26 hectopascal

Even though the sky was grey and a drizzle was mercilessly making its way into the collars of everyone who didn't carry an umbrella, the streets didn't seem glum. It felt like the neutral background of wet concrete only made all the other colours pop. Flashy signs and ads were scattered all over tall office buildings with shops on the ground floors, and if greys and blacks prevailed in the stream of raincoats and jackets, they certainly didn't in umbrellas, which turned the shopping street movement into an almost psychedelic flow if you squinted.

In this scenario, a young man was walking fast straight down the road, his movements stiff and tense, his black fringe wet where the hood of his rainjacket couldn't shield it from the persistent water and his face contorted in a way that most passerbys identified as extremely annoyed, and therefore tended to move out of his way. What the rain thankfully hid were some rare, angry teardrops that ran a race against their peers from above on his pale cheeks. He had decided to walk home from running errands despite the fact that it would take him almost an hour, and in spite of the weather and the cold he had already caught several days ago and was inevitably going to worsen. He wanted to feel numb, for once. He couldn't wait for the moment the mechanical movements of his legs and the never-ending pattern of cobblestones in the old city centre beneath his worn out sneakers would dissipate his doubts, the pressure of everything, stop any brain activity in the area of thought in general.

Why did everything have to be this way? Why did everything have to be? Maddening, pointless, overwhelming. He was being bludgeoned by rules and schedules, by patterns and obligations. He couldn't breathe, for god's sake. When he'd get home, he would call Travis at work and tell him he was sick as hell. Croak something through the phone about the flu, give his thanks to everyone's phony get-well-soons and shut off his social media, bury his phone in the laundry basket. Nobody at work would understand if he told them. They thought he was doing well. They saw the dynamics, the frisson of his never steady perpetuum mobile life. The whirlwind of steppingstone projects he was involved in, they've heard, wasn't he? He was still so young, he was promising, surely everything was working out? Wasn't he doing well?

He cursed under his breath, sweating and shivering at the same time. The rain got just a little heavier, not enough to coerce him into seeking shelter but certainly enough to drench through the fabric covering his chilly skin. They knew nothing. Their day jobs were secured, but he wasn't actually set up yet. He was just starting, hesitantly setting foot in the halls he hoped he could stay in, one day. He could be dropped anytime. And anyway, they had no idea of his baggage. He had a goddamn hard time wading through the detritus of the human relationships he was entangled in. He technically had nothing whatsoever under his belt to gaze into the rosé coloured, gleaming bright future everyone thought was his to claim. His coworkers thought everything was peachy, and his classmates thought he should be the last person to worry about what was to come. But he was overwhelmed. And he was goddamn tired.

A red traffic light stopped him at a junction, and he found himself in the company of an elderly lady and a handful of school children. He glanced at them through the rain that kept getting stronger by the minute. They old lady was sporting a beautifully cliché umbrella with geese and kittens, suspiciously eyeing the children who were too busy catching pokémon on their phones to notice or care. God, how easy was the world when he was one of them. They were about eight years old, probably called Finn or Dustin or Max, hadn't done their math homework yet - page 28 in the book, multiply 23 by 114, why do I have to know how to do it on paper, when there's calculators? - and were going to spend the rest of today peacefully pursuing the Meowth one of them spotted on the map several streets away.

The traffic light just wouldn't turn green, and he was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that someone might be making up stories about him, too, in this very moment. Ascribing God knows what to his clothes, or that he carried no umbrella. His frown deepened, he looked over his shoulder to find a ginger girl in a puffy blue jacket looking at him. "Hey, sorry, I - I think - did, um, did you drop this?" He lowered his eyes on her outstretched hand to see a piece of paper that he recognised to be a museum ticket from two months ago, when he had, in spite of a terrible mood and a raging headache, dragged himself to the Weinstein gallery because they had been hosting an exclusive Chagall exhibition he wouldn't have missed if he were dead. Damned be his habit of never emptying his pockets, and of clenching and unclenching his fists inside of them whenever he was nervous. "Thank you," he muttered, swallowing half of this non-sentence and taking the ticket, then shoving his hands back inside his pockets and directing his gaze back to the stubborn traffic light.

It turned green instantly, he stalked forward but noticed the girl was keeping up with him. "Hey, sorry," he heard her chirp, "I was thinking, are you, er, heading anywhere?" He turned to her, bewildered, as he continued walking at the same pace. She was blushing but also beaming up at him, while trying to keep up with his strides. Oh boy, he thought. "Would you like to grab a coffee? I know a really good place, not far," she said, nervous as hell, evidently so, but looking determined. He absolutely didn't need this today. "Thanks, I'm good," he said hoarsely, not sure where to find the patience he would need to part ways with her without triggering the asshole department of his brain. She blushed a little more, clearing her throat: "Well, you might be better even, afterwards. Also, you run around losing your stuff, and I pick it up, I guess I might as well say you owe me, right?" He stopped. This was too dumb. He knew it was supposed to be a mischievous little line, nothing else, but what the hell. If he'd been the girl, everyone would scream harrassment. She looked at him, expectantly and fairly sure of her victory over his will. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he said, looking her straight in the eyes, "but attempted blackmail is considered a crime in these parts. Try looking it up in the civil code." He left her standing, baffled and probably weirded out, and sped up a little to disappear in the next subway station. Hades' realm, he thought to himself, right where I belong.

Later, when he had changed out of his drenched clothes and fallen face down on his bed, his phone vibrated inside the laundry basket where he had, true to his promise, placed it upon returning. He ignored it. It vibrated again. And again. And again. It wouldn't stop. It gave of a series of little buzzes for over two minutes. He groaned and shifted on the bed hoping to sit it out. Silence spread in the room, and just when he sighed it started over again. He lifted his head, glared in the direction of the pestering little sound and basically fell of the sheets in the most inelegant way possible. His head and back hurt like hell. He was definitely getting sick. He pulled aside t-shirts and sweaters in the basket, only to see a billion messages crowding the screen, from the one person on the campus he himself would call a friend. 

Ben 17:34
omg ezraaa you absolutely brilliant cold-blooded bitch you hahaha

Ben 17:34
"try looking it up in the civil code" my ass hahahaha

Ben 17:34 
i love you man

Ben 17:34
i wish id been there

Ben 17:35
ezra

Ben 17:35
EZRAAA

Ben 17:35
helloooo have you gone into hiding again

And several similar texts, including a chain of emojis, gleamed at him. He texted back.

Ezra 17:40
i dont find it that funny. howd you know? i didnt see anyone around there

Ben 17:40
people know you, hamlet, and people talk hahaha

He cursed quietly. He'd been miles away from the university, in the south part of town, so how on earth? He could already sense a web of petty gossip and intrigues unfold in the cloud of modern campus lore.

Ezra 17:41
srsly. who did

Ben 17:42
just kidding, no one was there but this girl who tried her luck is actually taking some of the classes you take

Ben 17:42
and she happens to be friends with people who are friends with veronica

Ben 17:42
which resulted in veronica texting me a flood of OMGs and OMG BENs

Ben 17:43
thus, i am informed of the opportunity you decided not to take today in the most dramatic way possible hahahaha

Veronica was Ben's girlfriend and only just bearable when she wasn't jumping all over him with personality makeover ideas. He was 97% sure she was going to end up as a life coach after graduation. She even had a matching blog. His phone buzzed again.

Ben 17:45
i can hear you gritting your teeth pal

Ben 17:45
at the universe and the common, lowly human craving for companionship and warmth hahaha

Ben 17:46
ive seen pictures tho, she wasnt that bad, actually pretty good looking. dont tell veronnie i said that haha

Ben 17:46
maybe you could use some distraction from brooding all by yourself

Ben 17:47
whatever it is this time, itll work out buddy. i dont know for whom it will if not for you

Now he was, indeed, gritting his teeth. He was shaking a little bit, something very close to anger welling up. Pearls of sweat were on his pale forehead. There it was again, the assurance. He knew it was usually well meant. Spoken with familiarity and affection by those who cared about him, with slight annoyance by those who knew him superficially, and sometimes even with jealousy and a certain air of personal defiance by those who really should be worrying. But that wasn't the point.

Nothing ever worked out automatically, for anyone. Anything could happen at any given time. This wasn't some shabby talent show. This was life. He just didn't understand why everyone spoke and acted like they couldn't wrap their heads around the idea that it was the process of doing things that killed him on a daily basis. The inevitability of observing cause and effect gnawing away at every action he took, of being responsible for simply everything. Being neurotically aware of this responsibility with almost every breath. He lived his life with the tension of a harp string - ready to collapse upon impact and tear down everything in a radius of 50 metres. He knew it wasn't the only way to carry the torch of your existence, he knew it was probably sabotaging and undermining everything he did when he was calm and focussed but that was the state of affairs.

Ben 17:51
i know you hate when people say that

Ezra 17:53
you know i dont owe anyone normal behaviour

Ben 17:53
i know

Ben 17:53
and tbh im kind of flattered to have figured out how to deal with you anyway

He couldn't help it, the tiniest of smiles crept on his face. Ben wasn't as plain as he always made himself seem. Ben had mastered the tightrope act, he had his cake and could eat it, too. Casual and unfettered on the outside, attentive as hell, sharp and flexible on the inside. Ben knew something about the way he, Ezra, functioned and he let him be. Ben was okay with him coming and going, okay with him not replying to messages for days, okay with any abstract shenanigans that wasn't exactly in his lane, but he didn't mind. It was nice knowing someone understood something.

He was feverish. He texed Ben that he was getting sick and that he would go to bed, and threw his phone back into the pile of shirts as it buzzed again. He sighed, defeated, and picked it up.

Veronica 17:59
hey

Veronica 18:00
ben messaged you right? you man of the law haha

Veronica 18:01
tess lowkey hates you now and shes super self conscious and she actually told everyone in the girls' lacan class whatsapp group

Veronica 18:01
can you believe? like wow, how petty is that and totally weird, i mean why would you message that around? but the other girls kinda gladly jumped aboard the gossip wagon

Veronica 18:01
ya know, someone approached the enigma himself haha so they gotta do some analysis

Veronica 18:01
i am screaming at the fact you didnt even recognise her (did you? bc she said she thought you didnt)

He shook his head. This day was crazy. He went back to his mind game of someone viewing his life as a story. He was fairly certain he would either make a marvellous book character or an incorrectably shitty one. His head felt like it was splitting in two, and every new thought or sensation was over the top. He lay back down, like a broken bow, and typed one last message, before finally giving in to his rising body temperature.

Ezra 18:03
i didnt. god, i thought at this part of my life i was supposed to be surrounded by people with a certain level of maturity. but who am i to complain, its probably just what i deserve

last night I dreamt

Last night I dreamt that you betrayed me. It was most unexpected, most horribly strange.

 …I was at some kind of outdoor exhibition with a few people I know very little of. We were in a kind of cabin, listening to someone explaining a matter I cannot remember now, when I saw you through the window. You walked out of a corn field, looking quite cheerful, and you were not alone. There was a girl beside you, but she didn’t matter, I was looking at you. It felt like the most unreal, most fantastic thing to happen, bumping into you somewhere in the outskirts of reason. I ran to the window, called your name and waved; I was scared you could just walk past me and I would never exchange a glance with you, never exchange words, thoughts, comfort, favourite books and ice cream flavours. And you saw me. For a moment as bright as a butterfly I was pure happiness. But with that merry face, that unusually bright smile you started walking straight towards the window, reached it, lay your hand on the glass - and looked right through me. An entirely empty face, entirely empty eyes. I shied away from you. All the things I have seen in you were suddenly gone, you were a stranger, and you scared me. All the little bubbles of mutual understanding that filled my mind at the thought of you were violently smashed in this moment. With the same empty smile you walked away, and the girl, whoever it was, went with you. She didn’t matter, but I felt like in this moment you vanished from my sight and from my hopes. Last night I dreamt that somebody important stopped meaning anything to me.

…this is fucking strange, I know. I dreamt it and it felt like being punched in the chest. I hope this is no prophecy, I hope we’ll meet in a different way.

When I woke up I had to leave the house instantly. I didn’t eat, didn’t drink and left to mind my business. I had to see a doctor before uni and this is where I went, a hospital in a part of the town I barely know. But I was in trance, in a very strange state of mind. Too many things were happening. On my way from there to uni I decided to ignore the tram I usually took and got on a bus. No idea which bus, no idea where exactly it went. The schedule said it stopped somewhere near a street whose name sounded familiar to me, it would be fine.

The route was surprisingly long. We drove past vast fields, single houses, lonely trees and bushes. And then I saw it.

A brown field on this dusky morning, spotted with orange dots. What the hell? We drove past. What the hell was that? A house, someone’s garage, bushes. Another field. …Pumpkins?! Never before had I seen a pumpkin field. Pumpkins lay there like toys, pumpkins to the far away horizon…I felt like in a different world, in a different time… I felt like the world was not hopelessly forlorn.

Please don’t laugh.

When I got out of the bus where I intended, I realised it would be a long, long walk to uni. I decided not to go to uni. I got on a tram and went to a bookshop where I spent hours in the corner with musician’s biographies. I got to read some interesting stuff about Morrissey. I learned that people actually write books about what happens when indie becomes mainstream. I took a look at last week’s NME but had no money with me so decided to buy it the next day. It was a special issue, 10 years of Up the Bracket. It made me think. Ten years, what had happened to me during the last ten years? Good things, bad things, things that have worn me out.

Last night I dreamt of more disappointment than I could bear.

untitled #8

"Seriously, I don't ask you for anything. I'd never do that. I just sometimes imagine what it would be like if I didn't have to ask. No, don't reject it right from the start, just imagine. Let's...We might go for a walk out in the hills on our own, with a cassette player and a picnic basket. Sounds great, doesn't it? We could talk, we'd have a lot of things to discuss, all the music and the strange philosophic issues we get into a lot. Things about life, you know.

We'd discover a lot of things we have in common. ...no, don't smile! I'm not dreaming. I sense people's attitudes, you know. Quite precisely, I do. So now, we'd be out in the fields, with the cassette player and the basket, we'd find a nice spot to sit down in the grass, to go on with the conversation, to laugh like idiots, to almost cry, to fool around and sigh together. We'd munch sandwiches and I'd probably complain about being fat like I always do. Yes, you'll say I'm paranoid, I know. You'd be right, perhaps. I guess I'm paranoid about far too many things... But let's get back to the picnic scene, I like that. ...Really? Well, I told you you'll like, but you wouldn't listen, as usual. Yes, surely we'd share a bottle of wine, share it while the sun would go down.

Beautiful, isn't it. The grass and the sky and everything. And at some point we'd just grow more and more quiet, almost silent. And it would be cold because of a western wind, but this wind and the silence would feel entirely perfect. Like a whispered tale of great things yet to come, of something beyond understanding bringing along happiness."

Et voilà! My new header. What say? Might be interesting for you to know that picture one was taken in the forest near my house and picture two somewhere in east London. For some reason I loved to have them as a symbol for Time For Heroes.

canned life

He was staring at a candle burning down for about an hour. Staring out of the window, seeing nothing but the white wall of the house next door. Lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling as the sun set and the world was dipped into bluish grey for the next six hours.

He was thinking.

What was the sense of that entire time passing? What was the sense of him hanging around, either not doing anything particular or just fulfilling his duties as a middle class white European- studying, paying bills, going in and out of the flat for unimportant issues…existing.

He wasn’t sure if on this planet it was at all possible to add something to this plain existence, wherever he looked and whatever he could think of- problems and colourless regularities. If he were a millionaire, what would change in that scheme? He’d have other problems and still die of boredom. If he were homeless? Die of hunger or some strange disease.

Oh happiness, where had it gone? He was puzzled. How on earth did he forget how to be happy? He imagined his inner pessimist preaching to his timid inner optimist: “There’s no way of getting around it, finally you realised it! I always told you so…” He shook his head in slight panic. No, this wasn’t possible! This couldn’t be true. Other people were happy, they couldn’t pretend a thing like this, the world couldn’t be that cruel…

It was summer and it was almost dark outside, his favourite time of the day- all the lights that went on, window by window, the cool air, the beautiful lilac sky, a marvelous play of colours enhanced by all those particular evening noises and smells, that tickled hopes and expectations deep inside him, that allowed him to take a deep breath as in preparation for the day to come, that made him forget about the drab, locked up labyrinth world of his mind and just watch the spectacle.

As ever so often he took his bicycle out of the cellar and went for a ride through the cities’ busy streets, enjoying beeping cars, traffic lights, strangers’ faces, occasional bits of music coming from shops or street musicians and the general pleasant noise and chaos.

His usual destination were the hills outside the city where he could sit down in the grass and spend an hour or two looking down at the humming town and letting the wind tousle his hair, the soughing sound being disturbed only by a few lonely crickets. Yes, he loved it. This summer evening ritual was like inhaling, swallowing life, chewing on happiness. This very happiness he missed when he drowned in daily sorrows, hour by hour and week by week.

…So often have people dreamt of saving great moments in jars, to open them whenever they felt miserable and to take a sniff of a different place and time.

________________________________________________________

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the snippet problem

What do you do if you have a lot of little pieces of something, but they don't form an entity?

I have a lot of story pieces in my head. But they are all just little snippets that carry a feeling or a character, but they aren't enough.

I thought about forcing them into a story. Am I allowed to do so? Shouldn't stories just come from somewhere else, and isn't it our duty, the ones who think they can write, to catch what passes by? My snippets pass by. I didn't really invent any of them, they just popped into my head out of sudden, somewhen. And that's the way it should be, that's the way it has been with stories, but I fear they must have found a nicer head to appear there now. Dear stories, wouldn't you come back to me? I miss you.

~~~~~~~

She woke up at about 2 p.m. It was always the same, she thought, you spent the night awake, but went to bed in the earliest morning and slept your usual 9 to 10 hours, yet you felt as if you hadn't slept at all. The evening had been worth it, though. A few of her new friends had come round her flat, and they had put on some records and gotten a little bit tipsy after midnight and a few self-mixed cocktails. They had gone outside to get a bit of fresh air, to then stay there for many adventurous hours, wandering the streets and laughing at the moon. "All the memories of the fights and the nights and the blue lights," and passengers and the events that happen in the streets at night- all the parties and some policemen at work...it really had been lovely. She walked into the bathroom and saw a pair of white trainers in the bathtub. She was puzzled- they surely weren't there when she went to bed? Sighing, she switched on her laptop and opened Facebook. "Whoever left his shoes in my bathtub tonight, feel free to collect them somewhen in the afternoon, whenever it suits you. I'll be off somewhen around six."

what happens if I'm forced to write

This is the short story whose script drove me mad today. But luckily it's ready by now, so I took another look at the story, changed some parts...didn't like it too much, myself, because it has been written only to contain the scene from this photograph (I had to write it for a seminar). 

A photograph by the american artist Gregory Crewdson

 I don't like stories with corpses, or too dramatic stories, but this one obviously had to contain a corpse swimming in a flooded living room. Due to my current obsession with Hamlet, I decided to call it

OPHELIA 

Paul didn't like parties. He had never fancied the idea of hanging around for hours with people he mostly didn't know and watching them getting more and more drunk as the sun set. Sometimes, unfortunately, he couldn't avoid participating; he didn't want to be impolite with his friends.
Richard had called him, just to shout out happily:"I've got that job!!" and to invite him to the most amazing party of the century, to celebrate his luck. Richard's parents were extraordinarily wealthy and everyone in town was dying for that event to come, for it was promising to cross all levels- a luxurious dinner, fountains of champagne and the catering supplied by the most elegant restaurant of the area.

And finally the great day had come; Paul was standing around, suited and feeling uncomfortable, in the tastefully decorated entrance hall of Richard’s parent’s big, posh house, watching the other guests. There were actually quite a few people he knew: There were Johnny and David, two fellows he was familiar with from university, who were obviously enjoying themselves in a group of giggling and dolled up girls; Richard’s cousin Ralph, an incredibly impertinent person, who was enthusiastically discussing something with a guy Paul didn’t know; he assumed the topic was likely to be boring, because no one else seemed interested. Sarah, a girl Paul knew from school, and her fiancé Robert were chatting to Richard’s older brother Frederick.

Paul didn’t feel like talking to anyone, he was tired and wished nothing but to return home and to finish that theatre script he was thinking about all the time. It was a complex story, and he was still struggling to find an appropriate ending.

He had noticed, though, that one person he had expected to be there and to actually ruin the party, was missing: Ophelia. Paul didn’t like Ophelia. They knew each other for as long as he could think; since the age of two they had been next door neighbours. Ophelia had always been the exact opposite of Paul: she was loud, extrovert, very mainstream- he’d even say vulgar- and seemed to change her mind about people every five minutes. Back at school, she had been one of the popular kids and had teased him because he had been a loner and a rather calm boy. He had never been the typical outsider, but he belonged to a bunch of students who shared an interest in arts and literature, which people like Ophelia found highly peculiar and therefore never missed out an occasion to point that out. Later on, for some reason, she had intended to redefine their relationship, but Paul preferred things to stay the way they had always been and finally kindly rejected her attempts. She had started hating him straight afterwards.

“Hey, Paul! Have you fallen asleep?” It was Richard who had come over and now smiled at his friend. Paul smiled back. “Oh, I’m a little bit tired, indeed, but, um, it’s a really nice party...” Richard gave him an ironic look. “Oh, come on, Paul, don’t you seriously think I don’t know you hate that sort of thing? Anyway, I truly appreciate you’re here, and I’m really happy, my friend. Come on, I’ll introduce you to a couple of guys, they’re going to work together with me!”

At first sight, Richard didn’t seem to be the perfect best friend for someone like Paul; he was very sociable and loved sports more than anything else, but he was good company and open to everything new, and he had also been the one who started the conversation as their paths crossed at the very beginning of their studies. As time passed, Paul found himself excited about baseball, Richard had lend books on the history of art at the library and they both knew they would stay friends, to everyone’s surprise.

The young men made their ways through the crowd of old and new friends of Richard, of people whose identity they both weren’t sure about, but that was fine as long as they didn’t cause any trouble, because the house was really huge and Richard’s parents were really rich. Another young man approached and greeted them cheerfully. It was Patrick, one of Richard’s mates from his sports club whom Paul had gotten to know at their baseball weekends. Unfortunately, some day he had invited them both, Patrick and Richard, for a nice crisps and TV afternoon at his parent’s house- where Patrick had met Ophelia. Actually, he had met her on the street in front of the house, but as soon as he had come in and asked who that marvellous girl with the dark hair was, the one that lived in the yellow house on the left, Paul knew the disaster was soon to come. And he was right. After countless desperate phone calls Patrick made and all the hours he spent waiting in front of her house, staring at the trees in the front yard and waiting for her, they had started going out together. And still were.

Richard slapped Patrick on the back. “So what, old chap, did you try the champagne already? Have some with us! And you Paul, don’t you dare to refuse, you didn’t drink anything yet! Waiter!” A guy with a tray hurried past other guests calling and poured the sparkling drink into three glasses. “So, how’s it going? Are you doing well in your new job, Pat?” Paul asked. Patrick smiled. “Yeah, thanks for asking, everything is brilliant, it’s well paid, colleagues are friendly, too.” Richard laid his arms round the shoulders of his friends. “Life is good,” he said, “especially, now that even us three queer guys managed to organize ours. Now there’s only left for Paul and me to find the loves of our lives, right?” He started laughing and Paul smiled. Patrick looked down. “Well, seems like I’ll be joining you in this,” he said. Paul and Richard looked at him in surprise. “Why, I thought you were absolutely crazy about your Ophelia?” said Richard. Patrick mumbled something incomprehensible and seemed as if he wanted to change the topic, but Paul added: “Tell us, what happened? The last time I saw her she seemed quite upset, but I thought it was because she got sacked.” Paul knew about that sad fact in Ophelia’s biography because his mother was friends with her mother, which meant he knew a lot of stuff he had never wanted to know and still received up to date information every morning at the breakfast table. Patrick cleared his throat. “Yeah, she was quite pissed about that...but, um, actually, we had an argument yesterday. I think I’ll break up with her. She just doesn’t care about me, not even half as much as I always did.” Paul and Richard exchanged looks. That’s why the lady isn’t here, already completely drunk and dancing on the tables, Paul thought. Aloud he said: “I was already wondering why you didn’t bring her tonight.” Patrick looked down at the floor. “She didn’t tell me about the job, instead, her mum did. So I asked her what had happened and why she didn’t tell me, and she was just shouting at me, that I don’t understand anything, that I’m getting on her nerves and-“he stopped, looking really miserable. “I mean, I didn’t do her any harm, I really cared for her! But she just acted as if I was a natural attribute, or something! No idea why she stayed with me, if she...ah, I don’t know... and she was always on parties, always drunk, always depressed with her endless hangovers...I told her to stop that drinking but she wouldn’t.” Paul nodded. Yes, that was what Ophelia was like when they were about 17. She was the unchallenged party queen, although her parents were desperate about it, but in the classes, she was hanging around as if it wasn’t her life but someone else’s. Her marks were horrible and Paul had no idea how she managed to finish school in the end. He guessed that she had been sacked for the same reason- her unsteady, untamed lifestyle- but he wasn’t eager to learn more about it, because he didn’t like her and wasn’t interested in her failure. If things went wrong in Ophelia’s life it was her own fault, he was convinced of that. Only for her awkward name her parents had to take responsibility- who, for heaven’s sake, would want his child to be called like someone who went mad and committed suicide?- but it didn’t force her to drown herself in alcohol, that was for sure. Paul shook his head. “I don’t know what’s happening on her mind, I’ve never understood her. But maybe you two should meet up and discuss the whole issue, and get it all sorted out somehow? That’s the only thing you could do, actually.” Patrick was biting his lips. “Yeah, maybe you’re right... We really ought to talk, I mean, I doubt we ought to stay together after all...” Richard shrugged his shoulders. He was clearly feeling uncomfortable, after being prepared to celebrate, he wasn’t so keen on talking about his friend’s depressed girlfriends. Paul noticed that and raised his glass. Loudly he said:” Friends, I suggest we drink to each other; in the end, things will be ok, and if they’re not ok, it’s not the end!” Richard smiled at him thankfully; they drank and came to talk about different things afterwards. Richard introduced them to his new colleagues as he had planned to; people were cheerful and the party was being a real success. But Paul still didn’t enjoy it too much, because now he was thinking about Ophelia’s destiny. She seemed mad sometimes, when she was in rage, and you could never be sure about her attitude towards anything or anyone. Why was she being so bloody nasty with her own boyfriend all the time? Why did she stay with him? Poor Patrick was really upset, but he did his best not to let Richard see or feel that.

Paul damned his ability to always see and feel things like that, and spoke to Patrick a little bit aside. “Listen,” he said, “if you want to, we’ll just drive there tonight and you two sort it out at once. Her parents are off to visit some friends, as mum told me, so she’ll be alone at home. And I’ll see if I can help you guys, I mean, I know her longest...” Patrick nodded slowly. “Yes...that’s probably the best thing to do. Wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight, anyway...Thanks, mate.” Paul nodded, too, quite sure that although he had never wanted to be involved in any business that concerned his neighbour, he needed to catalyse this. Patrick couldn’t manage this alone, he was too soft. And he, Paul, definitely wasn’t dying to listen to all the sad stories throughout the next weeks, months... They joined the others in silence.

In the very early morning hours, as the majority of the present people were helplessly drunk and Richard, too, had had enough Champagne to enjoy the feast without Paul and Patrick, they told him they’d come and see him in the afternoon for a coffee and left.

Paul was driving and playing agony aunt while Patrick told him the tale of woe of his and Ophelia’s relationship. How she mocked him for spending too much time at the university library, how she didn’t care for her own future at all, how worried he was about that, how she started spending time with his friends on her own, how he suspected that she had an affair with some guy called Jeff, how she had laughed at him as he asked her about it... Paul started feeling angry with Ophelia. Incredible, how this person could annoy him without actually doing something or being there, just existing. He had never liked her, never liked her at all, and it was a riddle to him that an actually nice guy like Patrick could fall for this impossible girl. And Paul was sure it was impossible to change her. He sighed. People could so easily destroy their lives for the sake of nothing.

The windows of the yellow house were bright and Patrick hurried towards the door. “She’s awake,” he said, rang the bell and waited. Paul looked at the stairs. “Wet..?” he murmured, confused. “It didn’t rain, did it?” Patrick shook his head, turned round and looked at the street. “Why doesn’t she open up, for heaven’s sake?” Paul got down on his knees and fetched a spare key out from under the door mat. “They’ve always kept it here, Ophelia has lost her keys at least a million times,” he explained and turned the key around. A stream of water splashed out onto their shoes. “What the-?” The living room was flooded with water. The lifeless body was floating on the water’s surface in the middle of the room, Ophelia’s empty eyes staring straight forward. The lamps were burning with a soft light, as if nothing had happened; from the bathroom they heard the rushing sound of a tap.

“They should have called her Susan, or something,” Paul said quietly.

portrait of an encounter

ANOTHER SHORT STORY!

Portrait of an encounter 

Airports are strange places to meet. So many so different people run around there, that it is almost impossible not to discover anything that one would find somehow worthy of note, whether it be exotic dresses, dangerously large hard-shell cases, extraordinarily loud tirades in strange languages, or other little pieces that make up the large creature an airport is, which make it the exceptional place it is. Among these many jigsaw puzzle pieces there are light and dark ones, patterned, plain, large and small and dozens of others, and once I found one that just got out of line; how, this I cannot explain myself; one that had the charisma of a riddle and that immediately stroke my eye- his face.

Actually, he was dressed completely ordinarily: dark jeans, dark shirt and dark jacket. Dark brown, tousled hair, dark eyes, like coffee without milk. Dark, I can not describe it differently, was the effect his appearance had on me, and maybe that was the reason why I looked over to him so conspicuously inconspicuous for such a long time. 

The first few minutes, in which this young man caught my eyes like a magnet, I thought feverishly, what could be the reason, for next to him there was a big African family in their best holiday mood waiting for their airline tickets and had just started to sing a happy song. It was probably his serious facial expression. No, it was this concentrated gaze towards nowhere, the look in his eyes that left no doubt that the thoughts in his head were not of this world. 

He stood upright in the queue, and seemed in some way so unreal that I got goose bumps everywhere.

Do you know those movies where phantoms wander around unnoticed and unseen by humans? As I looked at him now, this young man, I had the feeling he was as a ghost and no one else could notice him. A fantastic and very uncomfortable thought; I looked carefully at all the people around us.

But indeed, I found that actually not a single pair of eyes fixed him in this way as mine, actually, no one was looking at him, no one at all. The African family was just singing too excitedly, that had to be the reason. Just like some people are simply not able to stop snacking out of biscuit tins, once they have started, I could not stop to look at him furtively. He didn’t notice it, fortunately- he did not move at all. He had a beautiful face with high cheekbones and a finely-cut nose.

 "Your turn! Lord God, where are you with your thoughts? Already on vacation? ", someone said behind me, so stridently that I winced. An "I’m on it,” muttered I moved forward and laid my papers on the table and my bag on the scales for hand luggage, I did it clumsily, because I always looked around for my phantom man, for some reason I had fear he would just disappear. The woman behind me had snapped at me again. "Can you ever stay on task? You are done! "This time I allowed myself to tell her that it was not my problem if she had ants in her pants, and went away to stow away my ticket and my papers. Then I looked back to the queue next to me-he was no longer there, the charismatic stranger. I looked in all directions, but he wasn't to be seen anywhere. That made ​​me a bit puzzled, it had been many other peoples’ turn before him- how could he have been ready faster than me? I was a little disappointed, why, I did not know. Basically, I would have only been able to stare at him a few minutes longer, no more. Then he would have been gone, in a plane, I in another one, and both on the road, possibly in opposite directions. This idea was brutal, I had had in mind to draw him, to try to capture that on paper what I had seen. How should this work without a picture that I could save in my mind for goodbye? A feeling like a missed train or an unfinished exam turned in; I set myself sullenly in motion to kill some of the time until departure, with a magazine and maybe a cup of coffee, it was still much too early in the morning.

Of course, the coffee shop was full to overflowing, a mob of over a dozen people cavorted in the too-small shop, rustled with bakery bags and newspapers, and tripped over dogs and suitcases of the other and it took just awfully long until the waiters handed the coffees, cappuccinos and Lattes over the counter, which didn’t particularly improve my mood in that moment. I could not help recalling an image of this face in my mind, or at least trying. What exactly attracted me so much it seemed like a spell? I was not sure, I just saw these eyes in front of me, they partook something of the deep sea, the kind of depth, where only these creepy-looking fish live, with glowing tentacles, where there reign silence, darkness and high pressure.

 "Uh ... Excuse me? What do you want to order? "Damn, I missed out again that I was next on line. Incredible, what effect a five-minute sight could have on me, hopefully I was not the only person who reacted like this sometimes; whose fantasy and imagination painted such strange ornaments around ordinary things. It could also just be a song that made ​​me fall in such daydreams, or a movie character, or a book, or a landscape, or a stay in a city whose atmosphere sparked something in me. Afterwards I could be totally incapacitated for hours- so much for my reaction ability, communication skills or simply for my mind. Just like now. I ordered a cappuccino and watched out for a free table; like all the others in the queue, I had no desire to drink while standing or waiting on a bench in the airport building.

A tiny table at the display case was still free, and as soon as I held the paper cup in my hand, I hurried towards it, causing a murmur from the other people waiting- they had all hoped to get there. Very well, I had noticed this grumbling, which meant I probably slowly came around. Nevertheless, I took my sketch pad out when I had set myself and made ​​a feeble attempt to draw the stranger I saw earlier, but I just couldn’t reproduce an overall picture. 

Something was always wrong; either the contour of the face or the neck was too long or too short, or anything else wrong with the proportions, or whatever-I just didn’t know it so well, myself. So I sat for like a quarter of an hour, deepened in restless scribbling, again erasing and pulling out of sheets, as I was asked, in English: "Excuse me, is the place still available? Everything else is already occupied." I lifted my head and winced. He was standing in front me, and the deep- sea eyes looked at me quizzically. "Uh," I stammered, "certainly, yes, please sit down..." He sat down and looked me over, and I pulled out the pencil. This time the picture would get finished.

guitar hero

You won't believe me, but I'm ready.
Yes, this is the story I was talking about. I very much hope you like it, and if so, leave a comment or send me an email. I would really love you for that!
Oh, and all the english and american guys: Please, please correct any mistakes!! I tried to maintain the expressions I used in the original version, so maybe there are a few strange words you would never use in that context, in this case, please tell me. Thanks! ♥

Now, enjoy. Would be perfect in a teenage mag, wouldn't it? ;)

Guitar Hero

Since 9 a.m. I am painfully saying goodbye to my back. Volunteer at a rock festival- a fantastic job for a student like me, but that my part would be the one of the pack animal- I actually didn’t expect that. I moan and groan and carry around loads of peculiar devices, while every ten minutes there appears a fat guy with a walrus moustache and barks at me. And then I go and play ants again.

“Well, now this crate here, it has to be in passage C,” says my colleague, who is also wiping sweat from his forehead, “then we’ll treat ourselves to a break, I suggest.” I don’t have any objections to this and have a look at the crate in front of me- massive and black. “And what’s that supposed to be?” I ask. “It shouldn’t make any difference to you, mademoiselle, you’re here to pitch in, not to philosophize!” Aha. Moustache-time. “That thing hasn’t got handles,” I say. “So what, shall I conjure them up for you?! This is work, not a party! You get paid for it!” The fat guy continues scolding. “And at 7 p.m. everything is to be tiptop, got it?” Oh really, I think, tell me more. Share your wisdom with me, fatso. My colleague gives me a ‘hold out!’ look; we grab the indefinable box at its corners, as far as it’s possible, and slowly move towards the exit. The unidentified, unfortunately not flying object is unbelievably heavy and we, the pack donkeys, wheeze and groan, my back screams silently and I roughly calculate whether my monthly budget allows a few hours of Thai massage. Then three things happen at once: the crate slips out of my sweaty fingers, hits my feet with a muffled sound and I yelp, the fat guy starts shouting and in the doorway there appears my greatest rock idol and looks around.

The capacity of my diversely branched brain allows three thoughts at once: “Bloody hell, my feet!!!”, “OH MY GOD, that’s really HIM!!” and “Right now, I am bathing in sweat, whimpering like a dog and wearing an ugly shirt with ‘Volunteer’ on it. And HE is standing there.”

I ignore fatso; my colleague hasn’t yet seen my idol standing in the doorway and gets something like a large skateboard from the side. “That’s more humanely, I think,” he says, and together we lift the box up. I am constantly staring at the guy in the doorway. My face is probably even redder than before and somewhere in the area around my stomach a little firework show is going on. We start rolling. Now or never, I think, and while he steps aside to let us pass I give him my brightest smile and start babbling: “Hi! Um, don’t be surprised, um, I’m one of your biggest fans, but if I don’t move on with this thing here, they’ll stone me, so please, wait a minute, I’ll be back immediately!” Then I’m in the passage without even having waited for his answer. My fellow sufferer is gazing at me- obviously the just right now realized who actually has been polite and let us pass by- and I wish I could multiply myself by two to kick my own butt. What the heck was that, I think, grinding my teeth, as if he didn’t have anything better to do than to wait for every passing groupie, just because they are busy at the moment! Oh dude, where’s your famous creativity when you need it?!

At least, stopping by and just taking a photo with the mobile, not even the walrus guy could have complained about that! Ah, damn, damn, damn! I am more and more disappointed with every step, which seems to be skilfully visualized by my physiognomy. The other donkey is grinning. “Geez, was that really him? Awesome... He looks different in the video clips, though.” I grumble something indefinable even for myself and continue pushing. Actually, I’d rather turn around and sprint back, but the embarrassment would be even worse in that case.

We finally arrive in this bloody passage C and, as soon as the crate is at its place, I take a deep breath and start running.  Sure, it’s a crackpot idea, but maybe, maybe he’s still there, I think. Don’t be silly, my pessimistic brain half thinks, after all, there aren’t any unicorns running around outside, either. Indeed, the room is empty. Damn, I think again, and angrily I kick the doorframe. Immediately my toes have a déjà- vu, and I’m just about to start crying. You naive idiot, that’s all I can think. My pity figure trots along to the ‘rest room’- a broom cupboard of the bigger sort containing a table and a few small chairs- hoping to be able to mourn my failure in silence. I give the door a shove, it swings open- and I get a heart attack, respiratory still stand and hypertension all at once. My hero is sitting at the table and looking bored. As he sees me, he says:”So, that’s ‘immediately’. I have been waiting for you.” The fireworks in my tummy start a new round and the muscles of my face are beyond my control now. “Oh...um...yeah...” I stammer, “well, I... um...wow!” A happy smile spreads across my face and in my mind I take on the consistence of a puddle. I have been waiting for you, he said! Now I can die in peace! He points at a chair in front of him. “So, why are you standing around? I’m not the queen. The catering here”- he grins- “is not exactly haute cuisine, but drinks and meals are served.” On the table, there are a packet of cookies and a bottle of water. Still beaming over my whole face I sit down and keep smiling at him. He smiles a bit, too. “So, what’s up?” After like half a minute he breaks the silence. So now, please, utter something intelligent, I remind myself, and get started: ”Yeah, well, I have been admiring you since years, I mean, you write lyrics, so... real, and honest, and intelligent. And the music is phenomenal, anyways, and, er, that you worked your way up to the top all alone, and made it there from the very bottom, and you’re still so down to earth, that’s amazing. I mean, you know, all these rock star excesses, you just don’t do that...um.” I shut up because I feel like a total fool again.  He has listened, looking down to the ground and chuckling.

“Thanks,” he says. A few seconds of silence, I am just about to disappear in the ground. Why the heck do I waste his time? “I bet you’re busy, I’m-““Do you make music?” he asks at the same time. Music? Oh god, just silly beginner’s stuff... “Er...well, I...I just play here and there a little...and I actually sing, too, but my songs aren’t good...” He looks up and watches me attentively. “You write own songs? Let me hear something.” My eyes widen with terror. Not here, not now, and definitely not in front of him! My infamous self-consciousness is long gone and has left an uncomfortable feeling of naivety. He laughs and touches his hair. “Come on, don’t be shy! Come on. You know, I don’t have the whole day for you.” I start moving again; I think of my last lyrics, which were not so bad actually, I just don’t have a melody for them yet. That’s what I tell the guitar hero in front of me about. “Do you have them with you?” he asks.

Hesitating, I pull my bag out from under the table, take out my note book and push it with open pages towards him. He reads, his chin resting on his hand. His eyes are running over the lines, sometimes he raises an eyebrow, sometimes his hand runs over his chin, and I watch him and die a thousand deaths, while my opus is being examined. I haven’t shown it to anyone yet, and I didn’t have that in mind, to be honest, and now, out of sudden, I show it to the last person on earth I’d want to think that I’m stupid and incompetent, the person I just quietly admire. He points at a line. “Now, you can’t leave it that way. That’s unclear, dishonest...that sounds incredibly intended.” Bam, the bird has been shot and tumbles to the ground. I’m finished with my life! “W-why? You can’t know that, can you...” I start. He looks at me. “I see that, little snotnose. At least, I’ve got the feeling I can read it here,” he smiles. I curl my lips. “I’m not a snotnose. I’m not weeping. I just... I just wish they were like yours.” He smiles again. “But you’re not me, and that’s, for heavens sake, not an offense. You’re yourself, and the lyrics are yours. And they’re not bad, honestly.” That comforts me a little, although ‘not bad’ still sounds like ‘could be better’. “You know- just to help you- write if you feel like it, write when it comes to you. And the raw material can always be revised. For sure you know that. But where there is no raw material- well, you know. And I think,”- he points at the miserable line again- “from here on you ran out of it.”

The part he is talking about I’ve been working on for hours. Is that so apparent? I can’t hide my admiration. “You know how to perform magic,” I say. “That’s why your guitar sounds so good!”

He laughs and leans back on his chair. “Perhaps.” He seems totally different from the video clips, I think, somehow wiser and more thoughtful. And the voice in that he speaks- stunningly deep. I say: “In reality you sound absolutely different from what I imagined. Deeper. I mean, how you speak,” I add. Now it’s his turn to be surprised. “Didn’t you hear me talk before?” I shake my head. “Don’t watch TV. Only read all the interviews.” “Aha. That’s something new,” he says, and gets ready to stand up. I stand up, too. “Thank you, honestly,” I say. He pats me on the shoulder. “What for, don’t talk nonsense. I didn’t say anything you didn’t know before, and nothing that thousands of clever people hadn't said before I did.” Now I’m grinning. “I didn’t mean that. I’m talking about your music. About what you achieve. Thank you for being the guy you are and for being famous, so we can witness it and receive what you can give.” I feel relieved after pronouncing what I had already thought a million times. He acts as if he was wiping a tear from the corner of his eye in affection, but he smiles. “At your service,” he says. “No, really,” I insist, “sometimes I’ve got the feeling the guitar you play is inside of me!”

That very moment, my colleague enters the room and stops, thunderstruck. I show him a big smile. “We were just having a little coffee party,” I say, “would you mind taking a photo, as a souvenir?” Still astonished, he takes my camera and the hero and I are posing. He puts his arm round my shoulder and I’m beaming like a light bulb. My colleague curses. “What strange setup do you have here?! Wait...” Don’t you dare to destroy the moment, I think. The wonder next to me sighs and his arm sinks down to my hips. I twitch a little bit- what’s that gonna be..?! I probably look like one of the famous timid fawns; he notices it, winks at me impishly and starts laughing. “Girls,” he says with a slightly sardonic smile, and the impishness stays. There he goes, the MTV rock star, the naughty one, who always says what he thinks, who is untamed and unique, and whom me and thousands of other people adore. The master photographer has finally managed to take a picture and now wants one, too. But that’s what rock stars are used to. He leaves and winks at me again for goodbye, I wave back enthusiastically. I take my notebook and touch the pages. Oh my, I think, he really touched it. Somebody pinch me.

The rest of the lugging I endure in a marvellous mood and not even the moustache-man can drag me down. The other volunteers and I watch the concert together and as my hero’s band steps onto the stage, I compete with the spotlights. I imagine him singing for me. 

 ~~~~~