Life Signs

May

2010-05-05T22:18:00.004+02:00

It's May already. Where did the time go?

Winter was the longest and coldest since at least 20 years, and the gardening season started late this year. On a warm day last week I finally planted my tiny tomato, chili and aubergine seedlings in the big pots outside. Now we have a storm with torrential rain, and temperatures barely above freezing. There goes my harvest for the Summer...

The last few months have been uneventful, to put in mildly. I had work, but no reason to travel. Not I am itching to get away from here, but there is one more job to do, and it will be July before I can live out my wanderlust.

So, still not much to blog about, and time to stop prattling.

Work in Progress

2009-12-14T10:17:00.003+01:00

Where did the year go?

It's been a curious one, this 2009. For me, it meant moving, enjoying the new space (especially the roof terrace), and many weekends spent gardening. There were a few short but very enjoyable trips and travels, too - the most recent one to Vienna. Beautiful place, highly recommended, especially to art, architecture and history geeks like me - but there's something to say for the coffee houses, too.

For a couple of weeks now, I have finally been at work again, and I don't just mean digging the potato patch. Getting paid for what I do, once in a while, is quite a relief. Being a freelancer has never been so tough as in the last 20 months or so. Now I hope this work will keep me busy for some time, and help my bank account to recover and enable me to do some more traveling in 2010.

Maybe then I will have more to write about in here, too.

Happy Diwali!

2009-10-17T00:23:00.005+02:00

I am about to add a new holiday to my calendar - I guess you can never have enough of them. I am going to celebrate Diwali with my Indian friends here in Germany. It is a big festival for them, and a first time for me.

But maybe not all of it will feel alien to me. Some of its elements seem strangely familiar - the symbolism of the end of the year (or summer and harvest time), the connection to the souls of our ancestors, and the idea of lights, candles, sweets, gifts and firework... I haven't even seen it yet, but after reading about Diwali, it seems to me as if there are elements of Thanksgiving, All Souls Day (or Celtic Samhain), Christmas/midwinter/Hanukkah and New Year/Rosh Hashanah to be found in this ancient Indian holiday - or vice versa: Maybe there is a bit of Diwali in our Western winter festivals.

I guess, these holidays and ideas date back to at least the Bronze Age, and no one remembers their original name(s) and date(s). It just seems so likely that the end of harvest and beginning of Winter was a very important time for people of all eras. To light candles and lamps at this season, when days get short and the sun less powerful; to think of death and those who passed away; to celebrate the end of summer's hard work and give thanks for one's own life - and the full larders to keep alive until the next spring; to make gifts (sacrifices) to one's gods, protectors, ancestors and important ones; to celebrate with all the sweet and rich food one can afford, and to fight the demons of night, cold, winter and silence with joy, light, fire, music and noise...
...I suppose all that was always important to all people and all cultures, however long ago.

So much for theory. Now, I am looking forward to Diwali in practice - tonight!

Safety First

2009-08-07T11:03:00.003+02:00

A week ago, I came home from a very enjoyable and interesting journey to England and South Wales. I learned a lot, met wonderful people and had a great time - and once again resolved to travel more often. It always gives me a new perspective on so many issues.

But one thing made me want to laugh and cry lots of times. When I used to travel regularly in Britain, back in the 1990s, I always thought of the British as rather calm, composed and sane people, not prone to hysteria at all. This time, I started to have doubts about that, since warnings and really odd bits of safety advice have become omnipresent there. And I don't just mean the fact that every single door in every public building seems to be a "fire door" that has to be kept closed (do they expect e.g. hotel guests to keep the door to their room open all night otherwise?), or the usual suffocation warning on plastic bags.

No, I mean the lots and lots of no-brainers. Like the "Caution: Hot Liquid" print on a takeaway coffee cup, the "Danger: Pool" note at the edge of a pool, or this sign in the middle of a lake:

The tragicomical highlight was a warning on the map of a National Trust monument I visited, indicating the parking area and saying "Beware of vehicles in the car park".

So, can someone please explain to me: What happened to the homeland of Common Sense?

On Obsession

2009-06-03T22:35:00.007+02:00

I did a lot of internet research during the last couple of days, and some fan websites I found there simply creep me out.

I can sympathize with a certain amount of obsession, since I have been pretty obsessive myself, many times. I can get lost in parallel universes of books, film, music and TV - everything from classic literature and arthouse films to Sci-Fi series and Bollywood kitsch.
I dearly love some fictional characters and admire their creators - the writers, directors and actors who make the fantasy so beautiful and 'real'. I have phases when I buy DVD after DVD, book after book, and scour the internet for downloads and news.

But there's a firm line between reality and fiction. As a writer myself, having worked for TV, I know how films are made, been part of the process, met wonderful people there, and I also know that, like in any job, a brilliant actor, musician, director or writer isn't necessarily a brilliant person, or even a nice one (no - don't worry: most of them are).

Anyway. Lately, I searched the sites of several actors' fans, since I needed some information (and not all actors, or rather their agents, are forthcoming to insignificant foreign journalists), and those fansites often have amazingly complete archives of articles, interviews and trivia.

But they also contain loads of stuff that I find very odd. There are forums, blogs and guest-books full of speculations about His or Her private life; photos of (expensive) gifts the fans sent to their idols; fan-art and fan-fiction, ranging from the pseudo-religious to adolescent adoration and NC-17 stories. Uhm. Everyone is welcome to their own fantasies, but why make them public?

In know I am selfish: Though I have unashamedly used those sites for my research, I still criticize them.
But what may be devotion to those people looks like delusion to me. Why do they dedicate so much of their time and love to someone they don't know; why adore someone from afar whom they never even met (or just met briefly to have a photograph taken or a picture signed at some convention)?
I see little difference between this, and stalking. Both are versions of unrequited love, leading to loss of reality. I wonder what is missing in those people's lives that they give their live and energy to an unknown person.

Maybe it's the underlying desperation and loneliness that scares me most.

Missing Altitude

2009-06-02T22:52:00.007+02:00

It's been some time since I posted any pictures. Here's one I made at the shooting of one of the last big documentaries I made. It was about high altitudes - a film on people living in some of highest and least habitable parts of the Swiss Alps, and the fascination of a life beyond the tree line, and often above the clouds. A harsh environment, a hard life, and a natural beauty that often left me at a loss for words. Another production I will never forget.

I hope I'll find time for a trip to the mountains, later this summer. I miss those highs, in every sense.

Brush Strokes

2009-06-01T23:40:00.008+02:00

Something I read this week gave me an idea for a series of articles. And I think I already know exactly the right people (friends working for agencies and magazines) who might be interested in that kind of story. So, finally, I take off, high on a new idea. About time.

It's one of the most wonderful experiences I know - to have a head full of ideas and possibilities; a heart full of energy, and ten fingers on the keyboard just itching to write.

I already started my research, and I found many bits of information confirming a hypothesis of mine. It feels like a picture is forming in my mind, and there's already an easel and some brushes in front of me. Now, if I find a canvas and a palette of colours, I can paint that picture.

I missed being creative. I really did. Compared to this, my latest jobs (i.e. translating documentary commentaries, and ghostwriting non-fiction books) felt like a paint-by-numbers booklet: Pretty, but not original.

Backwards Or Forwards In Time?

2009-05-21T11:02:00.004+02:00

Although I have borrowed this post's title from my latest time-travelling obsession, it isn't going to be a post about Doctor Who. It is just another of those introspections of which my life seems to consist of, these days. So, if you find them boring, don't bother to read any further.

Ever since I moved - or rather ever since I knew I wanted to move - I feel at a crossroads, having to decide if I want to live my life backwards or forwards.

During the last decade or so, I was reluctant to change much, and as a result my life became increasingly stagnant. To get moving again, forwards in time, I now have to let go. Let go of things and possessions, but also of illusions, old habits, obsolete ideas. They all became dead weight, a ton of baggage that is slowing me down, binding me to my past, not belonging to my presence. And certainly not to my future, whatever that may bring.

Many are just jetsam and easy to get rid of, but others were dear to me, once precious assets and memories. To let those go is the most difficult and most liberating experience of all. Once I gather the strength to let them go, there's suddenly no more need to romanticise memories as of a love essentially based on emotional blackmail, or of past relationships mired in guilt.

So I am sorting through possessions, giving some things away, selling others. Furniture, bags full of clothes, boxes full of books, every one of them laden with memories. Although a lot is already gone, there's still too much left: Letters and diaries, photos and videotapes - countless parts of the person I was, no longer belonging to the person I am.

Regressive Evolution

2009-05-12T18:38:00.008+02:00

The scarceness of work in the last year makes me think about my life a lot. Maybe it is time to reinvent myself. To let go of the idea that I am a documentary filmmaker for TV, since the TV stations I used to work for in the last 15 years replaced their documentary slots with more and more quiz shows and 'Reality TV', and don't need someone like me any more. Nor do they need my skills as a scriptwriter (if you wonder about that, I normally write in German, of course - this blog is just a means to practise my English so it doesn't rust too badly). These days, every TV series is rerun time and again - probably until the audience knows all dialogues by heart.

So I have become a dinosaur, facing extinction.

Which kind of evolution could save me? Guess I will try to find some ordinary office job soon, and be creative as a hobby instead of for a living.

There could be worse fates, but I still don't like the idea. I might just be a Pterosaur, but I can still fly. And I never wanted to be a battery chicken.

Jobs, anyone?

2009-05-09T01:10:00.005+02:00

More than a month since my last post. Sorry, Jackie (guess you're still the only reader of this blog).
But there isn't much to write about. I've been writing proposals and exposés for TV documentaries, and pitching them to producers - without any success. So, if anyone out there has a job for a German writer/journalist/translator/documentary filmmaker, please let me know!
No, I am not desperate.
Umm. Not yet. That's still a matter of a few months.

Oh well. As antidepressants, I'm still decorating and furnishing my new flat - which is fun - and lately, I delved into the (new) Doctor Who universe.

All my life (at least since my teenage days) I liked watching and reading Science Fiction, but (since the series never made it onto German TV, probably because of the rather incompatible sense of humour) this whole concept was new for me, and I love it. Loved it enough to order and watch three seasons of the series in as many weeks.
Although it's meant to be a program for children, it captivated me with its fantasy and broad-mindedness. Wonderful stories. And great, great performances. In my opinion, Christopher Eccleston was even more convincing as enigmatic, arrogant, powerful, emotionally clueless and unwittingly charming alien than David Tennant, although both are equally irresistible.

Next week, I'll get a new satellite dish. Not for the incredibly repetitive, predictable, uninventive and plainly boring German TV, which by now I simply despair of; but for BBC and other British channels.
And if I'll have enough money left by the end of this month (when the last payments are due for my new flat), I really want to plan a trip to Britain. England, Wales, Scotland; wherever. English isn't my native language, and Britain isn't my country, but I still miss that language, humour and culture in my everyday life.
Oh, and since life is just nature's way of keeping meat fresh, as I learned lately, I really should make the most of my share of it - before this meat starts to rot...

Berlin and Brecht

2009-03-30T22:21:00.008+02:00

This weekend I was in Berlin, to have fun, meet people, and get some informal cultural education. The latter part I mostly spent tracking Bertold Brecht's last years in East Berlin. After exile and a run-in with McCarthy's paranoid minions, Brecht returned to Europe and finally to East Berlin in 1949. But after the war, hardly a theater or hall was left there. Just the Admiralspalast stood as a sole survivor in the rubble around Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse, and most was left of the Theater am Schiffbauerdamm (later Berliner Ensemble) - others were ruins, hollow shells of buildings or mounds of burned rubble.

Brecht stayed anyway, produced as best he could, fought the authorities on many occasions, wrote and directed plays, re-arranged his life several times as he re-arranged his (many) women, and stressed himself to an early death in 1956.

Last night, I watched one of his plays. „Schweyk im zweiten Weltkrieg“, on Brecht's old stage, the Berliner Ensemble. The story is hard to explain to anyone who doesn't know the character of The Good Soldier Schweyk.

The one who pretends to be dumb but cleverly undermines the authority of tyrants by agreeing with them on the surface, and evading/fighting them with cunning and stealth. To me he’s a modern form of the archetypical character of the Trickster (Coyote, Brer Rabbit, Loki, Fox, Anansi, Nasreddin, Till Eulenspiegel... ...do all cultures have their incarnation of the Trickster?).

Brecht wrote his play during WW II. The story and its characters - it's pure genius. Funny and sad, truthful and ironic, simple yet multi-layered, historically correct and visionary. The Berliner Ensemble production was congenial in casting and staging. Art at its best: Entertaining enough so I never felt lectured, yet I learned a lot about difficult times and the nature of people, and it made me think. Today, I am very glad to live now and here, and not in a time or place where I might have to choose between morals and survival.

Between the Rains

2009-03-25T13:42:00.005+01:00

Spring is late in coming this year, in spite of the birds that flew north a month ago. After a few nice and sunny days, we're again sandwiched between low pressure systems and their various cold fronts, with showers of sleet, rain and slushy snow.

Between two showers, I took this picture from my kitchen window. I love that window. Many years ago, when I visited friends in Scotland, I was very impressed by the huge window just above their kitchen sink, overlooking a beautiful wide valley. I always had sinks and stoves where I had to face a boring wall when I was cooking. Now in my new kitchen, the sink has a window, too, so I can watch people and birds and clouds from there, enjoy the view of those century-old houses in the foreground, and the hills in the background.

I'm looking forward to a time when the trees and hills are green. Tenacious as this winter is, that might still take some weeks.

New View

2009-03-19T13:09:00.003+01:00

The view from my new study window. My desk is in front of it, so I see those houses while I'm writing this.
The big one on the left (in the background) is an elementary school. I can watch the children play during breaks. Happy and peaceful scenes, mostly.

Blogging and Twittering

2009-03-18T23:51:00.003+01:00

Two weeks ago, I signed up on Twitter. It's rather addictive to log in and stalk people there, especially since some of the guys I found here are on Twitter, and I don't give up hope to connect somehow (as unlikely as it is, across vast divides of oceans and insignificance).

It also has that appeal of accepting only 140 characters per message. It allows no rambling, no digression, no circumscription. A great training to be succinct and precise in a foreign language.

Still, I like to ramble and digress from time to time. So, this blog will continue.

Regarding my new home, there's little news. One by one, I tackle the many boxes and furniture parts; I drill, plug and bolt, fix lamps, mirrors and shelves, find new places for all those books and DVDs, but there's still an almost endless list of things to do.

Settling in

2009-03-13T23:07:00.003+01:00

All week I spent unpacking boxes, drilling holes into walls, building shelves and wardrobes, cleaning drawers, putting away stuff, moving furniture around (and back again) because it still doesn't have the 'right' place, and cursing my squirrel nature that lets me keep too many things I don't really need. If anything, the chaos seemed to get worse.

And I caught a cold.

And another of my documentary film ideas just was rejected by the TV channel I offered it to.
All in all, this week was not very nice.

Enough whining. It will get better soon. My new home is going to be habitable in a few days, and beautiful in a few weeks. Spring is coming. Soon I will sit on my new terrace, sip latte (or white wine), chat with friends, or use my laptop to stalk people on twitter, and feel thoroughly decadent.

Can't wait.

New Shell

2009-03-09T23:22:00.003+01:00

After three days of moving stuff around and down and up all those stairs (giving me the worst backache I ever had), and two nights spent in my mother's house (because neither kitchen nor bedroom were usable in my new home), this is the first night I spend here.
At home, in my new 'hermit crab shell'.

It still feels strange, as if I broke into someone else's house, or as if I am a visitor while the real owners are on holiday. It's not yet mine.

But it will be. Soon.

Hermit Crab

2009-03-04T20:02:00.005+01:00

Three more nights in my old home, then I will be gone.

It is strange to leave a house after more than 12 years. It has grown on me like a second skin. I look out of the windows and know the neighbours and their habits. There is a Lutheran pastor living opposite of me, who often works at his computer till midnight. His son learns to play the trumpet since three years (without much success, as my tortured ears can testify to). In the next house, two women share a flat on the top floor. One of them always stays up until at least 3 o'clock every night, watching TV in a room that is painted a bright turquoise and stuffed with brightly coloured furniture, so that it looks like a fishbowl from the outside. In yet another house, an Italian woman lives on the ground floor. She always dyes her short, bristly hair in a curious coppery purple shade, and she likes to sit by the window and watch people in the street.

The inside of my old house is so familiar to me, I can (and do) navigate it blindly. Some nights I get up from my sofa or desk, switch the upstairs lights off, and walk down the stairs and into the bathroom or the bedroom in darkness.
I am like a hermit crab, comfortable in its old shell, even if it is slightly too small by now.

It will take years to get as comfortable in the new place. It will be a challenge, but like the hermit crab that has to find a bigger shell every couple of years, I now need the space to grow.

Boxing

2009-03-02T14:17:00.004+01:00

After some weeks spent in lazy limbo, suddenly everything seems to be happening at once. My new home awaits me, all dressed up in a new coat of paint, the kitchen will be installed on Thursday, and on Saturday morning a lorry plus some strong men will arrive to move my furniture and stuff.

Last time I moved, 12 years ago, all the moving and carrying was done by friends. But this time I decided to get professional help. During the last decade, I have accumulated so many things (especially books), I will move from 3rd floor to 3rd floor (and both houses are old, so they don't have a lift) - and I would really like to keep my friends!

And now, I'll have to stop blogging for a week or two, and start packing all those boxes. Dozens of them. Why would anyone buy so many books?

Spring!

2009-02-26T17:02:00.003+01:00

I took this picture half an hour ago from my window. It is a flock of common cranes flying north, just above my house. What I could not capture on a photo was their typical call, the bugle you can hear over a great distance - in fact, I heard them long before I saw them.

So the cranes are flying back north. This is pure joy! It is the first sign of spring. Winter is finally over. Yeah!

The Coolest Thing I Ever Did

2009-02-25T18:39:00.012+01:00

I promised an adventure story for today, and here it is.

Almost five years ago, I had the opportunity to travel as far north as you can get in Europe: To Svalbard aka Spitsbergen, about 80° north, a group of arctic islands, as different from mainland Europe as another planet would be. We were filming some scenes and interviews for a documentary on climate change there, with a focus on the effects of global warming on arctic wildlife. Sounds boring? No, it wasn't!

The trip involved several days of speeding over frozen fjords with snowscooters, looking for the animals we were supposed to capture on video. Seals, walruses, reindeer, an amazing number and variety of seabirds, and - most importantly - polar bears. Since it can be really dangerous to encounter polar bears in the wild, we had a guard with us, a Norwegian ex-soldier who always carried a gun and never left us out of sight. He was tall, fair-haired and macho - the perfect cast for a Viking chieftain in any feature film. And it was good to have him there. One night, the bears came scouting right up to our camp. The tracks we found in the morning were proof of their presence.

Every day, we had to drive for hours to find the right spots and animals, and then had to wait patiently for even more hours to get good shots. So we used all the available daylight, worked almost around the clock, and only slept for three or four hours per night. Some of those nights we stayed on a ship that was frozen into the sea ice, to be used as basecamp for expeditions just like ours.

I will never forget that week. It was mad and frantic. We soon found out that we had to cover a vast area and didn't have nearly enough time for our film project, but there was no way to extend our stay. The trip had already cut a huge slice out of our production budget, so we had to make do. It was cold and uncomfortable at times, we were giddy from lack of sleep and the camera equipment didn't like the cold at all, so we had to be really careful not to use too much battery power - but in the end, none of that mattered. We were incredibly lucky with the weather and cooperative animals, and we managed to get breathtaking footage of arctic wildlife and landscape, plus the required interviews with resident scientists and environmentalists, of course.

Seeing those wild polar bears, seals and walruses was more amazing than I could ever describe with words. The landscape along the Svalbard coast is so beautiful that it almost physically hurt to leave the islands and fly back south. And driving that snowscooter over the snow of frozen valleys and vast stretches of sea ice, sometimes with over 100 kilometres per hour, was definitely the coolest thing I ever did.

First Aid

2009-02-24T21:47:00.009+01:00

Okay, Jackie, here you go. A post today, just for you, my favourite (if probably only) reader!
Sorry it's short. Just wanted to tell you that every blog gives you the option to subscribe to its posts - scroll down to the very bottom of the page, and you'll find it. If you're using the German version, it's called "Abonnieren". Do that, and you don't have to click the page twice a day to see if I posted anything. That must have been hell during the weeks and months when I was AWOL.

I am sorry. To make up for it, I'll write another adventure story tomorrow.

And there is no reason for posting the following, it's just something I found in Berlin once. Love this notion.

Of Past Adventures

2009-02-23T20:53:00.005+01:00

I mostly turn to this blog when I feel either very bored, or maudlin, or both. This is resulting in an assortment of "Life Sighs" which actually makes me feel sorry for anyone who reads it.
(Jackie, you are my heroine. Honestly!)

Enough misery now. Even if my life is rather dull these days, I had a fair share of adventures to write about. Some thrilling ones, some funny ones, and even a few romantic encounters. They could feature in this blog, too, as a change from the usual gloomy posts.

What should I start with? The most exciting adventures were not always pleasant - like the one where I almost freaked out when a friend and I got lost in a maze of crevasses on a glacier, which we had tried to cross without proper gear (we both were very inexperienced and stupid, and lucky to survive the day!) - nor were all the funny ones, like when I embarassed myself in front of a camerateam and dozens of people by walking right into a grass-covered slough in Poland (the locals tried to warn me, but I didn't understand Polish and was already sunk waist-deep in the bog when one of the guys on my team grabbed me and pulled me back to solid ground).

No, I think I'll start with a story of cultural misunderstanding.

I travelled in Scotland once, by bus and train, going north along the east coast. For one night I stayed in a pretty little town called Keiss, which has a very scenic ruin of a medieval castle, right on the edge of a cliff.
I took a room at the local pub and spent the evening downstairs - having a meal at a table by myself, and then a few glasses of ale with the locals at the bar.
It was summer, and night fell late that far north. Looking out of the window, I saw a beautiful dusk. An almost full moon rose over the North Sea, and I decided to take a walk along the beach. That was when one of the men from the bar asked if he could join me.

The first strange thing was that the landlady didn't want to give a house key to me, although I had rented a room in the house. I practically had to fight her for it (and she refused to talk to me the next day until I departed). This should have made me suspicious of the situation's undercurrents - but I had already had a few glasses of ale and was glad for the company of that nice guy.
Until I understood that his idea of 'taking a walk' didn't involve much walking.

When he started kissing me, I was tempted for a moment, but really only a moment. The guy was married - he had told me stories of his wife and kids all evening - and I was soon torn between being amused, exasperated and frightened. It was not easy to get rid if him. I told him over and over again that he was a nice person, and I was very sorry about the misunderstanding, but I really only intended to take a walk and watch the waves by moonlight. I did not want to make him angry, because he had drunk a lot more than I had, and he started to hint at how strong he was and how he could force me. So in the end I let him come back to the pub with me (he was probably hoping for a bed instead of the beach) - where I had to tell him I would yell for help if he did not leave, until he finally gave up. From my room I watched him drive away, and wished I would have gone to the moonlit beach alone.

The next day I settled my bill with the landlord, whose wife didn't even look at me. I took the next bus north, and wondered how they would have laughed about the true story of that 'walk'. But I didn't tell anyone, of course - and I am sure that guy still enjoys his reputation as a seducer of naive foreign tourists.

Out There (or: Fascinated Yet Frustrated)

2009-02-21T19:17:00.017+01:00

These weeks are strange. I wait for my new home to be finished (so I can move), I try to sell my old one, and I am again/still looking for work. So this is a time when I am at home a lot, but I have very little to do except for sorting, packing, brooding, and avoiding unpleasant thoughts by the means of pure escapism.

I watched a lot of DVDs lately, and re-read several sci-fi and fantasy books. And I surfed the net, looking for writers, directors and actors whose work impresses me. There are so many to be found in the www; some with professionally built homepages, some with regularly updated blogs and truly terrific journals. To name only a few: I found (and read most of) Neil Gaiman's Journal, Sir Ian McKellen's official homepage and blog, or the blogs of David Nykl and Kate Hewlett, actors, and Joe Mallozzi, screenwriter and producer from the Stargate universe, one of my favourite resorts faraway from bleak reality.

At first, I was thrilled to have found all their websites. I am impressed by those gentlemen and ladies, their books, scripts, acting; whatever they do, and do so wonderfully.
I loved to learn more about their lives, travels, thoughts and projects. And of course I still do. But in some strange way, those websites and blogs are a curse as well as a blessing.

See, I write and work in the big world of TV myself, and I certainly am no 'fan' of anyone (honestly, I don't even understand the things fans do - like collecting autographs and photos, or travelling to conventions and dressing up as fictional characters).
Thus, I have no intention to obtrude or ingratiate myself with anyone. But the more I read, the more I am impressed by (and feel drawn to) some of those people - writers, actors, or directors from different parts of this world.
Their blogs give me the illusion of getting to know them. They make me want to communicate, as I do with real-life acquaintances or friends.

And there's the catch.

There is no way to connect; no way to get to know any of them. Yes, I left some friendly comments, which (understandably!) remain unnoticed amidst all that cheerful bulk, between dozens of unanswered questions and tons of fanmail.

So, after fascination came frustration. Those guys have genuinely impressed me and make me want to get in touch with them, but it is simply not possible to initiate any kind of dialogue or correspondence. Despite all the so-called interactivity of the world wide web, there just is no way to really get a message across. Too bad.

Animalistic

2009-02-12T23:09:00.014+01:00

Since I don't think it would be wise to try and write anything remotely intelligent today (since I am still suffering from sleep deprivation, and can't even think straight in my own language, let alone in English), I'll continue my mini-series of animal pictures.
(In this layout, they are small, but by clicking on them you'll see them better.)

This is Lisa, one of my mother's new cats (there are two of them who arrived last summer), in the filing cabinet, trying to get filed between the folders for bills and credit card receipts.

She's not always that shy. Here's a more flattering picture of hers:

And while I still feel sheepish, here's a couple of Welsh sheep, posing in front of their residence. I took the photo in September 2008 when hiking up Snowdon (Yr Widdfa) in North Wales.

Sheepless

2009-02-11T14:02:00.005+01:00

Last night, I tried counting sheep - but they just walked away from me.

(This is a photo I made in Iceland in 2006, to illustrate the traffic jam on a typical Icelandic country road.)

Sleepless

2009-02-11T01:31:00.003+01:00

Every now and then, I get a bad case of Existenzangst. That's a German term which means existential fear; angst; the sinking feeling that something - no, everything - is about to go awry. When I was younger, it was a lot worse, but even now I have these times once or twice a year. Times when I don't trust myself to earn a living, to do things right, to be there for my friends, to ever make films again, to ever find new friends; times when I generally expect myself to make a total mess of my life.

It is strange, because the fear is so irrational, not at all based on facts. I am doing reasonably well since almost 20 years now, I am independent, I have a circle of wonderful friends, I am free to live my life and travel the world as I like, and still earn enough money to pay for my flat, my car and all kinds of conveniences. It is a carefree and rather selfish life, and I am aware of the privileges I have.

So I sometimes suspect that I chose a freelancer's job (with no secure income whatsoever) just to cure myself of those bouts of angst. Maybe my whole lifestyle is like one of those therapeutic flights for people who are afraid of flying. It makes me face the fear and see that there is nothing to worry about.

Most of the time, it works. Only now, the fact that I am going to be broke once I move to my new place, stirs it all up again. I have a relapse, and a bad one. Can't sleep, can't eat, can't even think straight. Every night for the last ten days I sat up in bed till 04:00 am, browsing the internet on my laptop or reading boring books (hoping they'll make me sleepy).

But it has its good sides, too. I lost some of my surplus weight, and I have discovered many interesting websites and blogs lately. About Iceland and India, about music, films and people.

Once I am able to use my brain again, I'll list the links and tell you more...

Irreversible

2009-02-03T22:23:00.003+01:00

It is done. The contract is signed, the flat is going to be mine in a few weeks - in exchange for practically all my savings. Suddenly, I was no longer sure if this was a wise thing to do. It made me feel strangely vulnerable, no longer having a financial buffer to fall back on. Especially now, at a time when it becomes more difficult to find jobs.

But then I went there. I started planning the kitchen, decided on some changes that will need to be done before I move in, and then I visited my soon-to-be next door neighbours. They made me feel truly welcome and spontaneously opened a bottle of champagne to toast our new neighbourship.

A perfect start for the move to my new home. I don't feel poor and vulnerable anymore, but rich and vital, and full of energy.
I only hope that this is not just the effect of the champagne.

Jackie's Question

2009-01-30T10:24:00.004+01:00

This is an answer to the question my faithful friend Jackie asked in her comment to Backstage:

"Are you able to write ANYTHING?! I mean, as long as you get the documents and details, would you be able to write about any topic/issue/subject even if it's about - let's say - cell biology, automation engineering or computer science? Is it only that those people just need someone who writes the TEXT itself without really having knowledge of the stuff they have to write or do you need to actually understand that stuff? (Well at least in my imagination I think that I would need to understand it....)"

Good question.

Yes, of course I have to understand what I write about, otherwise the result would surely become an utter disgrace for me and, worse, my client. And of course there are many topics I could not write about, without putting in a lot of time and effort for reading, learning and understanding in the first place. Automation engineering and computer science are among them; cell biology isn't, because I actually studied biology at university.

Whatever subject I tackle, I need to feel comfortable with it first. So I usually spend some time with research and reading before I start on a project. Maybe there are subjects (like computer science) where I would have to invest so much time and effort in learning about them, that I could not make a profit from them anymore, so I would have to refuse them for practical reasons. But theoretically (although this sounds terribly arrogant), yes, I could write anything - given enough time for research and preparation.

You see, I love to learn and to be challenged. I love my job because of the diversity of subjects I read, research and work about. In my 16 years of experience I have already written or made documentaries about quite a variety of topics. Documentaries usually include some travelling and many of them gave me access to unusual places. I have been to arctic islands, primeval forests and archeological digs, inside steel works and power houses, government departments, psychiatric wards and university labs, at factories, farms and feature film shoots, on glaciers and mountaintops and on fishing trawlers.

I have written about a lot of subjects including energy policy, quantum physics, bollywood films, waste disposal, earthquakes, allergies, migratory birds, climate change, compulsive gambling, immigrants, genetic engineering, pedagogics and education, and many kinds of environmental and natural history subjects, often with a focus on fascinating animals like whales and polar bears.
That is why I think there is no limit to possible subjects.

On the downside: My friends refuse to play quiz games or scrabble with me anymore. I have won too often.

On Top

2009-01-28T16:25:00.006+01:00

Earlier today I wrote a lot about writing, but nothing about moving. This is a picture of the view (well, part of the view) from the place that will soon be mine. Yay!

(Please click on it if you want to see the real thing.)

Backstage

2009-01-28T11:13:00.006+01:00

The book is finished; the book that I have just written. It is a nonfiction book about children's disorders - you know, all that attention deficit and hyperactivity stuff which is worrying more and more parents around the globe (and increases the production of pills that keep kids calm and parents happy). The book will be published in a few months, under the name of a professor of educational science. I was only her ghostwriter. I have done this kind of job before, mostly with articles and once with another nonfiction book.

In this case it is okay, because I didn't do much research for the book; I got some (very) detailed and scientific thesis and dissertation papers to work with, so my job was more like a translation from scientific lingo to everyday language, plus quite a lot of editing. And of course translators and editors don't appear on the cover of a book.

It is a simple deal: The professor gets the credits, I get the money. It is only fair, but still, that kind of arrangement is not always easy for my ego to digest. I was a lot more ambitious when I started being a writer, journalist and filmmaker all those years ago. I wanted to make a name for myself. I had dreamed of being a writer since I was a child. The first time when I sold my writing skills to someone else, it felt like a betrayal of everything I had hoped for. I wanted to be recognized, not to be some part of the service industry.

Maybe it is a lesson in humility I really need to learn. Without giving up hope that I will be the one on stage again, some day.

Time flies...

2009-01-23T20:55:00.003+01:00

God, it's been months since I felt like writing anything here.

It's not exactly an exciting life I am leading these days, and I long for a chance - any chance - to make films again. But even documentaries cost money, and finding someone willing to pay for a docu seems to get more difficult all the time.
So I am mostly earning my money by writing now. Ghostwriting even. Some people have to write books or articles without having enough time (or skill *g*) for that task, so they pay someone else to write their stuff for them.

That's what I do (in my own language of course, not in English), and it's slowly driving me nuts. Not the writing as such - I love writing - but the fact that it's such a lonely profession. I really, really miss the travelling and the teamwork, the thrill and the stress of making films.

But I found a new apartment, to which I will move in a month or so. It is bigger than my current one, with more space for guests, and with a rooftop terrace overlooking most of the city I live in. A whole landscape of roofs, spires and faraway hills will be surrounding me there.

Now I dread the packing and moving, but I am already looking forward to spring, sunshine and dinners with friends on my new roof. It will be perfect (I hope).

Lets see what else this year will bring...

Harvest

2008-08-12T20:25:00.004+02:00

I'm feeling soooo rich these days!

After a summer full of fruit (strawberries and cherries, currants and gooseberries) there is a sudden wealth of potatoes, tomatoes, courgettes and apples to be harvested. Spinach and endive are still growing.
I am eating self-grown veggies every day now. All thanks to a few hours of work during weekends this spring.
It is incredibly rewarding and satisfactory to enjoy my own little harvest.

Of course I could have bought all those things in the supermarket around the corner. But bought fruits and vegetables just don't taste like the ones from the garden, and they could never carry the sweet flavour of this very special achievement: I produced something with my own hands' work (and of course the help of earth, sun and rain).

It's a small feast every day. Totally worth the little sweat they cost me!

Illegitimate

2008-05-24T18:17:00.003+02:00

Just be there
You won’t have to talk
You won’t have to hold me
You won’t have to smile
Just be there
This once.

Just watch me
No need to say you’re proud
No need to support me
No need to lift your thumb
Just watch me
This once.

I know that you’re proud
And you would like to hold me
I know that you can’t.
I understand.
Please be there
This once.

BigBlog

2008-05-12T01:05:00.003+02:00

Once more, a little bit of Bollywood has found a way into my life.

Amitabh Bachchan is not only an actor, but one of the greatest heroes of Indian cinema - a superstar since the early 1970s. By chance, I stumbled across his blog on its first day. For almost a month now, "Big B" (as his fans call him) has been blogging. Daily! And his blog has countless readers. Hundreds of comments of his ardent fans appear within a few hours of each of his blog entries.

I could not resist posting a few comments, too, although I am not his 'fan ' in the sense of the word. 'Fan' comes from 'fanatic', and I'm too much of a skeptic to be fanatical about anyone. But he writes very interesting - sometimes fascinating - posts. I am surprised at the vulnerability of this superstar, his touchiness whenever some tabloid or magazine writes a critical comment - but then, "Big B" strikes back in a witty, ironical and sometimes cynical way, which reminds me a lot of my late father. So human, tender, and endearing!

Thus, I'd like to recommend the "Big *B*log" as great reading to everyone who's interested.

Hard Work

2008-05-12T00:32:00.003+02:00

Today, as most Sundays lately, I have spent in the garden. Digging, planting, weeding, cutting trees, building paths.
When I was young, just out of school, I was a professional landscape gardener for some time. It was my job, my daily routine, and I did it for a living. It was hard work, tiring and monotonous. Maybe that is why I did not enjoy working in the garden for so many years.

But now my mother's garden needed some attention. My mother is wonderfully fit for her age, and she still does a lot of work around the house and garden herself. But that garden is quite big, and during the last decade, weeds, shrubs and trees have taken over much of the spaces that once were a vegetable garden, flower beds and a lawn.

So, some weeks ago I started going there every weekend, and fighting a battle against nettles, ground elder and other weeds that formed a thick, green carpet in the former vegetable patch. Square meter for square meter, I dug it up, pulled at thick mats of nettle roots, carried buckets full of weeds to the compost heap, and planted strawberries, raspberries, and currants in the re-conquered ground.
Then I dug up another patch for potatoes. And in the sunniest part of the vegetable plot, I planted tomatoes and courgettes.

The plants are growing fast now. Of course, this summer there will only be a couple of handfuls of berries, and just enough vegetables for a few meals. But they will be mine - the result of my work, my own harvest. Ever since humans became farmers, they must have felt this same anticipation and satisfaction. And suddenly, I found out about this simple bliss. Just now, I want to forget about my efforts in scriptwriting and filmmaking, and be nothing else than a gardener.

Maybe the hundreds of generations of farmers in my DNA are stronger than just three generations of intellectuals.

The Greenest Time

2008-05-06T13:33:00.004+02:00

My life is not really a happy one, these days. I feel lonely a lot, and I don't have work.

As a free-lance journalist and filmmaker, I often went through phases of overwork, followed by a lull. I was used to a roller-coaster life - like a boat in a storm, then a calm and then another storm. But since a couple of months, there's no storm in sight, and the endless calm begins to fray my nerves.

So, am I going to spiral down into a full-blown depression? Not in springtime! May in Germany is the most beautiful month of the year. All the migrating birds have come back to nest, and they fill the air with song every morning and night. Wild flowers thrive in every meadow, all trees are in bloom, and the forests are so intensely green, it seems almost unnatural - as if someone took a digital photo, and boosted its colour saturation to the limit.

I go out for a walk every day, just to see it all. I watch squirrels, butterflies, birds and bumble-bees, and forget to feel lonely and jobless. Every day I am amazed at the speed of growth in all that greenery, at new flowers and different colours.
It surely beats Prozac!

A Trip and an Ending

2008-04-30T00:40:00.006+02:00

It has been a long time since I blogged last.

Jackie, some time back you asked how my trip was. Honestly, it was not a big success, and it may have been my last visit to India. It just wasn't any fun. The friend with whom I went there was sick (because of some rotten food) for about two thirds of our trip, and many of our Indian 'friends' were acting very strangely.

Both my travel companion and I had (or thought we had) about a dozen friends in Mumbai. Only, most of them did not act friendly in any way. It may have been another of those cultural misunderstandings, but to me it is insulting if someone assures you (before you make the trip to another continent) "Great you are coming, lets meet, let me know if you need anything, you can stay with us!" - and when you get to Mumbai, the next you hear is, "I am in Delhi/Goa/Bangkok/Australia today/ this weekend /all week, but let's meet later and catch up! I'll call you when I am back". Then you never hear from them again until your flight home takes off. What kind of friend does that?

And this happened not with one person, but with seven, at least two of whom have lied about their respective business trips - one was seen and reported to us by another friend (thank God one of them remembered her offer and really let us stay with her, otherwise we would have needed to find a hotel room in a hurry), and we actually bumped into the other one when we visited Mehboob Studios in Bandra. There the person (who had SMSed us that he was in Australia) worked at a film shoot. He saw us, pretended to have come back just now, and disappeared again because of some "urgent work" somewhere else. Yeah, sure...

So despite a nice trip to the spectacular sights of Agra and Rajasthan, and some truly sweet encounters with the remaining few friends, India will remain a country of misunderstandings and broken promises for me.

Oh, and last but not least: On my very last afternoon in Mumbai I also bumped into "him". There is fate for you: You travel to a city with 20 million inhabitants, and you accidentally meet the one you try to forget.
Luckily, he had grown a not-very-attractive paunch and beard, and all in all I was too surprised to react emotional in any way. So I smiled, asked him how he was, and if he was happy. But he could or would not say much. Later that night I received an SMS from him, (in fluent English, which means it was written by someone else), calling me "Darling" and asking me to stay and meet him. But I only answered I didn't want him to play games with me again, and wished him a happy life. Even if I had been tempted: The same night my flight left for Frankfurt.

So now I am back in Europe with all my heart. The whole India episode has lasted almost one year, and it is over.
Bollywood is meant for the big screen, not for life. Not for mine, anyway.

India Again

2007-11-27T07:27:00.001+01:00

In a few hours I'll be sitting in a plane to Mumbai again. Just as a tourist this time, for three weeks; to visit friends, go sightseeing, and to make my peace with 'his' country. 'Him' - meaning the guy whom I went to see half a year ago with hope and trepidation - I will not meet. I did not hear a word from him in all these months. I understand he doesn't want to speak to me or to meet me, so I won't try any more.

I'm not going there on my own this time, but traveling with a friend. Together we will explore unknown places and enjoy to be in a vivid, warm, lovely and chaotic place of the world - one that's very unlike our own orderly home, that's cold, gray and dark at this time of the year.

A Small Life

2007-11-13T19:33:00.001+01:00

She was my father's cat until he died eight years ago. She was my mother's cat until yesterday.
When she came, she was a shy little thing, who appeared out of the blue one summer's day in 1995. Where she came from, we never knew, nor how old she was then. She was mortally afraid of brooms and sticks, so she must have had bad experiences before she discovered my parents' home, and decided to stay. My father named her Susi.

She never liked to catch mice around the house, but she became a devoted companion to my father who was sick and unhappy at that time. When she grew older and stayed in the house most of the time, my mother doted on her (more than she ever admitted). Sometimes when I phoned, my mother let me listen to the sound of Susi's happy purring over the phone, and then I knew: All is well at home.

Susi even purred when I petted her the last time, day before yesterday. She was a sick, old cat then, hardly able to move and finally beyond help. Today my mother and I buried her little, light body in the garden, right where she used to sit and watch birds - she stopped chasing them years ago, but even in old age loved to pretend to be a great hunter.

She was only a cat. But we have lost a loved one with her.

Breathing space

2007-09-05T09:13:00.001+02:00

Working as a freelancer has its ups and downs - sometimes there is hardly any work at all to be done (and very little money coming in), and sometimes work comes raining, pouring and flooding.

I was inundated in work for weeks. Gladly so, because it gave me no time to think about missed opportunities, or regret whatever mistakes I might have made in spring, when I was hoping for love. By now, all of it seems long ago and buried under a thick layer of sensible thoughts and much more important things - at least more important moneywise.

Now, for the first time since two months, I have a few free days coming up, and I am going to spend them in the mountains.
I feel drawn to mountains in times like these, they give me breathing space in every sense of the word - clean air, lots of space, calmness and beauty. It clears my head and gives me a feeling of freedom to hike up a mountain; just to be there, on top of the world, overlooking the valleys and their bustle...
...I can hardly wait to get there.

Hangover

2007-06-25T00:21:00.001+02:00

Pink clouds
throw the blackest shadows.
After flying high
I'm falling deep and dark.
On the other side of happiness
is nothing but pain.

Getting drunk on happiness
left a hangover of self-pity.
My colourful dreams
fade into a gray dusk.
On the other side of hope
is nothing but despair.

Fallen from clouds and dreams
only loneliness is left.
Again a bittersweet poem
in my diary
pays tribute to another failure
in my life.

Falada

2007-06-14T23:28:00.002+02:00

How familiar are you with the brother Grimm's fairy tales?
They are truly grim tales mostly, full of blood and gore.
If I had a small child, I'm not sure if I'd want him/her to read those stories. But the name I chose for this, my weblog's, identity came from Grimm's Märchen.

Falada is a horse who can speak. He's a princess's horse, and that princess (who has no name but 'the Goose-Girl' in the tale) is betrayed by her maid. The maid takes the princess's place when they set out to meet her royal bridegroom; she steals her mistress's dresses, jewels and horse, and poses as bride when they reach the prince's kingdom - the real princess is forced to herd geese, and her mount Falada is slaughtered as by the intruder's orders. But Falada remains loyal to the real princess even after death. His head (that's been nailed above the castle's door) still talks, and answers the princess's questions. Because they're talking every day about their cruel fate, finally the princely bridegroom finds out who's his real bride, and he punishes the intruder and marries the real princess.

In that fairy tale, Falada always stays faithful to his mistress. His life is needlessly sacrificed, but still he remains loyal and unwaveringly so. There is a Happy End to the tale - but not for Falada, who had long since been slaughtered, so he can't be rescued or revived.

post scriptum

2007-06-04T23:55:00.001+02:00

One day later, no news. Again I tried to call, again no answer. No answer to the last of my SMS messages, too. I will quit trying now. There is no way to reach that guy, as he obviously does not want to talk to me.

With tears in my eyes I removed his smiling picture from my desk today. I would not have thought it possible for this episode to affect me that deeply; or for any end to hurt me that much again.

This may sound pathetically dramatized, but I'm in that kind of mood right now, so let me confess to you: My heart had been thoroughly broken once before, by another man, almost ten years ago. I was truly devastated then and almost lost the will to live. Since that time I had never really, unrestrictedly loved anyone. Until I almost did, now. And something went horribly wrong again.
I really wish I knew WHAT went wrong.

I will stop writing any more about this whole story now, as it does not make sense to speculate, and I have wallowed in enough self-pity to make me feel sick myself.

Just one more thing: Today I feel very grateful to my friends - the one in Mumbai who told me the truth (thanks, Rahul!) - and those here at home, who came, or called, or wrote, and supported me these days.
I am glad to have friends like you, thank you for your help!
You give me a lot of strength and I really need it now. Today I don't knew what I'd done without you.

Unhappy End

2007-06-03T21:35:00.001+02:00

My little love story has come to an end.

Since I had not heard anything from my 'Mr. India' since I left Mumbai almost a week ago, I asked a mutual friend if he knew what happened. So today it was just a SMS - not even from the one whose message I have been waiting for, but from his friend - that told me that it's over; with the cryptic addendum: "He loves you a lot, but..."

A "but" and three dots, and I don't even know what they mean. I am left guessing:
"But you are too different"?
"But you are too old"?
"But you have the wrong religion/ skin colour/ language/ nationality"?

Of course, the distance between India and Germany is a lot bigger than just miles. It is a different culture with different values, and somewhere I may have made a mistake which I am not even aware of.

I am very, very sad.

What irks me, is that I really don't know what went wrong. I tried to call him today, but his phone was switched off, and he did not answer my messages.

So there it is. Final, not at all happy, and very unsatisfactory:
The End.

After

2007-05-30T13:25:00.003+02:00

Back from Mumbai, still tired from eight hours of sleepless night flight in a packed aircraft. The trip was everything I imagined, and more; heat, dust and traffic, unexpected friendship and incredible hospitality, innumerable colours and tastes, and new deep insights in Indian everyday life and about the Bollywood film industry.

Below the glamorous surface of Bollywood as seen in magazines, TV and the movies themselves, there is the most ruthless and competitive industry I've ever known. People can be made to work for three or four days and nights at a time without a break, just because some shooting schedule demands it. I have seen it happen to some of my friends last week, who slogged nonstop from Wednesday morning till Friday night, for more than 60 hours without sleep. If someone is not up to these work times, he'll have to leave his job. There will be 20 young, strong guys waiting to get an opportunity like this...

But you (at least Jackie) will want to know more about my own Bollywood story. It's gone into it's next chapter, but there's no happy end as yet. There was one moonlit, romantic evening at Juhu Beach, a dinner and some talk. We met twice again at a friend's house for a glass of chai, but otherwise he worked (see above), and during our few short meetings he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open, let alone make conversation in English. And in fear of losing his job, he never dared to take even a few hours off to be with me.

I felt as if the guy I had met in March, the one who loved to laugh and to cheer me up, had changed into a kind of robot on auto-pilot, able to move, but without any spirit of his own. It was sad, and a little frightening.

Now, after my time in Mumbai, I hope he loves me, too. He said so. But I don't know if I can trust him, or if there will be a future for us. Maybe this is the end of my Bollywood romance, and it isn't even interesting or dramatic enough to make a good film script.

Before

2007-05-17T19:13:00.000+02:00

Today is the last day before my trip to Mumbai. In about 24 hours my plane will land in that incredible city.

Then I will be just one of 20 odd million people on a crowded peninsula. I will choke in permanent traffic jams, be assaulted by noise, smells and damp heat; I will sweat on the streets and freeze in airconditioned buildings, and I will feel as much out of place as a penguin in the desert.
I must be mad to do this for fun.

And I'll see my friends again, get pampered by the nicest hosts I've ever had, enjoy the never ending diversity among the city's chaos, taste lots of unknown fruits and spices, and learn as much as I can about a different kind of live and about a culture that fascinates me. Perhaps I'll even find a little love.
I would be mad not to do this.

Call of Hope

2007-05-02T17:18:00.000+02:00

One short phone call made my day.

There are still some weeks to wait until the 'real life Bollywood movie' can go into it's second half, but there will be a second half after all.

Yesterday, my friend called. It was a short phone call - he's working in some rural part of India and the connection was lousy - but it was so good to hear his voice, and to know he'll be waiting for me when I get there.

The countdown to post-intermission is at 17 days now. Whatever is going to happen then, I hope I will get a chance to write a part of this movie script myself, and make it into a romantic film instead of a pure comedy...

Trying too hard

2007-04-28T14:37:00.000+02:00

The 'intermission' has been two weeks long by now, and it doesn't look as if there will be a Happy End in real life. There has not been an answer to my letter, nor an answer to a SMS message I sent in the meantime.

This should be the moment when I go back to my DVD rack, pop in one of my most sugary Bollywood movies and start dreaming again - after all, second hand love stories are so much less complicated that real ones.

But I will not yet give up. In three weeks I'll fly to India, to try and meet him once more.

Of course not only him. I've already made plans to see the friends and colleagues, with whom I worked (and I am very much looking forward to it!), and to do some research on two new projects. But yes, the main motivation is to see that guy again, the one who doesn't answer my messages.

I know I'm trying too hard. I know this act is foolish, pathetic and desperate.
But what do I have to lose?

A Letter

2007-04-13T21:10:00.001+02:00

Today I sent a love letter.

I can't even remember when I did that the last time. It must be years, maybe a decade ago. In times of internet, email, mobile phones and SMS it seems so strange to write a letter like that.

But this time I had no choice, and I had to write it in English - which is neither my own language nor the language of the one it's addressed to - since it's the only language we have in common.

It feels strange to drop an envelope into a postbox and settle down to wait. I hate waiting. But I will have to wait for weeks until I get an answer - if I ever get it. Because that letter has to go a long way, all the way to India.

Bollywood is creeping into my life more and more, it's colourful madness seems to be slowly winning over the German sensibility and practicality that used to rule my brain.
If I write the whole story, this post will get really long. Even the short version seems to be half a novel. But anyway, here it is:

I worked for a Indian film team all March. I was very busy becoming a tiny part of Bollywood right here in the middle of Europe, being with the mostly Indian crew all day and sometimes half the night - working 15 hours per day, and still, to my own surprise, finding enough energy to go out, have a glass or two of beer, and talk until two or three in the morning. (If anyone wondered: That's why I never posted all that time.)

To my utter confusion and embarrassment, I fell in love with one of the Indian crewmembers on the very first day, for all the wrong reasons. Remember my last post? The one about Raju aka Govinda? Well, that guy reminded me of Govinda - there was something about his looks, his movements, his smile, that pulled the same strings in my heart. And there I was - instantly crushing on him, but I resolved not to let it cloud my vision, not to let it impede my work - best, not to let it show at all.

So I did not seek his company, and at night, when I went out for a drink, I went with others.
But whenever I looked at him, I found him already looking at me. And in that team of almost a hundred people, we ended up sitting at the same table for lunch quite often; or standing in the same corner, or having a glass of tea at the same time. Then we would talk a little (if we could understand each other's English, which wasn't always easy), laugh a little, and meet again a few hours later, for a couple of shared minutes or just seconds.

My resolve finally eroded. And I fell again, this time for reasons that seem right to me: Because he was charming, gentle and courteous, shy at first and confident later; because he always ignored the jeering comments of his colleagues when he sat down beside me; because he is a good companion and an amazing dancer, and because he loves to laugh and to make me laugh.

And when I finally admitted to myself that I really fell in love, the film crew had just left this country and was on its way back to India.

Bollywood has taken over. I feel caught in a mediocre script. The first act in this movie was mostly comedy, the second a funny and sweet little romance, but now there's finally a moment of real drama: I do not reach his hotel in time to say good-bye, his bus has already left.
Cut to: A plane starts. Cut back: Comic heroine slinks back home.

For a whole week I was depressed, and angry at myself for wasting so much time trying to be sensible. Finally I decided to make up for that mistake, and - if possible - give us a second chance. I don't care any more that he lives on another continent. I don't care that he doesn't speak my language nor I his, nor that his job isn't as 'good' (or anywhere as well paid) as mine, nor that he's younger than I am. I don't care if this match is the most unlikely one on earth, because I feel like in a movie and there has to be a Happy End. I only have to make it possible.

He doesn't have a computer, thus no email. All we have for communication is SMS, at least he's got a mobile. I did not call, because I don't want to risk my precious message to be lost in translation, but I asked for his address and got it.

And I sent a love letter today. A message that will take a week to reach him. In times of digital mail and instant delivery, this seems an eternity. How many weeks before I get an answer? Will I ever get an answer?

Here this Bollywood film has its cliffhanger, big enough for a long intermission.

Salaam-E-Ishq, or: Declaration of love

2007-02-08T17:20:00.000+01:00

Since a few years, I am a fan of Hindi films, so-called “Bollywood” movies. I’ve lost count of how many I have seen till date, maybe 350.

Some are funny, some are sugary, some are thrilling, others longish and slightly boring; but some are just perfect. Some are a mixture of all this, but for me they certainly are one thing: Good fun, and often the kind of fairytale that appeals to the hopeful little girl I once was, and soothes my old, much-too-cynical heart.

And one in particular let me fall in love with Indian films all over again. It’s called Salaam-E-Ishq, ‘A Tribute to Love’, and it came out two weeks ago. Luckily it was shown in a cinema near me (which is rare) and I went and watched it. Twice.

It’s 220 minutes long, it’s a convoluted tale of several stories – all about different shades of love – and many critics hated it. Yet I loved it. For me it was the perfect ‘masala’, a well-balanced blend of romantic, funny, tragic and heroic with a pinch of the erotic, pathetic and sweetly innocent thrown in as well. And a great entertainer.

One of the stories I liked best was that of Raju taxiwallah and his dream girl. It is a fairytale par excellence, the story of a bachelor taxi driver in Delhi, who keeps waiting year after year for his Western dream girl to appear and fall in love with him. But just when Raju thinks he has found the woman of his dreams, he finds out she only came to India in search of her boyfriend, and he drove her to the wrong place because they can’t understand each others language.

But he never gives up, and even decides to help her in searching for her lost love. Many adventures follow –heartbreakingly funny, sad and sweet – before she even takes notice of Raju as a person and accepts him as a friend.

Nikhil Advani (the director), and his cast, the Indian actor Govinda (whom I so far only knew as a comedian I didn't even like much) and the South African actress Shannon Esra, have created a truly beautiful fairytale here. One that surely appeals to millions of people - not only to all lonesome taxi drivers, tourist guides and waiters in India who might still wait for their dream-girl to appear, but also to all lonesome women in search of love. This is exactly the kind of man every woman dreams about: Charming, funny, attractive and strong. Above all he stays unfailingly patient, respectful and responsible towards his loved one, even if she acts rather foolish in her desperation. Language or status are utterly insignificant here, this selfless and faithful Raju has all the characteristics of a true hero.

The story makes me want to catch the next flight to Delhi and take a tasseled taxi to Agra. But my old, much-too-cynical heart tells me there is no Raju for me; neither there, nor anywhere else. So I remain at home in my cold little European town, waiting for the next movie to let me dream of true love again.

Freak Winter

2007-01-21T11:10:00.001+01:00

Two thirds of January are over and I have yet to see any snow.

This is most unusual. Granted, I don't live in the Alps or even on a hill, but even in the German valleys like mine the first snow usually falls in November. It then melts away soon, but more will come in December, and in January the landscape will be white (or at least mottled white), and stays like that until February or March.

But not this winter. We had record temperatures all through November and December. It's been raining and storming, with no snow and hardly any frost. In the first half of January we even had temperatures up to 15° C, so people where sitting outside in street cafés and the first spring flowers came out - two months too early.

I am worried. What is happening to nature if the climate keeps heating this quickly? I have seen some birds starting to build nests now, in January. Will their eggs survive if it becomes colder next month? What about the trees, which are starting to blossom now - are they going to freeze and die, or will we have cherries in April and apples in June this year? When none of last summer's moths, snails, wasps, ticks and mosquitoes freeze to death (as usually happens), will we be plagued by pests this year?

We will see. But one thing really angers me. Yesterday I heard a radio interview with some meteorologist who still doubted man-made effects in this climate change. How blind or biased can an scientist still be? Of course after a devastating storm which left 25 dead, people love to hear, "You are not responsible for this, it is just freak weather and could have happened at any time."
But it is the wrong kind of message, we need to feel responsible to change something, even if it is too late for the 25 dead of this storm and all the other victims of "freak weather" all over the planet.

Avatar

2006-11-15T22:04:00.000+01:00

When I was in Switzerland in September, I went hiking with a friend for some days. Our proudest moment was when we arrived on top of the Schilthorn after an ascent from 1500 to 2970 meters altitude - no, not spectacularly climbing sheer rock walls, just walking slowly but steadily uphill for a few exhausting and exciting hours.

The Schilthorn has a steep path on one side and a cable car on the other, that's going all the way up to the summit. At the top there is a souvenir shop, and a revolving restaurant as well as a terrace with some benches to enjoy the very spectacular view.

And for those soft-legged tourists who go up there by cable car instead of their own feet, there's a signpost with this sign at the entrance to the very rocky mountain path my friend and I came up on.

I loved it for its absurdity (who on earth would want to wear high heels on a steep mountain path?). At the restaurant I asked why they put this funny sign up, and was told: It's necessary, since some accidents have already happened. With Indian tourists mostly, and because of Bollywood movies. So often has romance been shown to Indians in form of fashionably (and impractically) dressed movie stars dancing on Swiss mountaintops, that it's become a habit for honeymoon couples to go to Switzerland for some romance and dance. Preferably on a mountaintop, of course; and often also dressed in their most elegant clothes and footwear, totally disregarding the rough terrain and unpredictable weather conditions at almost 3000 meters altitude.

So this sign has been put up by exasperated Swiss personnel who got tired of telling all the happy tourists please not to try and walk on the rocks and ice in high heels, thin sandals, slides or slippers.

I went back to it in my walking boots and made a photo of it. Then I made it my avatar in my favorite forum for Bollywood films. This silly sign represents me, now. Not only on a practical level, because in everyday life I like comfortable boots and jeans a lot better than fancy shoes and dresses. I also don't believe in the ideas of romance and eternal love anymore, which movies or romantic novels show us. Like high heels they are pretty, but become dangerous in rough terrain; and like high heels they seem to elevate women, but cripple them in the long term.
Have you ever noticed how easily a woman in high heels looses her balance? A woman like that can neither run away nor fight.

Long Nights

2006-11-08T22:06:00.000+01:00

It is November, and in my part of the world the days are getting shorter. There is fog in the air every morning now, and only sometimes the sun manages to fight its way through.
Most birds have flown south, to warmer places. Here, the last leaves are falling, and first frosts make us realize that summer is gone without a trace and winter is beginning - the cold and the dark.

I was born in November, and when I was little, my father used to say: "It wasn't a stork that brought you as a baby, but a crow." And even though I never really believed in the stork story, that sentence always made me feel slightly doubtful about my background.
Then my birthday would be planned, and I envied my classmates and friends who could celebrate their birthdays in summer, when we could play in some garden and have some ice-cream in the sun. An indoor children's party in foggy November just isn't the same thing, even with ice-cream (which made stains on clothes and on the carpet anyway and wasn't very popular with mothers).

These days I am grown-up, and birthdays are no longer something to look forward to; year after year they are becoming more of a thing to endure, or even to dread; a thing that makes a depressing November even more gray.

The week after next I'll be older once again. And oh man, am I depressed.
I wish I could follow the birds to warmer and sunnier places, with cheerful people and happy sounds. Today I only heard the occasional croaking of a crow outside of my window - and it made me feel as if the d**ed animal would be cackling cynically at my self-pity.

Rock in the Surf

2006-11-05T22:21:00.000+01:00

The last couple of weeks were a test of strength to me. I feared to lose my mother, who is the only close family member I have.

These weeks included a cancer diagnosis and surgery for her, and many days at her hospital bedside for me. A time about which I don't find much to tell: there is nothing entertaining or exciting about a hospital room, and nothing to do but to wait and hope.

I was surprised at my own patience sometimes, the ability to wait until she woke up after one of her many short, exhausted naps, and pick up our conversation where it had stopped. I was able to give her hope, whenever her fears grew too big, and to make her laugh whenever she felt depressed.

After weeks of waiting for the surgeons' verdict, finally they brought good news: The operation was successful, there was no more cancer to be found. My mother is back at home now, slowly and steadily healing and getting stronger again.

And only now I feel exhausted, battered and very, very tired.

Zäune

2006-10-14T01:46:00.000+02:00

Ein Feuerwerk sehe ich
Aus meinem Dachfenster
Da draussen feiern Menschen
Und ich sehe nur zu
Als Zaungast bei ihrem Fest.

Ich besuche meine Freunde
Und kehre zurück unter mein Dach
Auch zwischen lieben Menschen
Fühle ich mich
Als Zaungast bei ihrem Fest.

So viele bunte Feuerwerke
Betrachte ich aus der Ferne.
Das Leben ist ein Fest
Und ich schaffe es nicht,
über den Zaun zu steigen.

(geschrieben im Jahr 2001)

Speechless

2006-10-14T01:04:00.000+02:00

Sometimes I am busy and active, travelling abroad or just spending time among friends, colleagues or other people. Then I do not even think of my singledom.

But sometimes there are days like today. Days when I work at my computer at home; days when I have no reason to call anyone and no one calls me. Communication happens via email, if at all.

Around noon I might go downstairs, to empty my letterbox and do some shopping in the little supermarket across the street. After some more hours at work I cook a simple meal for myself, watch a DVD or read. When it is time to go to bed, I realize: I have not spoken a word to any living being all day.

Like today. There was no phonecall, not even from my mother (who, although retired, has a very busy life, loves travelling, and does not always remember to tell me if and when she is at home). I did not have a reason to call a friend, I did not even feel lonely until now - and now it is well past midnight and much too late to phone anyone.

So I will go to bed after a day of silence and work. A hermit's day, but without prayer and without a blessing.

Goodbye

2006-10-11T14:59:00.000+02:00

A friend is leaving. Not just for a holiday or another town, but leaving the country for good. Yesterday we had dinner and a bottle of champagne together, for what may well have been the last time ever.
We have met a few years ago, felt attracted to each other, were lovers for a little while...
...we even managed to become close friends again after that little while...
...and now it is over.

I knew it for months, but now it is reality. A part of my present has become a part of my past. It left a huge hole in my future.

Hope

2006-10-07T01:20:00.001+02:00

When I started working as a free-lance documentary filmmaker and TV journalist, I made a number of reports about energy politics and climate change. At that time, 15 years ago, the science was already sound and believable, but politics and industry managed to make the idea of climate change sound like some mentally deranged treehugger's armageddon scenario.

I remember how much I hoped for some insights, for political movement, for people using their imagination to see and prevent a future of heat, drought, storms, melting ice and rising sea-levels. I even was naive enough to believe that my films and articles would make a difference, however little.

Kyoto came and went; but basically, neither scientific proof nor the real experience of the hottest 10 years in known history (all of them happening since then) made a difference to the rising CO² levels.

At some point I gave up making those films. Today, the electricity I use comes from renewable energies; a little difference that cost me a few cents each month - no big difference for me or the planet, but I always wished more people would do something. Just a little bit of awareness could still make a difference - oh yes, I am still naive enough to hope.

Especially since now there's another filmmaker tackling the subject: Al Gore. His film 'An Inconvenient Truth' will release soon in my country, and I am looking forward to watching it.

(see http://www.climatecrisis.net/ )

He may have a real chance to make some difference with his film. I wish him the best!

2006-10-04T00:07:00.001+02:00

Can you spot the Australian?

Memories of Wonderland

2006-10-03T21:25:00.001+02:00

Have you ever been to Switzerland? For me, coming from a neighbour country, it is not a long journey. Others travel halfway around the globe, from Australia, Korea, Japan or India, all the way to that lovely, little country with its valleys and mountains.

Most of those travellers from faraway take the spectacular train ride all the way up to Jungfraujoch, a ridge between glaciers and peaks. There you can get drunk on thin air and phantastic views. I do recommend the trip, in fine weather it's definitely worth the (lot of) money for a train ticket. Up there you will find Wonderland, a unique landscape in black and white, rock and snow, sky and ice.

Last week I went there and was lucky enough to spend a long time outside, surrounded by tourists from many countries. I loved to observe how everyone took their own memories with them. Many of the Japanese and Korean groups took photographs and videos of their friends in front of just about anything - mountains, signposts, trains, souvenir shops, postboxes and even dustbins. Often they had less than one hour to see the sights, before the next train took them away downhill and to their next destination. No time to sit and enjoy, only just enough to take a memorycard full of digital photos, maybe buy some Swiss chocolade and a t-shirt and feel the breathlessness of thin mountain air. A few had been to Switzerland only for a couple of hours and were quite surprised by the fact that the country has its own money: You can pay for souvenirs or postcards with US-dollars and Euros, but the change comes in Swiss Franks. That was a bit of a shock for many of the foreigners; they simply did not accept these coins and demanded their dollars back.

I smiled at the many travellers from India, who danced and sung Bollywood film songs in the snow. Of course, lots of Bollywood movies have been shot in Switzerland. It was great to see enthusiastic grown-up couples play and dance in the snow like kids, although some of them were dressed a little odd, especially the ladies - in a thin and flowing cotton salwar kameez or saree, with a warm cardigan and wooly hat, but bare feet and slippers. Nevertheless, unimpressed by below-zero temperatures they still danced a few steps with their husbands, who took pictures of the whole fun with their brand-new digital cameras.

Young Australians obviously have to undergo some initiation rituals on arriving up there. Those whom I saw all went straight outside to undress in the snow. Males with naked chests then seemingly have to throw snowballs at each other, until their white skin has turned a distinct purple.
And some Aussie girls took photos with a little snowman - no, a snowwoman - dressed with only a bra. The girls themselves didn't wear a lot more, either...

Germans, Austrians, Italians - how boring we all were. Most of us Europeans simply admired the landscape, some silently observing the strange ways all the others celebrated their visit to Wonderland. Incredulous, amused and a little envious.