Monday, November 06, 2006

My inner cerebral short circuit

It's been ages, so it seems, but Unilife finally has me back. It's half eleven a.m., I already mastered getting up at ungodly times in order to get here at eight c.t., only to talk about l'identite francaise en crise and somehow helpig myself to a ham sandwich along the way which I cannae really remember where I got it from. Anyways, the annual unicum surprise package kept me going for another hour or so and now I'm finally here. I made it, after all this time, I eventually found my way into what is famously known as *tadadadaaaa* the brain bubble, aka Philologische Bibliothek or wha'eva, and I feel quite forlorn, having hardly been able to remember my bloody password for the frickin' computers. (Memo to myself, it's your immatrikulation number, dumbo.) I'm surrouned by industrious students and studentesses, busily writing away on their dissertations, I just know, when all the time I have to focus on this here keyboard, because frankly, it's doing whatever it bloody wants, gentlepeople, and I have to correct typing mistaks all the time.

I know why they call this monstosity the Brain Bubble (capitals indeed!). I feel like I'm sitting inside my own brain, facing the inside of my forehead in the form of this huge in-your-face-orange plastered wall which I cannot look at for more than one second at a time, because it gives me the creeps and my eyes start watering. Also there are wee eye-like windows, through which one can perceive the world beyond in a somewhat milky kind of quality.

I swear I can hear a hoover, but maybe it's just one of those book scanners or some other cunning device they've set up by the truckload in here to make student life so much easier.

I will go now and sink my teeth into Gelfert's "Wie interpretiert man ein Gedicht?", an opus which I desperately hoped nevir tae touch again, but there you go, life has a funny way and somehow I ended up being a teacher and expected to know about these things when all the time I bloody don't!

Why am I telling you this? Because this place gives me the heebie-jeebies, all the more as I know I have to face my demons and somehow get to the next stage, the next floor of the library of my life so to speak. But at times I feel like the elevator's broke and the staircase is on fire.

3 comments:

scotspotter said...

Eben beim Recherchieren, was denn nochma ein Binnenreim ist, bin ich auf eine Reimartenaufzählseite gestoßen, bei der in den Definitionen immer wieder ganz unvermittlet das Wort Geburt stand. Da muss man doch malle werden.

inga von k said...

uff malle wär isch jetze ooch gern, ey! soviel zu brain bubble und reimartenaufzählgeburten...

animaldelmar said...

o-o. den eintrag hatt ich janz übersehen. verschiedenes:

a) ich glaube, du bist die einzige person, die ich kenne, die aus dem stegreif ein gedicht interpretieren könnte. auch ohne gelfert.

b) wenn dein unileben dir existenznegierend vorkommt (du weisst schon, feuer im treppenhaus der seele), dann ist das inakzeptabel.

c) ich steh hinter dir (just look over your shoulder, honey...)

d) und ausserdem, die anderen schreiben auf keinen fall dissertationen. das sind allerhöchsten magisterarbeiten und die zum großen teil ganz bestimmtso konfus und mies gelaunt sind wie das eigene gemüt an schlechten tagen.

e) kuss.