up. Five f* stitches!"
When she has fallen into the f category, it is definitely too late, to bring something up.
But she has more.
"You quote Irving seven years after reading the stuff. But you can't remember what we were talking about two months ago."
That is true. But I try to call her attention to the fact that no one would be too concerned about a medic memorizing human anatomy, or a lawyer, who does not forget laws and provisions - even if they forgot a certain conversation.
"After all, I'm a scholar of literature", I say.
"Exactly", she says and puts the phone down.
I would like to ask her, why her affirmation made her cut off the conversation. But whenever she is so angry, there is no use in asking for reason.
I had written a story. A funny one, I thought. But since the backgrounds of the story were true and declaredly "not funny at all", I had attracted my friend's resentment.
That's the way it goes with fiction. Kurt Tucholsky knew it then, writers lack imagination. That's a skill of businessmen, he said. When they're not willing to pay their debts, they have a lot of ideas.
Alright. So I have become a member of this guild, eventually. It doesn't matter, whether you're not satisfied with your own writing, or whether you can't even make a living of it, nothing will disqualify you as a writer. As long as your writing annoys someone.
Tuesday, September 22. 2009
Fudge
ppp. United States. Instead of teaching them literature, a university professor showed an odd interest in his students, when he came to his lecture and silently but passionately hugged one of them after the other. His colleagues mentioned that the well respected man who had never shown any strange behaviours before had recently suffered a storm loss that destroyed his living room and nearly took his life. This incident might be the reason for the professor's emotional outbreak.
The professor's true story
for mi
The professor's true story
for mi
Monday, September 21. 2009
Same Old Story, Patiently Relived: Help!
I'm calling a service hotline. Good morning, yes, OK. I'm calling from Frankfurt on behalf of my neighbour who is sick. I name my neighbour's and my names and spell all of them. I give telephone numbers. Then I mention the exact address. After that I describe the problem. The boiler in my neighbour's kitchen is leaking. There was a mechanic at my neighbour's place on Friday last week, and since then the leaking has gotten worse. He hasn't got any hot water since yesterday.
You have no water?
My neighbour. It's his -
Your neighbour has no water? His name is -? My name is being mentioned.
No. I correct the name.
And he has no water? This is a problem of plumbing then. I can give you a number -
No. Wait a minute. It's his boiler. His heating.
His boiler?
Yes. It's leaking.
But you said kitchen.
I'm impressed that the kitchen part did not get lost. Yes, I say happily. My neighbour's boiler is in his kitchen.
So where is the water leaking then?
In the kitchen. The boiler is leaking.
Alright. I can see in the data that last week one of our mechanics already examined the boiler.
Examined. You say it. It doesn't mean he repaired it.
Yes. Right. Spare parts had to be ordered.
That's nice. But my neighbour will be having a lake in his kitchen soon. There is no time to wait for spare parts. It's a case of emergengy.
He could always cut the main water supply.
But that would leave him with no water.
Didn't you say it was leaking?
Yes, the boiler, but not the bath tub or toilet.
There had to be an order of spare parts.
Of course. But remember - the lake.
OK. So this is about Mr - my neighbour's name is actually spelled, and there is his address as well. He has a problem with his boiler. The leaking got worse, since the mechanic looked at it last week.
Yes exactly. Thank you. Thank you.
I will call you as soon a possible. I'm checking the order book now.
Thank you. I'm so glad.
A click in the line. This conversation took place two weeks ago. My phone hasn't rung yet. My neighbour has moved to an island.
for sv
You have no water?
My neighbour. It's his -
Your neighbour has no water? His name is -? My name is being mentioned.
No. I correct the name.
And he has no water? This is a problem of plumbing then. I can give you a number -
No. Wait a minute. It's his boiler. His heating.
His boiler?
Yes. It's leaking.
But you said kitchen.
I'm impressed that the kitchen part did not get lost. Yes, I say happily. My neighbour's boiler is in his kitchen.
So where is the water leaking then?
In the kitchen. The boiler is leaking.
Alright. I can see in the data that last week one of our mechanics already examined the boiler.
Examined. You say it. It doesn't mean he repaired it.
Yes. Right. Spare parts had to be ordered.
That's nice. But my neighbour will be having a lake in his kitchen soon. There is no time to wait for spare parts. It's a case of emergengy.
He could always cut the main water supply.
But that would leave him with no water.
Didn't you say it was leaking?
Yes, the boiler, but not the bath tub or toilet.
There had to be an order of spare parts.
Of course. But remember - the lake.
OK. So this is about Mr - my neighbour's name is actually spelled, and there is his address as well. He has a problem with his boiler. The leaking got worse, since the mechanic looked at it last week.
Yes exactly. Thank you. Thank you.
I will call you as soon a possible. I'm checking the order book now.
Thank you. I'm so glad.
A click in the line. This conversation took place two weeks ago. My phone hasn't rung yet. My neighbour has moved to an island.
for sv
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