Thursday, June 28, 2007

My latest invention: DIY gas fuelled time travel

Do you know this feeling of suddenly being catapulted back to times and places almost forgotten just because of a song, a phrase or a smell maybe?

Happend to me last weekend when I was coming into my lovely little kitchen which was filled with the unique smell of coffee being prepared on a gas stove.

Whooooooosh, there I went right back to when I was five and we used to spend our holidays at my grandmother's place in Spain. I remembered me coming into the kitchen from the outside dining area and being welcomed by this exact smell every "morning" (at one in the afternoon, say). I didn't know anybody else with a gas stove then and also at home my parents didn't celebrate the ritual of making coffe the way they did in Spain, so this smell belonged to this place.
I remembered the blue and white tiles in the kitchen and the dining area (which later was converted from outside to inside) and how the place smelled of the wooden furniture and something that was probably my granddad's aftershave or something.

I saw my grandmother standing by the little oval kitchen windows which were covered, as most windows are down there, with a decorative iron barring to keep away burglars but which let enough room for the roaming cats to come to my grandmother's kitchen window and get their share of whatever was left over.

I saw us having mussels for dinner and then us kids placing the shells in the garden for the ants to clean them until the next morning.

I saw us fooling around in the pool until our skin would shrivel and our lips turn blue. I remebered the feeling of these orange water wings rubbing against the skin of my face. My grandfather tending the garden. The strange little cellar that wasn't really a cellar because it wasn't underground. My mother's old fashioned bathing suit. The white railing of the veranda. The Mediterranean in the distance. My father teaching me to swim and as a reward: my first very own pair of diving fins.

(This by the way comes pretty close to the real view from the veranda. My granny probably even knows the owner of this one; it must be one of her neighbours.)

The whole of this slide show of emotions and memories happened in the course of maybe the tenth of a second.

When I came to, I saw Mr Meik making a hell of a mess with the coffee which was covering half my kitchen table and the better part of the beer bottles patiently awaiting their being taken to the recycling station.

I looked at the mess and the grinning Meik standing in the middle of it and I thought: "You really should do that more often, baby."

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Those darn avian jobbies, thrice blasted!!!

You know, one of the many fine things about living in this lovely wee gemstone of a new place of mine is that I'm no longer exposed to those BMW 3 guys racing up and down the street at five in the morning (or any time of the day for that matter) playing horsepowered symphonies on the cobblestones louder than the bloody planes going the same way at not much more altitude.

No, those days are past now and in the past they must remain! All I listen to nowadays is the sweet chirping of the birds. They sing for me in the morning, at night and all during the day. They bathe in the puddles on my balcony (gotta have this drain fixed some time) and try to build their nests in Erik Schmitt's flower pots. And they sing, sing, sing.... Especially that one that is always sitting on the aerial on the rooftop next to me. I called this one Pilote Instructor.

But, I don't know what it is, but some folk just dinnae ken how tae fucking behave! I just realized that during my absence, one of those little fellows just dipped in for a wee visit, flew into my room and on finding I was not there... seizing the opportunity? expressing his utter protest? I dont know... he went and


Right next to Carla Bruni's nice arse. I never thought sparrows could be that rude...!

*PS: Isn't it great that "to shit" is an irregular verb? At some point, someone must have really thought about this issue long and hard: "To shit-shitted-shitted... That just doesn't sound right, we have to come up with something better here...!"
I'd love to know who that guy was and give him a medal or something.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Und ich dachte schon

die Zeiten, da mein Nachname Grund zur allgmeinen Erheiterung war, seien seit der Mittelstufe und dem Tag, da ich mich bei Jörg Truttenbach mit der Bitte um die Texte des neuen Metallica-Albums erfolgreich einschleimte, vorüber, vergessen und vorbei.

Aber, wie so oft: falsch gedacht. Denn ICH mag zwar der Mittelstufe entwachsen sein, jedoch umgebe ich mich berufsbedingt mit Individuen, die sie noch nicht einmal erreicht haben.

Die Aufgabe war also folgende: schreibe eine Geschichte (mit Spannungsbogen, Höhepunkt und Auflösung) und schreibe dabei die Einleitung, den Hauptteil und das Ende in die dafür vorgesehenen Kästchen.
Soweit die Theorie. Aber Kevin (KJ) tut grundsätzlich Butter bei die metaphorischen Fische. Hier sein Beitrag:

Der Fleck

Der Fleck wandert immer und immer weiter er suchte eine Fleckfrau. Der Fleck lebt in Berlin.

Es war einmal ein Fleck, der wollte ein Neue Frau kennelernen er wollte nämlich ihr T-shirt erobern. Er suchte in Berlin und auf einmal war er bei der Nachhilfe die hieß Lernfreund. Er schlich sich hienein und Aufeinmal war er in einen zimmer. Da laß er auf einem Schild In Raum 1 ist die Lehrerin Frau Fleck. Er ging in das Zimmer und sprang auf frau Flecks T-shirt. Frau Fleck schrie:"Oh Hilfe Oh Hilfe ein Fleck ein Fleck!" Frau Fleck schrie weil sie nakher noch ein Date hatte mit Ümit. Sie hat den Flack nicht abbekommen und danach ging sie zu Ümit mit ihrem Fleck. Der Fleck war glücklich und das er einen neuen Platz gefunden hatte.

Frau Fleck war bei Ümit und der sagte: "das packen wir Schnell in die Waschmaschine. Der Fleck wurde weggespült und machte sich auf die Suche nach einer neuen Hose.

Wenn der Fleck noh nicht gestorben ist dan sucht er heute noch sachen.

-End of story-

Da fällt einem nix mehr zu ein. Ich glaube, der Junge is in mich verliebt. Oder er verkackeiert mich. Und dass er nicht "nachher" schreiben kann, das Wort "Date" aber anstandslos richtig auf dem Papier landet, macht mich nur noch beunruhigter...

Monday, June 04, 2007

What I really work for

is wee turkish girls, praising their amazing cognitive abilities with an enthusiastic

"Wenn man so schlau is wie mich, kann man alles merken!"

C'est geil!
And also for, on my way to work, passing women on the street who go "Feodor, nimm ma die Cecilie (pronounce Cecilje) an die Hand."
Pffrz...what the world is coming to...