Weather has been crazy so far this year. Incidentally, I just watched the movie The Day After Tomorrow. The film is about the end of the world because of drastic climate changes brought about by global warming and its effects. It starts out with massive storms until the temperature drops and the northern hemisphere is hit by another ice age. On the whole this probably was one of Emmerich's most overblown, silly films that I've seen. From a scientific point of view it may be complete bullshit.
But after watching it I did start thinking about the weather in slightly different terms. Come to think of it, this winter in Germany has been the harshest I can remember in my lifetime. It started snowing in November already. It was so sudden and much that the crews at Frankfurt airport nearby couldn't cope and lots of flights were cancelled. Then after a brief period of warmer weather it started snowing again in January. This time it was even more. The temperature dropped below -10 degrees at night - something that is extremely rare in these parts of Germany. Over the course of one weekend we had more than 10cm of snow. Several hundred flights were cancelled. And more just kept coming down. Eventually, communities, especially in the temperate Rhine Valley even began running out of grit and salt to sprinkle the roads. The were loads of accidents during January and February. On the road or motorway because some cars and many foreign trucks were not equipped and didn't have the right tyres for driving on snow. Some even on the sidewalk where people slipped and fell because the bottom layer of snow had been compacted into a sheet of ice.
Now that the snow has finally melted the country is beginning to face new weather problems. Violent gales on Friday and today have disrupted traffic because trees were uprooted or broke and fell on the road or rails. I consider myself lucky to have made it home with main line trains delayed and local public transport disrupted, too. I'm sure people have been hit by falling branches.
Of course, these are all small things. There have been much more severe natural disasters like recent hurricanes and flooding. But even these small events - do they indicate a gradual change in climate? Have we been too reckless with our planet and are we beginning to see the consequences? It probably won't happen as quickly or drastically as in the movie but probably the solution to the problem won't be as easy as in the movie either and there probably won't be hero to save mankind. It's interesting that my friend has just had to write a short essay on climate change and the Copenhagen Climate Conference. Maybe it's really time we sat down and talked about solutions instead of talking about politics.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Digital Handcuffs
How many of you know Steam - the Steam client? Probably it's something that is only gamers will come across. It's also the cause of much annoyance to gamers. Why? Because it makes even a legally purchased game a pain in the arse.
To fully appreciate this you have to know some background of copy protection mechanisms.
The earliest I know of is the product key, a long string of characters that you'd find on the packaging or manual of the software you purchased. To be able to install the software you have to enter the correct key. Clever hackers get around this with key generating programs, lists of OEM keys or even by applying a patch (crack) to the game executable itself. You do this once and you could play the game in the same way as a legitimate version.
Some games (I remember Flashback) would ask for keys from the manual during game play but you could just copy the manual from someone who had it.
With Windows XP and Office XP Microsoft then came up with their activation mechanism. You still had to enter your product key at install time. But this would only allow you to use the product for 14 days. During that time you should connect to an online service of Microsoft and let Windows authenticate your copy. However, not all users have access to the Internet, so there was also an option to activate Windows by phone where some values had to be entered manually. Together with some registry tinkering this could then be exploited to get a pirate copy activated. Since no Internet connection was assumed the keys would not be checked a second time.
Back to the present day. Some time ago Valve came up with a new method to authenticate a game. They developed a client program - the Steam client - with which each game would integrate. At install time you'd still enter your game's product key. This must then be associated with a Steam user account. The game can then only be launched through Steam. To play, the Steam client connects to its server somewhere and checks the running game's product key against the logged in user account. The idea is obviously that to create a pirate copy of the game you not only need the product key of the copy you're using but also the credentials of the user who first registered that copy. You couldn't even feasibly lend a game to your friend without giving him (or her) access to your Steam account. And to make sure you always play with a legitimate version Steam does the authentication every time you play the game.
If this was all, it would be annoying but I guess I could live with it. But it's not.
Steam wants your games to be up to date. This means if there is an update for a registered game available it forces you to download the update before you can launch the game. You can't say no, you can't postpone (even Microsoft lets you do that). If that then means that you have to download an update of several hundred megabytes, tough shit. You then have time to go and have dinner or something. To give you an idea, the first patch for Dawn of War II was about 1000mb. I read a blog entry by a user who still happened to have a dial-up connection. You can imagine he was not happy (he did use the f-word a lot).
Steam itself also wants to be up to date. When the client starts it insists on checking for, downloading and applying any available updates. Again, vetoing or postponing are not possible. If the update fails for any reason (and the Steam website lists a number of them) then the client will not start and you won't play your game either. This happened to me yesterday. Some Windows 7 permissioning or AVG's resident guard function interfered with the Steam update. The problem fixed itself eventually but I was left sitting there for one hour or more not being able to play a game that I had acquired perfectly legally. You can imagine I was not happy (and I also used the f-word a lot).
What's my point with this? My point is that I'm annoyed and a lot of other users are, too. On their Steam website Valve may go on and on about the benefits of Steam like creating a gamer community, having a central facility to manage your games and their updates, buying games directly through Steam and various little discounts and perks. However, I can get a lot these in other ways if I want them. All this does not compensate the fact that I have here a legally purchased game and I'm having trouble accessing it. There have already been reports that Steam authentication for various games has been cracked. Those who play the pirate versions may not be able to use the online features but they don't have to put up with the Steam client's whims either. I've read various comments by users who bought a retail copy of a game but then downloaded a crack because Steam was making it difficult or impossible for them to play. In the end, the ones left looking rather stupid are those gamers who buy a legal copy and then sit in front of their computers swearing and cursing Steam. I realise, like many gamers do, that piracy is a problem but like this game developer companies are basically punishing those gamers who choose to buy a legal copy of their games. It's a bit like putting handcuffs on me every time I want to ride my own bike and then forcing me to polish it and the handcuffs before I'm allowed to set off.
My conclusion: I love the Dawn of War series but that is the only reason I put up with this. I will not buy any other games with the Steam logo on them.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Just One Step
Once again, this was inspired by some real feelings I've had. If I'm really down I can sometimes feel like the whole world hates me and every little thing I do is wrong. There are two sides to most things and always more than one way to solve every problem. The conflict is which side you choose believe. A song by Meatloaf I like a lot is "Life is a Lemon", which is also along similar lines. So this is about taking these thoughts and feelings to the extreme and adding some flavour to the mix.
Don't be alarmed. I'm not planning anything rash.
There was a gasp from the crowd below. Slowly, almost carefully so, the young man lifted one leg and was now straddling the railing. He seemed to hesitate there for a moment gazing absently at the spectators. Then, as if reaching a conclusion, he brought the other leg across. Turning he was now standing on the twenty centimetres of ledge. Beyond that right in front of him gaped the abyss of some thirty floors and the throng of upturned faces below. The young man stood there motionless for a while gazing downward while they stared up at him. He was clutching the cold metal of the railing with both hands leaning slightly forward.
The wind carried with it the sound of distant sirens. They were coming to talk him out of it with false care on their faces and their questions and false morality. It was almost the same as in the movies. You don't have to do this or Let's talk about this. Why did they have to make such a fuss? Why could they not accept a man's decision and leave well alone? It had been difficult enough to get this far. Why make this last step any harder? As he thought about this he watched the crowd. Sometimes a shout would carry up to his position. They were waiting. Just waiting. A single tear rolled from the corner of his eye down to the tip of his nose, hung there for a second or two, then plunged downward to hit the ground roughly in the place where he would soon follow. His vision suddenly blurred. It would have to be now then. Before they began bothering him. He took a deep breath.
There was a rustle behind him as of a great bird flapping its wings. He did not turn around.
Then a gentle, strangely androgynous voice behind him said: "You do not have to do this, you know."
They had come earlier than expected. He sniffed, wiped his face with one hand smearing the tears.
"Leave me alone", he said hoarsely. When there was no immediate reply he continued: "Why can't you people accept that this is what I want?"
The gentle voice replied: "Because we know of your suffering but also of the conflict within you."
It burst out of him then: "That's bullshit! Just - you know - piss off! You know nothing about me."
The voice replied with unperturbed patience: "I know more than you think for I have faced difficult times with you before - even though you may not remember."
Something in the tone in which the person spoke made the young man turn around. He faced a young - he was not entirely sure whether the person on the other side of the railing was a very slender, delicately shaped man or a woman with a stronger than average build. The face was narrow with high cheekbones, elegantly curved lips and wide eyes - features that were best described with the word noble. The hair was a flood of nut brown that was tied into a tidy pony tail and seemed to have a golden sheen to it. The most remarkable, however, were the eyes, which were the rich colour of ember. The person was dressed in a lightly coloured, casual smart suit without a tie.
The young man squinted.
"Who are you", he demanded, "you're not from the police."
His opposite smiled warmly revealing pearly white teeth.
"You could say I am one who have been watching over you for a very long time. We have faced great trials together before. You trusted me then, so I hope you will confide in me again today. The name by which you may remember me is Raphael."
"I don't remember you", the young man said with coldness in his voice. Then he sighed.
"Look, I don't know what you're trying to do. Your little good deed for the day. Save a lost soul. Or if it some sick voyeurism. I don't care." He paused for a moment, then went on almost reluctantly: "Stay or go - just leave me alone."
With that he turned back to the thirty floor abyss.
"Why am I here", Raphael replied calmly and went on to answer his own question, "because I believe in the sanctity of the human soul. Because I believe that life is a gift, an opportunity, that should not so easily be squandered."
The young man gave a sour laugh.
"Oh, great, a religious fanatic", he mocked, "please don't start preaching that what I'm trying to do is a sin and I'll go straight to hell for it. I'm going there anyway", he added almost under his breath.
"That is not what I was trying to say", Raphael replied in his gentle voice. "Moreover, I am asking you to stop for a moment and think. Think of your life, your life's history, how it has been unique to you, like that of every other man and woman in the world. Think of the impacts you have made and those that you may yet make. Why would you deserve this?"
The young man was silent for a while. His head bowed, then his vision blurred again as his eyes filled with tears once more.
"I fucked it up, that's why", he exclaimed in a voice that was breaking into a sob. "I fucked it all up."
Raphael drew closer, however without touching the young man, and bent over the railing slightly so as to look him in the face.
"What makes you say that?"
The young man sobbed harder this time, trying to hide his face in his hand while still holding on to the railing with the other.
"I look at other people. I see what they have. I see what they are. All I have, all I am is a pile of shit."
"What is it that they are, that they have that you do not?"
The young man sniffed and wiped at his tears with the back of his hand. He was still staring vaguely downward not meeting Raphael's gaze. He sobbed again and more tears came.
"They have a life worth living", he stated, "they have a good job, they have money. They have friends that respect them, a family that is proud of them -" His voice broke again at this point. "- a girlfriend that loved them."
He could speak no further.
"And you have none of these? Surely, you have work and a salary that pays for a comfortable apartment and holidays in interesting places."
The young man replied desolately: "My job is shit. My colleagues think I'm weird. My boss gives me the tasks that no one else wants. He thinks I'm a lazy idiot - which I probably am. It's the only job I could find. Great, isn't it? Your parents pay for education abroad, at good universities, and you end up in some thankless shithole while all your course mates work for big, multi-nationals."
"And you envy them for that?"
The young man hung his head.
"No. I wouldn't be able to stand the pressure anyway. I'm just not good enough."
"But your family does not accept that", Raphael persisted in a soft voice.
"It doesn't matter", replied the young man in bitter tones, "they praise whatever I do. It doesn't mean anything. I know that deep down I'm just one big disappointment to them."
"They have told you that?"
"I can see it in their eyes", the young man replied sharply, "I can hear it in the way they lecture me on everything. 'Cause I can't do things right."
"And your friends then? They respect you."
"Respect." He spat out the word like something disgusting. "That's right: they are polite. They don't really care about me. They never write, they never call, they never want to come to see me. Shouldn't that be what friends do? Instead, I always have to run after them. They don't pick up the phone, they don't return calls. A guy I've known for fifteen years doesn't even reply when I write to him. Some friends I have."
"You know he is busy with his work", Raphael gently objected.
"Too busy to hear his fucking mobile", the young man almost shouted.
There was a pause. Then he continued, his voice tiny: "You know what? I just turned thirty. I always imagined for the big birthdays I'd also have a big party like my other people have. Lots of friends, drinks, laughter. Actually, I've spent most of my birthdays alone. People don't come. I could invite them and pay and they wouldn't. One close friend cancelled at short notice because of some stupid excuse. Another I practically had to beg to come. I ended up sitting there with two guys - and they didn't look too happy either."
"Sometimes a few good friends who truly appreciate you are worth more than many acquaintances who do not", Raphael explained.
"They don't", the young man snapped, "they don't understand me anymore. Maybe they never did. I've never been close to any of them. Now I've changed. I can't even relate to them anymore."
"They still make an effort. And how about the friends you have in other places? They are people that care about you, too."
"Yeah, sure. It's so easy to seem like you care when chatting online. You can send all these hugs and smiles and really you don't give a shit. Most of them don't really reply to my emails either. And how many of them have really made the effort? How many have been here to see me, even though I invited them more than once?"
He laughed bitterly.
"How many of them can come to see you", Raphael pointed out soothingly.
"Yeah, but it comes to the same, doesn't it", the young man countered, "they are all far away. They will soon forget me, too. If I didn't keep in touch they wouldn't bother. Do you know how many of them actually still remembered my birthday this year? It's fewer and fewer every year. How long until I end up alone?"
"Those that mattered did remember you, did they not", said Raphael.
"No", the young man shook his head, his face a grimace of pain. He sighed deeply, then continued: "Not all that mattered."
"All but one", said an unpleasant voice right next to his ear.
The young man was silent, thinking back, remembering. Then he said in a small voice: "Her."
"Her", echoed the new voice. It had the same genderless quality as the first but there was a sharp edge to it reminding the young man somehow of a rusty saw.
"She forgot your birthday, didn't she", the new voice went on.
The young man nodded sadly.
"Yes", he whispered and sniffed again, "she had promised she'd call me on my birthday, so I wouldn't feel lonely without her. She promised. And then she just forgot. Just like that."
"That's bad", the new voice admitted, "she's the person - the woman - you love most in the whole world. Why would she do that to you?"
The young man hesitated. His lower lip was trembling a third time.
"Because she doesn't love me back", he finally uttered.
"She did call you later", Raphael quickly interjected, "she did say she was sorry."
"She says these things to please me", the young man returned, "because I want to hear them. She doesn't mean it. She speaks of finding someone to love as if I didn't exist; that if she finds a more suitable guy she will just marry him... I miss her so much. I just don't know what to do."
"Are there not other girls that love you", Raphael asked, "are there not several girls that still even now hope you will love them back?"
The young man gave another bitter laugh.
"Yeah. But they are not her. I can't get her out of my head." After a pause he continued: "Well, I guess I don't deserve any better, do I?"
"And why would that be", inquired the unpleasant voice innocently.
This time the young man turned to face the newcomer for the first time. There was a striking resemblance to Raphael about him, the young man noticed. It was almost impossible to guess the gender. From the dress style he should be male, wearing a dark red shirt under an open, dark suit jacket. His skin was smooth and almost the colour of bronze with medium-length jet black hair that was slicked back out of his delicate face. His eyes seemed to smoulder in their sockets when the young man met his gaze. This would probably the only man who would fit the word beautiful.
"Who are you?"
"Oh." The one in red waved away the question and gave a brilliant smile. "We're all friends here, aren't we? We don't need to bother with names. 'Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name', as the song goes."
The young man turned away again, averting his gaze, as if he could not stand looking the other in the eye. For a while he was silent. The sirens were nearer now.
"You were saying", the one in red prompted.
The young man squeezed his lips together for a moment. He closed his eyes as if in shame when he spoke again:
"I've lied to them. To all of them. And cheated on them. I've used them and made them cry and hurt their feelings."
With each new confession he seemed to double over a bit more as if under the lashes of a whip. The one in red nodded quietly.
"And now you wonder what you have become."
"Yes!" The man's voice was almost a tortured cry.
"I have become all these things that I swore to myself I'd never ever become."
"It is not too late", Raphael said consolingly, "you may have departed from the right path but you can still return to it. Tell them the truth. In time they may come to forgive you."
The young man went on as if he had not heard.
"They always tell me I'm such a good guy, that I have such a kind heart, that I'm being so nice to them. If they knew the truth they'd never forgive me."
The one in red nodded again.
"Probably not", he concurred.
"They'd hate me", the young man continued.
"Yes."
"They'd never speak to me again."
"No."
"Then I can't." The man's voice was no more than a tearful whisper. "I need them. Without them I'll be all alone."
"Lying is a horrible thing to do", the one in red explained in his quiet, razor-sharp voice, "once you start ... it's hard to stop."
"It takes great courage to tell the truth", said Raphael solemnly, "you have done it now, before me and you can do it again."
"I can't", the young man insisted, his body contorting with his sobs. There were no more tears.
"Because you'd do it again, wouldn't you", the one in red coaxed him on.
"Yes." It was as if the young man was vomiting forth confession after confession.
And the one in red would not stop: "You enjoyed the attention you got, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"You wanted them all for yourself."
"I'm greedy", the young man stated with a voice full of contempt, "and I'm selfish. Conceited ... and cruel. And so fucking selfish."
After a brief pause he suddenly he cried out: "I'm evil!"
"You feel guilt", Raphael objected, "evil does not feel remorse. People believe in you because they can see that good in you."
The young man turned on Raphael, angrily now.
"It's because they all don't know the truth", he shouted, "ask my parents if I'm really being a good son to them. Do you think my girlfriends -" he emphasised the s "- would still see the good in me if they knew -" His voice faltered.
"- that you fucked others girls behind their back", the one in red offered helpfully.
The young man nodded. He seemed almost afraid to look at either of the others now.
"Isn't it funny", he began again in a small, bitter voice, "that the people I'm nicest to are actually my friends? And from them I get nothing in return. It's like Karma. All your bad deeds come back to you somehow sooner or later. And I've just done too many."
"That does not mean you deserve to die", implored Raphael, "we have defeated evil before. Trust me and together we will today conquer the evil within. Take my hand."
He reached out a pale hand. The young man ignored it, shaking his head sadly. His chest heaved a sigh of resignation.
"There are so many feelings I've hurt, hearts I've broken, chances I've missed. Maybe I once had a life full of potential but look at it now: I'm just some lonely, fucked-up looser. And one day I'll die and there will just be me in a box in a hole in the ground. And nobody will miss me or be sad."
He stared unseeingly at the abyss and the crowd and the street far below. The one in red bent over the railing as if following the young man's gaze.
"That's why you -", he motioned towards to deep drop. The young man shrugged wearily.
"Might as well make that day today. Might as well do something brave now. Look at them. They don't care. They're laughing at me. They all think I'll come back down, that I don't have the guts to do it."
"You are wrong", Raphael declared gently intoning every word, "they are horrified. They hope you will not do this thing that they cannot understand. They pray that you will not waste your life like this."
The young man looked up at Raphael doubtfully.
Suddenly, a taunting shout echoed above the din of the crowd, traffic and sirens: "You piece of shit! Just jump if you got the balls to do it!"
The young man flinched as if in physical pain.
"You see", he said with a sad smile. Tears were welling up in his eyes for the last time.
"People is waiting. At least, this once I won't disappoint them."
With that he let go of the railing.
"No!" Raphael cried out losing his calm for the first time.
Almost as if in slow-motion the young man's figure tilted forward. Then he began his long tumble, spinning slightly, his clothes flapping about his frame, until he was just a small speck. A many-throated scream rose from the crowd.
Raphael turned away from the view. His face was like stone, his lips pressed tightly together. The one in red, however, had a smug little smile on his features as he adjusted his suit.
"I didn't think he had the guts to do it."
Don't be alarmed. I'm not planning anything rash.
There was a gasp from the crowd below. Slowly, almost carefully so, the young man lifted one leg and was now straddling the railing. He seemed to hesitate there for a moment gazing absently at the spectators. Then, as if reaching a conclusion, he brought the other leg across. Turning he was now standing on the twenty centimetres of ledge. Beyond that right in front of him gaped the abyss of some thirty floors and the throng of upturned faces below. The young man stood there motionless for a while gazing downward while they stared up at him. He was clutching the cold metal of the railing with both hands leaning slightly forward.
The wind carried with it the sound of distant sirens. They were coming to talk him out of it with false care on their faces and their questions and false morality. It was almost the same as in the movies. You don't have to do this or Let's talk about this. Why did they have to make such a fuss? Why could they not accept a man's decision and leave well alone? It had been difficult enough to get this far. Why make this last step any harder? As he thought about this he watched the crowd. Sometimes a shout would carry up to his position. They were waiting. Just waiting. A single tear rolled from the corner of his eye down to the tip of his nose, hung there for a second or two, then plunged downward to hit the ground roughly in the place where he would soon follow. His vision suddenly blurred. It would have to be now then. Before they began bothering him. He took a deep breath.
There was a rustle behind him as of a great bird flapping its wings. He did not turn around.
Then a gentle, strangely androgynous voice behind him said: "You do not have to do this, you know."
They had come earlier than expected. He sniffed, wiped his face with one hand smearing the tears.
"Leave me alone", he said hoarsely. When there was no immediate reply he continued: "Why can't you people accept that this is what I want?"
The gentle voice replied: "Because we know of your suffering but also of the conflict within you."
It burst out of him then: "That's bullshit! Just - you know - piss off! You know nothing about me."
The voice replied with unperturbed patience: "I know more than you think for I have faced difficult times with you before - even though you may not remember."
Something in the tone in which the person spoke made the young man turn around. He faced a young - he was not entirely sure whether the person on the other side of the railing was a very slender, delicately shaped man or a woman with a stronger than average build. The face was narrow with high cheekbones, elegantly curved lips and wide eyes - features that were best described with the word noble. The hair was a flood of nut brown that was tied into a tidy pony tail and seemed to have a golden sheen to it. The most remarkable, however, were the eyes, which were the rich colour of ember. The person was dressed in a lightly coloured, casual smart suit without a tie.
The young man squinted.
"Who are you", he demanded, "you're not from the police."
His opposite smiled warmly revealing pearly white teeth.
"You could say I am one who have been watching over you for a very long time. We have faced great trials together before. You trusted me then, so I hope you will confide in me again today. The name by which you may remember me is Raphael."
"I don't remember you", the young man said with coldness in his voice. Then he sighed.
"Look, I don't know what you're trying to do. Your little good deed for the day. Save a lost soul. Or if it some sick voyeurism. I don't care." He paused for a moment, then went on almost reluctantly: "Stay or go - just leave me alone."
With that he turned back to the thirty floor abyss.
"Why am I here", Raphael replied calmly and went on to answer his own question, "because I believe in the sanctity of the human soul. Because I believe that life is a gift, an opportunity, that should not so easily be squandered."
The young man gave a sour laugh.
"Oh, great, a religious fanatic", he mocked, "please don't start preaching that what I'm trying to do is a sin and I'll go straight to hell for it. I'm going there anyway", he added almost under his breath.
"That is not what I was trying to say", Raphael replied in his gentle voice. "Moreover, I am asking you to stop for a moment and think. Think of your life, your life's history, how it has been unique to you, like that of every other man and woman in the world. Think of the impacts you have made and those that you may yet make. Why would you deserve this?"
The young man was silent for a while. His head bowed, then his vision blurred again as his eyes filled with tears once more.
"I fucked it up, that's why", he exclaimed in a voice that was breaking into a sob. "I fucked it all up."
Raphael drew closer, however without touching the young man, and bent over the railing slightly so as to look him in the face.
"What makes you say that?"
The young man sobbed harder this time, trying to hide his face in his hand while still holding on to the railing with the other.
"I look at other people. I see what they have. I see what they are. All I have, all I am is a pile of shit."
"What is it that they are, that they have that you do not?"
The young man sniffed and wiped at his tears with the back of his hand. He was still staring vaguely downward not meeting Raphael's gaze. He sobbed again and more tears came.
"They have a life worth living", he stated, "they have a good job, they have money. They have friends that respect them, a family that is proud of them -" His voice broke again at this point. "- a girlfriend that loved them."
He could speak no further.
"And you have none of these? Surely, you have work and a salary that pays for a comfortable apartment and holidays in interesting places."
The young man replied desolately: "My job is shit. My colleagues think I'm weird. My boss gives me the tasks that no one else wants. He thinks I'm a lazy idiot - which I probably am. It's the only job I could find. Great, isn't it? Your parents pay for education abroad, at good universities, and you end up in some thankless shithole while all your course mates work for big, multi-nationals."
"And you envy them for that?"
The young man hung his head.
"No. I wouldn't be able to stand the pressure anyway. I'm just not good enough."
"But your family does not accept that", Raphael persisted in a soft voice.
"It doesn't matter", replied the young man in bitter tones, "they praise whatever I do. It doesn't mean anything. I know that deep down I'm just one big disappointment to them."
"They have told you that?"
"I can see it in their eyes", the young man replied sharply, "I can hear it in the way they lecture me on everything. 'Cause I can't do things right."
"And your friends then? They respect you."
"Respect." He spat out the word like something disgusting. "That's right: they are polite. They don't really care about me. They never write, they never call, they never want to come to see me. Shouldn't that be what friends do? Instead, I always have to run after them. They don't pick up the phone, they don't return calls. A guy I've known for fifteen years doesn't even reply when I write to him. Some friends I have."
"You know he is busy with his work", Raphael gently objected.
"Too busy to hear his fucking mobile", the young man almost shouted.
There was a pause. Then he continued, his voice tiny: "You know what? I just turned thirty. I always imagined for the big birthdays I'd also have a big party like my other people have. Lots of friends, drinks, laughter. Actually, I've spent most of my birthdays alone. People don't come. I could invite them and pay and they wouldn't. One close friend cancelled at short notice because of some stupid excuse. Another I practically had to beg to come. I ended up sitting there with two guys - and they didn't look too happy either."
"Sometimes a few good friends who truly appreciate you are worth more than many acquaintances who do not", Raphael explained.
"They don't", the young man snapped, "they don't understand me anymore. Maybe they never did. I've never been close to any of them. Now I've changed. I can't even relate to them anymore."
"They still make an effort. And how about the friends you have in other places? They are people that care about you, too."
"Yeah, sure. It's so easy to seem like you care when chatting online. You can send all these hugs and smiles and really you don't give a shit. Most of them don't really reply to my emails either. And how many of them have really made the effort? How many have been here to see me, even though I invited them more than once?"
He laughed bitterly.
"How many of them can come to see you", Raphael pointed out soothingly.
"Yeah, but it comes to the same, doesn't it", the young man countered, "they are all far away. They will soon forget me, too. If I didn't keep in touch they wouldn't bother. Do you know how many of them actually still remembered my birthday this year? It's fewer and fewer every year. How long until I end up alone?"
"Those that mattered did remember you, did they not", said Raphael.
"No", the young man shook his head, his face a grimace of pain. He sighed deeply, then continued: "Not all that mattered."
"All but one", said an unpleasant voice right next to his ear.
The young man was silent, thinking back, remembering. Then he said in a small voice: "Her."
"Her", echoed the new voice. It had the same genderless quality as the first but there was a sharp edge to it reminding the young man somehow of a rusty saw.
"She forgot your birthday, didn't she", the new voice went on.
The young man nodded sadly.
"Yes", he whispered and sniffed again, "she had promised she'd call me on my birthday, so I wouldn't feel lonely without her. She promised. And then she just forgot. Just like that."
"That's bad", the new voice admitted, "she's the person - the woman - you love most in the whole world. Why would she do that to you?"
The young man hesitated. His lower lip was trembling a third time.
"Because she doesn't love me back", he finally uttered.
"She did call you later", Raphael quickly interjected, "she did say she was sorry."
"She says these things to please me", the young man returned, "because I want to hear them. She doesn't mean it. She speaks of finding someone to love as if I didn't exist; that if she finds a more suitable guy she will just marry him... I miss her so much. I just don't know what to do."
"Are there not other girls that love you", Raphael asked, "are there not several girls that still even now hope you will love them back?"
The young man gave another bitter laugh.
"Yeah. But they are not her. I can't get her out of my head." After a pause he continued: "Well, I guess I don't deserve any better, do I?"
"And why would that be", inquired the unpleasant voice innocently.
This time the young man turned to face the newcomer for the first time. There was a striking resemblance to Raphael about him, the young man noticed. It was almost impossible to guess the gender. From the dress style he should be male, wearing a dark red shirt under an open, dark suit jacket. His skin was smooth and almost the colour of bronze with medium-length jet black hair that was slicked back out of his delicate face. His eyes seemed to smoulder in their sockets when the young man met his gaze. This would probably the only man who would fit the word beautiful.
"Who are you?"
"Oh." The one in red waved away the question and gave a brilliant smile. "We're all friends here, aren't we? We don't need to bother with names. 'Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name', as the song goes."
The young man turned away again, averting his gaze, as if he could not stand looking the other in the eye. For a while he was silent. The sirens were nearer now.
"You were saying", the one in red prompted.
The young man squeezed his lips together for a moment. He closed his eyes as if in shame when he spoke again:
"I've lied to them. To all of them. And cheated on them. I've used them and made them cry and hurt their feelings."
With each new confession he seemed to double over a bit more as if under the lashes of a whip. The one in red nodded quietly.
"And now you wonder what you have become."
"Yes!" The man's voice was almost a tortured cry.
"I have become all these things that I swore to myself I'd never ever become."
"It is not too late", Raphael said consolingly, "you may have departed from the right path but you can still return to it. Tell them the truth. In time they may come to forgive you."
The young man went on as if he had not heard.
"They always tell me I'm such a good guy, that I have such a kind heart, that I'm being so nice to them. If they knew the truth they'd never forgive me."
The one in red nodded again.
"Probably not", he concurred.
"They'd hate me", the young man continued.
"Yes."
"They'd never speak to me again."
"No."
"Then I can't." The man's voice was no more than a tearful whisper. "I need them. Without them I'll be all alone."
"Lying is a horrible thing to do", the one in red explained in his quiet, razor-sharp voice, "once you start ... it's hard to stop."
"It takes great courage to tell the truth", said Raphael solemnly, "you have done it now, before me and you can do it again."
"I can't", the young man insisted, his body contorting with his sobs. There were no more tears.
"Because you'd do it again, wouldn't you", the one in red coaxed him on.
"Yes." It was as if the young man was vomiting forth confession after confession.
And the one in red would not stop: "You enjoyed the attention you got, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"You wanted them all for yourself."
"I'm greedy", the young man stated with a voice full of contempt, "and I'm selfish. Conceited ... and cruel. And so fucking selfish."
After a brief pause he suddenly he cried out: "I'm evil!"
"You feel guilt", Raphael objected, "evil does not feel remorse. People believe in you because they can see that good in you."
The young man turned on Raphael, angrily now.
"It's because they all don't know the truth", he shouted, "ask my parents if I'm really being a good son to them. Do you think my girlfriends -" he emphasised the s "- would still see the good in me if they knew -" His voice faltered.
"- that you fucked others girls behind their back", the one in red offered helpfully.
The young man nodded. He seemed almost afraid to look at either of the others now.
"Isn't it funny", he began again in a small, bitter voice, "that the people I'm nicest to are actually my friends? And from them I get nothing in return. It's like Karma. All your bad deeds come back to you somehow sooner or later. And I've just done too many."
"That does not mean you deserve to die", implored Raphael, "we have defeated evil before. Trust me and together we will today conquer the evil within. Take my hand."
He reached out a pale hand. The young man ignored it, shaking his head sadly. His chest heaved a sigh of resignation.
"There are so many feelings I've hurt, hearts I've broken, chances I've missed. Maybe I once had a life full of potential but look at it now: I'm just some lonely, fucked-up looser. And one day I'll die and there will just be me in a box in a hole in the ground. And nobody will miss me or be sad."
He stared unseeingly at the abyss and the crowd and the street far below. The one in red bent over the railing as if following the young man's gaze.
"That's why you -", he motioned towards to deep drop. The young man shrugged wearily.
"Might as well make that day today. Might as well do something brave now. Look at them. They don't care. They're laughing at me. They all think I'll come back down, that I don't have the guts to do it."
"You are wrong", Raphael declared gently intoning every word, "they are horrified. They hope you will not do this thing that they cannot understand. They pray that you will not waste your life like this."
The young man looked up at Raphael doubtfully.
Suddenly, a taunting shout echoed above the din of the crowd, traffic and sirens: "You piece of shit! Just jump if you got the balls to do it!"
The young man flinched as if in physical pain.
"You see", he said with a sad smile. Tears were welling up in his eyes for the last time.
"People is waiting. At least, this once I won't disappoint them."
With that he let go of the railing.
"No!" Raphael cried out losing his calm for the first time.
Almost as if in slow-motion the young man's figure tilted forward. Then he began his long tumble, spinning slightly, his clothes flapping about his frame, until he was just a small speck. A many-throated scream rose from the crowd.
Raphael turned away from the view. His face was like stone, his lips pressed tightly together. The one in red, however, had a smug little smile on his features as he adjusted his suit.
"I didn't think he had the guts to do it."
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Flashback
I'm deleting some old photos tonight and I stumbled across some real gems. If you've been following you may remember the post on my unlucky August this year. There I described how I had moved house and the state my fridge was in when it got handed over to me by the previous tenant. I completely forgot at the time that I took some photos with my mobile phone as evidence before I cleaned it. Only enlarge these if you have a strong stomach. Anyway, you get the idea. It was vile.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sandman
I've been listening to Rammstein a lot recently. Their song "Mein Herz brennt" got me thinking about the sandman and inspired me to this little tale. Enjoy.
Do you believe in the Sandman? No? Then why do you think there are little grains of dirt in the corner of your eyes every morning when you wake up? When you were young, who do you think made you sleepy when it was time for bed? Your dad's bedtime story? No. You wanted to hear another one. Your mum coming to kiss you goodnight? No. You said you still wanted some chocolate. It's the Sandman that pours sand over your eyes. Why do you think your eyelids became so heavy all of a sudden. He wants you to sleep. He needs you to sleep. To dream.
Each grain of sand is like a seed and like with all seeds some take root and some do not. Some grow a bit and die and some never open. But some, if watered properly, will grow into beautiful flowers or sturdy trees. Your long hours of sleep are like water for the dream seeds. They make them flourish and bloom. The Sandman looks after them patiently like a farmer does look after his crops. He is diligent and watches over them carefully for they only have until morning to grow. When the first sunlight caresses your skin, when the first rooster crows, when the smell of coffee begins to slowly rouse you from slumber they whither and die quickly.
From midnight until the hour before dawn the Sandman waits for the dream seeds to grow to maturity. All night he does his rounds. Ever so often he peeks through your closed eyelids into your sleeping mind to inspect them - like a farmer does his tomatoes or cabbages. You would not feel his weight as he leans onto your chest. He is tall but gaunt and weighs next to nothing. Those saplings he finds unworthy he gently plucks from your mind to leave fertile ground for new ones. It's good ones he waits for. The dreams about lost love, slaying dragons, becoming president - or about ghost, goblins, being eaten alive or hunted by a faceless stranger. Those are the ones he claims for himself. With his long, immaterial hand he reaches deep into your mind and gathers together all the different strands and fills them into one of his many bottles. Then he smoothes out the ripples in your head. You would never know he had been there. And he continues his rounds.
Only just before sunrise he retreats to his abode far, far away from light and warmth with bottles full of fresh dreams. He craves them. He needs them. One by one he uncorks the bottles and presses the content into his cold veins. You should see the broad smile it brings to his pallid features and the youth it revives in his desiccated body. The taut skin around his features becomes supple again, his wide eyes roll back and his head lolls in ecstasy. He quivers and groans as life seeps back into him. This is how he spends the fitful hours of daylight. Until darkness falls and he goes out to sow his next harvest.
And then there are still the unruly children. Those who refuse to sleep and stay up late. Those that want to wander around the house in the middle of the night in search of snacks or read under the blanket. These are the ones that vex the Sandman much. They deny him their dreams. They deny him his only pleasure, his ambrosia. He still comes to them, of course. But he does not bring sand. Have you ever wondered why the dark of the late night struck fear into your heart as a child? Did you believe in Witching Hour or the Bogey Man? Were you afraid of the dark shape of a man standing in the deepest shadow in the corner of your room? Of the nameless things that lurked under your bed? Or in the closet that was never fully closed? Or in the pitch black of the basement? Would you shiver at the feeling of wisps of darkness reaching out to you like tentacles? Were you convinced there were demons, ghosts or black fairies? They would crawl out from under your bed and out of the cellar. You would pull your blanket up over your face but they would still peek at you from underneath. You would switch on the light or even scream for mummy and daddy. But that would not make them go away, only go into hiding. Until the lights went out once more.
So, little children pay good heed. I am the voice from out of your pillow. I have brought you something tonight. Think carefully before you resist its lure. I shall be here until break of day, sitting on the edge of your bed. Watching you sleep.
Sweet dreams.
They only grow in little children.
Do you believe in the Sandman? No? Then why do you think there are little grains of dirt in the corner of your eyes every morning when you wake up? When you were young, who do you think made you sleepy when it was time for bed? Your dad's bedtime story? No. You wanted to hear another one. Your mum coming to kiss you goodnight? No. You said you still wanted some chocolate. It's the Sandman that pours sand over your eyes. Why do you think your eyelids became so heavy all of a sudden. He wants you to sleep. He needs you to sleep. To dream.
Each grain of sand is like a seed and like with all seeds some take root and some do not. Some grow a bit and die and some never open. But some, if watered properly, will grow into beautiful flowers or sturdy trees. Your long hours of sleep are like water for the dream seeds. They make them flourish and bloom. The Sandman looks after them patiently like a farmer does look after his crops. He is diligent and watches over them carefully for they only have until morning to grow. When the first sunlight caresses your skin, when the first rooster crows, when the smell of coffee begins to slowly rouse you from slumber they whither and die quickly.
From midnight until the hour before dawn the Sandman waits for the dream seeds to grow to maturity. All night he does his rounds. Ever so often he peeks through your closed eyelids into your sleeping mind to inspect them - like a farmer does his tomatoes or cabbages. You would not feel his weight as he leans onto your chest. He is tall but gaunt and weighs next to nothing. Those saplings he finds unworthy he gently plucks from your mind to leave fertile ground for new ones. It's good ones he waits for. The dreams about lost love, slaying dragons, becoming president - or about ghost, goblins, being eaten alive or hunted by a faceless stranger. Those are the ones he claims for himself. With his long, immaterial hand he reaches deep into your mind and gathers together all the different strands and fills them into one of his many bottles. Then he smoothes out the ripples in your head. You would never know he had been there. And he continues his rounds.
Only just before sunrise he retreats to his abode far, far away from light and warmth with bottles full of fresh dreams. He craves them. He needs them. One by one he uncorks the bottles and presses the content into his cold veins. You should see the broad smile it brings to his pallid features and the youth it revives in his desiccated body. The taut skin around his features becomes supple again, his wide eyes roll back and his head lolls in ecstasy. He quivers and groans as life seeps back into him. This is how he spends the fitful hours of daylight. Until darkness falls and he goes out to sow his next harvest.
And then there are still the unruly children. Those who refuse to sleep and stay up late. Those that want to wander around the house in the middle of the night in search of snacks or read under the blanket. These are the ones that vex the Sandman much. They deny him their dreams. They deny him his only pleasure, his ambrosia. He still comes to them, of course. But he does not bring sand. Have you ever wondered why the dark of the late night struck fear into your heart as a child? Did you believe in Witching Hour or the Bogey Man? Were you afraid of the dark shape of a man standing in the deepest shadow in the corner of your room? Of the nameless things that lurked under your bed? Or in the closet that was never fully closed? Or in the pitch black of the basement? Would you shiver at the feeling of wisps of darkness reaching out to you like tentacles? Were you convinced there were demons, ghosts or black fairies? They would crawl out from under your bed and out of the cellar. You would pull your blanket up over your face but they would still peek at you from underneath. You would switch on the light or even scream for mummy and daddy. But that would not make them go away, only go into hiding. Until the lights went out once more.
So, little children pay good heed. I am the voice from out of your pillow. I have brought you something tonight. Think carefully before you resist its lure. I shall be here until break of day, sitting on the edge of your bed. Watching you sleep.
Sweet dreams.
They only grow in little children.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Ten Paces
Another story of fiction after a long pause. It's been inspired by (among other things) the song "Roter Sand" by Rammstein, but also a piece I once wrote for French lessons. Hope you enjoy it.
One step.
The pistol weighed heavy in his hand. He could not help but think of the price he had paid for this piece of armament: the barrel long and straight, etched with floral designs. The hilt was carved out of dark nut wood and the flint lock's cock simply but elegantly curved. It had made an ever so faint click when he had pulled it back. The sharp edges of the flint gleamed mysteriously in the morning light. Holding it up as close to his face as he was, he imagined he could almost catch a whiff of the gunpowder in the barrel, there, forming a volatile cushion for the little, round lead bullet. His finger never brushed the trigger as if fearful of setting it off prematurely.
Two steps.
The little clearing was perfectly quiet on this chilly morning as if bird and beast were afraid of what they might find or witness here today. He had been here countless times before today. He knew every tree stump, every patch of moss, every rock and root. But those had been different times. He had not brought a pistol then but books of poetry or picnic baskets. The birds had been chirping from the trees and bees had buzzed busily around him, and a golden sun had warmed his back. Instead of the scent of gunpowder there had been the sweet perfume of flowers on the breeze. And it had carried with it another sound: that of an angel singing.
Three steps.
He had veritably believed he had chanced upon an angel. From between the dark tree trunks she seemed to glow in her white dress. It formed a stark contrast with the black of her hair that tumbled lushly down her back like a flood of cocoa. All the while her lips played out the undulating melody of a slow song the words of which he did not understand. It seemed to him that her voice filled the whole forest - and his mind - with its music. It reached out to him and beckoned like the song of the siren, yet soothed him like a mother's lullaby. He never realised that his mouth and eyes were agape. Nor did he notice how much time had passed. But a sharp crack brought everything to a sudden halt. A twig had snapped beneath his foot. She started and spun scattering an armful of flowers onto the high grass, nut-brown eyes wide in alarm. And he spun, too, and ran blindly through the undergrowth his heart pounding in his chest. He never dared to speak of it to anyone for a long time.
Four steps.
She was an excellent pupil. She could read without faltering, her French pronunciation was flawless and her fingers danced nimbly across the strings of her violin. As years went by she grew taller, her shape fuller. She dressed no more in simple white but in elaborate gowns. She knew all the blossoms and shrubs, birds and beasts by their Latin names and began to quote the works of Voltaire, Kant or Locke. Her eyes, though, were ever as bright and her smile as wide; "warm enough to ward off the winter", one of the maids had said once. It was true: like a fairy she seemed to have spring in her eyes. And a wicked wit, to boot. They would sit in the same classroom and he would cast many a glance over at her when her head was turned. But somehow she would come to him to talk and they would converse at length on poetry and prose, nature, which she loved very much, or simply their school masters and their ways. Men came to her bearing roses yet she just smiled and watched them leave disheartened. He would often remark on it and she would flash one of her radiant smiles and say it was not time for her yet. And every time she said that his heart skip a beat.
Five steps.
Was it fate that led them back to that clearing - the same that he had spied her on and listened to her sing that French chanson so many years ago? She loved flowers and often walked in the forest to find some. It was a beautiful summer day and the sun light produced intricate patterns as it filtered through the leaves above them. Lilies, she told him, only grew in a few special places around their home. She knew most of them. Lilies were her favourite. They reminded her of France. How had she found this place? As a little girl she had spent a lot of time wandering and had chanced upon it. The lilies she had found here had sparked her love for them. She showed him the lilies that even now grew on the clearing amid the high grass and it felt like a day long gone. Then, as if reading his thoughts, she looked him straight in the eye asking if he had also been looking for lilies that day, years ago. What had he been staring at and why had he been hiding? He thought of denying. He considered running away again. But there was nothing reproachful in her features. How had she known? She was silent a moment. Then she said he had looked at her differently after that day. Later, when she had thought about it, it had to have been him. They sat on the grass, she nursing the slender stem of one of her favourite flowers. And he told her how he had heard her singing in her white dress with her black hair. He told of how he had been enchanted then, in that moment he had never hence forgotten. She smiled, blushing. And then he kissed her briefly, fleetingly on her red, red lips. The blush turned a deeper colour and she bowed her head as if in embarrassment. But the smile never left her face. He lay back on the soft grass and watched her and she shyly looked back at him from under the flood of dark hair. Would she sing that song again, he asked. She laughed her clear, crisp laughter and gently stroked through his hair. But sing she did and it filled his senses and he was lost. Never had he been closer to God's Paradise than at that moment.
Six steps.
They continued to meet all through that summer, cautiously, in secret, never for too long, so as not to make her parents suspicious. All his day seemed to consist of longing until he reached that little clearing and he could be with her again. Sometimes they would talk quietly, or bring a picnic basket, sometimes they would just lie on the grass and gaze at the sky idly watching the clouds float past. Sometimes they would just stare into each other's eyes and kiss and kiss until they were breathless. Winter went by tortuously slow because they had no other place to meet so discreetly. So, for several months they could only cast each other longing glances across desks or across the hall. Then spring returned and they began to meet outdoors again. The air was still crisp and she would often shiver in his embrace. But the days turned warmer and the sun climbed higher into the sky and drove the chill out. And they would spend in that little clearing little pieces of eternity filled with tenderness. And they would wish for time to stand still and leave them to their happiness. But time, the thief, did not halt.
Seven steps.
One day in late summer she arrived at the clearing with tears streaming down her face. Choking and sobbing she recounted of the row she had had with her parents. It took a while for him to get the reason out of her. Finally, she screamed it at him in a shriek of despair. And for a moment he could say nothing at all, just stare at her incredulously. His heart sank. It could not last. She was going to be married. Slowly, amid an incessant flood tears the story spilled out of her: a young man from their college, with whom she was acquainted and on friendly terms, had visited her parents a few weeks ago while she had been out. He was well situated in a wealthy family, he was handsome and had been very charming and courteous to her parents. He had illustrated how he would go on to university and lead his family's business and had promised a bright, secure future for her. Then he had formally requested of her father her hand in holy matrimony. Her parents had taken a whole week to consider. They had not mentioned it so as not to get her excited. Then they had agreed. When they had told her earlier in the day preparations had already begun. The wedding was to be that very year. She had pleaded with them to give her more time, to let her find out who he was, to let her reach a judgement. Her father had brushed it aside. He and her mother had scrutinised that young man and had found him a respectable and promising husband-to-be. Furthermore, it was time for her to get married. Anyhow, the decision had been made and arrangements had commenced. There was no turning back. They had thought it would be a happy surprise for her. They sat in silence for long after that, him holding her, gently stroking her hair. Slowly her sobs subsided and she fell asleep leaving him feeling empty and alone as the sun slowly began its descent.
Eight steps.
They continued to meet throughout the next few weeks but their meetings had a different quality now. There was something awful and final about them. There was a new, bitter taste to their kisses. There would often be tears and long silences. There was a space between them now that had never been there before. Then as summer turned into autumn her parents decided it was not good for an engaged young lady to spend her afternoon out in the forest. Whether they suspected something or not he would never find out. These weeks became unbearable for him. In mid-autumn, less than a month before the wedding, she sent him a note asking him to come to their usual spot. The golden autumn sun seemed to light the crimson leaves on fire when he arrived. Several blankets had been spread out on the grass. And she was there. The smile on her face was not as wide and not as carefree as it used to be. But it was her nonetheless. His heart seemed to want to leap out of his chest and reach out to her. All the longing and sadness of the past days and weeks seemed irrelevant as long as she was there. Maybe the wedding had been called off? A wild, unreasonable hope rose within him. No, everything would proceed as planned. She would be wed. In time, her parents had said, she would learn to love her husband. "But", she said and tears welled up in her eyes again, "they are wrong. For I love you and only you. I want to shout it out to the world. I want to write it in the stars. He can put a ring on my finger but he can never put a chain around my heart. He can have my body but he can never have my soul. Those will always be yours. I want you to know that." He held her tight then and kissed her and for a long time did not let her go. "There is one more thing", she said softly and at length, looking deeply into his eyes. "There one thing I wish to give you. It's something I've always kept for the one I love. And that man is you. Will you accept my gift?" At first he did not understand - until she took his hand in her smaller hand and guided it gently, haltingly to her bosom. He kissed her again, more passionately this time, as her felt her small, round breast under his palm. He almost imagined he could feel her heart racing in her chest. His hand and mouth began to wander. She breathed something unintelligible into his ear. They sank onto the woollen blankets and soon became an entanglement of discarded clothing and heated flesh. The smell of her perfume and the taste of her skin flooded his senses. She winced with pain when he first carefully entered her but slowly her body gave in and her gasps and moans were ones of pleasure. They continued to lie between the blankets long after their bliss had subsided. Not a word was said. None were needed. They knew any further meeting would be impossible. "Don't forget me", she told him as he kissed her one last goodbye. He promised he would not.
Nine steps.
After that day he only saw her occasionally and from afar. She would not look at him anymore. The day of her wedding came. It felt like a bitter lump in his throat. They would make the vows. The priest would ask anyone present who had objections to speak up or forever hold their peace. Then he would allow the husband to kiss the bride. The bells rang. He could not bear it. He ran out into the forest and charged on and on until his sides felt like bursting. He knew what would be next: the wedding night. She would be his. Wholly his. He saw the hands of that stranger caressing her flesh, his lips on hers tasting her. His mind raced. He saw the man sweating against her between clean sheets, his skin against hers, him possessing her. It drove him mad. Nothing could drive the images out. His desperate screams echoed through the forest. The next evening someone hammered on the door of his family's house. It was her husband- with several other young men from the college. He was fuming with rage and hardly waited until they were out of the house. Probably only the fear of public embarrassment made him keep his voice down. "You! How dare you?! How dare you embarrass me like this?!" There was no denying. Her newly wed husband went straight on, his face contorted into a grimace of hate: "You ... and her! ... I've seen you together but I thought you knew the difference between friends and ... husband and wife." He spat the last word out like a curse. "I thought you knew what is proper and what is inappropriate - inexcusable behaviour. No, don't you dare deny it now, you coward! She has admitted it. She has confessed." Was she alright, he interrupted. What was this man capable of? "That's none of your concern anymore, you hear? You stay away from her! She my wife." He pointed furiously at the ring on his right hand. Then his tone changed: "Oh, I will forgive her. 'In good times and in bad' is what they say. After all, she is only a woman. Women are weak creatures and cannot be held accountable for their actions. But you - you led her on, you seduced her." His voice rose to a roar: "You stole from me what was rightfully mine! And for that I demand satisfaction. You are a good-for-nothing, a scoundrel. You are a failure and a disgrace to your family. I will at least give you the chance to die like a gentleman." And with that he slapped his glove into the young man's face. But how to fight if you have no weapon? Her husband looked at him disdainfully. "He hasn't even got a pistol." He searched in his jacket for his purse, took out a few coins and threw them on the ground in a gesture of disgust. "Here are a few shillings. Go and buy yourself a pistol - and one cartridge. You will not need any more than that. Pick your second and meet me tomorrow morning on your beloved clearing."
Ten steps.
He spun on the heel of his boot and faced the direction he had come from. The other man did the same like a mirror image. He still would not look her husband in the face. It was not the face he wanted to remember. He held on to his pistol keeping it pointed upward perfectly straight. He stared through his opponent into space, the trees, the last wisps of morning mist. He did not even feel afraid of what was to come.
Her husband's second held the handkerchief aloft, then dropped it.
He noticed it fluttering idly downward, slowly, as if time was drawn out. His arm straightened almost out of its own volition while his mind remained blank. And still his finger would not curl around the trigger. It seemed to take hours for the flimsy piece of cloth to touch the ground and noiselessly crumple into a heap. And for one moment it seemed like the world itself caught its breath.
The sharp crack of the powder discharge ripped through the breathless silence like a hammer fall and echoed among the trees.
A single shot.
The ornate pistol with the dark wooden grip and the floral etchings on the barrel tumbled onto the moist soil, its cock still pulled back.
He wavered. Her face was there again. Her nut-brown eyes turned up ever so slightly to meet his gaze and her head cocked and her lips pursed into that pout of hers that looked to be just about to break into a broad smile. Just as if she was going to say something.
I love you?
But then the world went dark and he saw no more.
One step.
The pistol weighed heavy in his hand. He could not help but think of the price he had paid for this piece of armament: the barrel long and straight, etched with floral designs. The hilt was carved out of dark nut wood and the flint lock's cock simply but elegantly curved. It had made an ever so faint click when he had pulled it back. The sharp edges of the flint gleamed mysteriously in the morning light. Holding it up as close to his face as he was, he imagined he could almost catch a whiff of the gunpowder in the barrel, there, forming a volatile cushion for the little, round lead bullet. His finger never brushed the trigger as if fearful of setting it off prematurely.
Two steps.
The little clearing was perfectly quiet on this chilly morning as if bird and beast were afraid of what they might find or witness here today. He had been here countless times before today. He knew every tree stump, every patch of moss, every rock and root. But those had been different times. He had not brought a pistol then but books of poetry or picnic baskets. The birds had been chirping from the trees and bees had buzzed busily around him, and a golden sun had warmed his back. Instead of the scent of gunpowder there had been the sweet perfume of flowers on the breeze. And it had carried with it another sound: that of an angel singing.
Three steps.
He had veritably believed he had chanced upon an angel. From between the dark tree trunks she seemed to glow in her white dress. It formed a stark contrast with the black of her hair that tumbled lushly down her back like a flood of cocoa. All the while her lips played out the undulating melody of a slow song the words of which he did not understand. It seemed to him that her voice filled the whole forest - and his mind - with its music. It reached out to him and beckoned like the song of the siren, yet soothed him like a mother's lullaby. He never realised that his mouth and eyes were agape. Nor did he notice how much time had passed. But a sharp crack brought everything to a sudden halt. A twig had snapped beneath his foot. She started and spun scattering an armful of flowers onto the high grass, nut-brown eyes wide in alarm. And he spun, too, and ran blindly through the undergrowth his heart pounding in his chest. He never dared to speak of it to anyone for a long time.
Four steps.
She was an excellent pupil. She could read without faltering, her French pronunciation was flawless and her fingers danced nimbly across the strings of her violin. As years went by she grew taller, her shape fuller. She dressed no more in simple white but in elaborate gowns. She knew all the blossoms and shrubs, birds and beasts by their Latin names and began to quote the works of Voltaire, Kant or Locke. Her eyes, though, were ever as bright and her smile as wide; "warm enough to ward off the winter", one of the maids had said once. It was true: like a fairy she seemed to have spring in her eyes. And a wicked wit, to boot. They would sit in the same classroom and he would cast many a glance over at her when her head was turned. But somehow she would come to him to talk and they would converse at length on poetry and prose, nature, which she loved very much, or simply their school masters and their ways. Men came to her bearing roses yet she just smiled and watched them leave disheartened. He would often remark on it and she would flash one of her radiant smiles and say it was not time for her yet. And every time she said that his heart skip a beat.
Five steps.
Was it fate that led them back to that clearing - the same that he had spied her on and listened to her sing that French chanson so many years ago? She loved flowers and often walked in the forest to find some. It was a beautiful summer day and the sun light produced intricate patterns as it filtered through the leaves above them. Lilies, she told him, only grew in a few special places around their home. She knew most of them. Lilies were her favourite. They reminded her of France. How had she found this place? As a little girl she had spent a lot of time wandering and had chanced upon it. The lilies she had found here had sparked her love for them. She showed him the lilies that even now grew on the clearing amid the high grass and it felt like a day long gone. Then, as if reading his thoughts, she looked him straight in the eye asking if he had also been looking for lilies that day, years ago. What had he been staring at and why had he been hiding? He thought of denying. He considered running away again. But there was nothing reproachful in her features. How had she known? She was silent a moment. Then she said he had looked at her differently after that day. Later, when she had thought about it, it had to have been him. They sat on the grass, she nursing the slender stem of one of her favourite flowers. And he told her how he had heard her singing in her white dress with her black hair. He told of how he had been enchanted then, in that moment he had never hence forgotten. She smiled, blushing. And then he kissed her briefly, fleetingly on her red, red lips. The blush turned a deeper colour and she bowed her head as if in embarrassment. But the smile never left her face. He lay back on the soft grass and watched her and she shyly looked back at him from under the flood of dark hair. Would she sing that song again, he asked. She laughed her clear, crisp laughter and gently stroked through his hair. But sing she did and it filled his senses and he was lost. Never had he been closer to God's Paradise than at that moment.
Six steps.
They continued to meet all through that summer, cautiously, in secret, never for too long, so as not to make her parents suspicious. All his day seemed to consist of longing until he reached that little clearing and he could be with her again. Sometimes they would talk quietly, or bring a picnic basket, sometimes they would just lie on the grass and gaze at the sky idly watching the clouds float past. Sometimes they would just stare into each other's eyes and kiss and kiss until they were breathless. Winter went by tortuously slow because they had no other place to meet so discreetly. So, for several months they could only cast each other longing glances across desks or across the hall. Then spring returned and they began to meet outdoors again. The air was still crisp and she would often shiver in his embrace. But the days turned warmer and the sun climbed higher into the sky and drove the chill out. And they would spend in that little clearing little pieces of eternity filled with tenderness. And they would wish for time to stand still and leave them to their happiness. But time, the thief, did not halt.
Seven steps.
One day in late summer she arrived at the clearing with tears streaming down her face. Choking and sobbing she recounted of the row she had had with her parents. It took a while for him to get the reason out of her. Finally, she screamed it at him in a shriek of despair. And for a moment he could say nothing at all, just stare at her incredulously. His heart sank. It could not last. She was going to be married. Slowly, amid an incessant flood tears the story spilled out of her: a young man from their college, with whom she was acquainted and on friendly terms, had visited her parents a few weeks ago while she had been out. He was well situated in a wealthy family, he was handsome and had been very charming and courteous to her parents. He had illustrated how he would go on to university and lead his family's business and had promised a bright, secure future for her. Then he had formally requested of her father her hand in holy matrimony. Her parents had taken a whole week to consider. They had not mentioned it so as not to get her excited. Then they had agreed. When they had told her earlier in the day preparations had already begun. The wedding was to be that very year. She had pleaded with them to give her more time, to let her find out who he was, to let her reach a judgement. Her father had brushed it aside. He and her mother had scrutinised that young man and had found him a respectable and promising husband-to-be. Furthermore, it was time for her to get married. Anyhow, the decision had been made and arrangements had commenced. There was no turning back. They had thought it would be a happy surprise for her. They sat in silence for long after that, him holding her, gently stroking her hair. Slowly her sobs subsided and she fell asleep leaving him feeling empty and alone as the sun slowly began its descent.
Eight steps.
They continued to meet throughout the next few weeks but their meetings had a different quality now. There was something awful and final about them. There was a new, bitter taste to their kisses. There would often be tears and long silences. There was a space between them now that had never been there before. Then as summer turned into autumn her parents decided it was not good for an engaged young lady to spend her afternoon out in the forest. Whether they suspected something or not he would never find out. These weeks became unbearable for him. In mid-autumn, less than a month before the wedding, she sent him a note asking him to come to their usual spot. The golden autumn sun seemed to light the crimson leaves on fire when he arrived. Several blankets had been spread out on the grass. And she was there. The smile on her face was not as wide and not as carefree as it used to be. But it was her nonetheless. His heart seemed to want to leap out of his chest and reach out to her. All the longing and sadness of the past days and weeks seemed irrelevant as long as she was there. Maybe the wedding had been called off? A wild, unreasonable hope rose within him. No, everything would proceed as planned. She would be wed. In time, her parents had said, she would learn to love her husband. "But", she said and tears welled up in her eyes again, "they are wrong. For I love you and only you. I want to shout it out to the world. I want to write it in the stars. He can put a ring on my finger but he can never put a chain around my heart. He can have my body but he can never have my soul. Those will always be yours. I want you to know that." He held her tight then and kissed her and for a long time did not let her go. "There is one more thing", she said softly and at length, looking deeply into his eyes. "There one thing I wish to give you. It's something I've always kept for the one I love. And that man is you. Will you accept my gift?" At first he did not understand - until she took his hand in her smaller hand and guided it gently, haltingly to her bosom. He kissed her again, more passionately this time, as her felt her small, round breast under his palm. He almost imagined he could feel her heart racing in her chest. His hand and mouth began to wander. She breathed something unintelligible into his ear. They sank onto the woollen blankets and soon became an entanglement of discarded clothing and heated flesh. The smell of her perfume and the taste of her skin flooded his senses. She winced with pain when he first carefully entered her but slowly her body gave in and her gasps and moans were ones of pleasure. They continued to lie between the blankets long after their bliss had subsided. Not a word was said. None were needed. They knew any further meeting would be impossible. "Don't forget me", she told him as he kissed her one last goodbye. He promised he would not.
Nine steps.
After that day he only saw her occasionally and from afar. She would not look at him anymore. The day of her wedding came. It felt like a bitter lump in his throat. They would make the vows. The priest would ask anyone present who had objections to speak up or forever hold their peace. Then he would allow the husband to kiss the bride. The bells rang. He could not bear it. He ran out into the forest and charged on and on until his sides felt like bursting. He knew what would be next: the wedding night. She would be his. Wholly his. He saw the hands of that stranger caressing her flesh, his lips on hers tasting her. His mind raced. He saw the man sweating against her between clean sheets, his skin against hers, him possessing her. It drove him mad. Nothing could drive the images out. His desperate screams echoed through the forest. The next evening someone hammered on the door of his family's house. It was her husband- with several other young men from the college. He was fuming with rage and hardly waited until they were out of the house. Probably only the fear of public embarrassment made him keep his voice down. "You! How dare you?! How dare you embarrass me like this?!" There was no denying. Her newly wed husband went straight on, his face contorted into a grimace of hate: "You ... and her! ... I've seen you together but I thought you knew the difference between friends and ... husband and wife." He spat the last word out like a curse. "I thought you knew what is proper and what is inappropriate - inexcusable behaviour. No, don't you dare deny it now, you coward! She has admitted it. She has confessed." Was she alright, he interrupted. What was this man capable of? "That's none of your concern anymore, you hear? You stay away from her! She my wife." He pointed furiously at the ring on his right hand. Then his tone changed: "Oh, I will forgive her. 'In good times and in bad' is what they say. After all, she is only a woman. Women are weak creatures and cannot be held accountable for their actions. But you - you led her on, you seduced her." His voice rose to a roar: "You stole from me what was rightfully mine! And for that I demand satisfaction. You are a good-for-nothing, a scoundrel. You are a failure and a disgrace to your family. I will at least give you the chance to die like a gentleman." And with that he slapped his glove into the young man's face. But how to fight if you have no weapon? Her husband looked at him disdainfully. "He hasn't even got a pistol." He searched in his jacket for his purse, took out a few coins and threw them on the ground in a gesture of disgust. "Here are a few shillings. Go and buy yourself a pistol - and one cartridge. You will not need any more than that. Pick your second and meet me tomorrow morning on your beloved clearing."
Ten steps.
He spun on the heel of his boot and faced the direction he had come from. The other man did the same like a mirror image. He still would not look her husband in the face. It was not the face he wanted to remember. He held on to his pistol keeping it pointed upward perfectly straight. He stared through his opponent into space, the trees, the last wisps of morning mist. He did not even feel afraid of what was to come.
Her husband's second held the handkerchief aloft, then dropped it.
He noticed it fluttering idly downward, slowly, as if time was drawn out. His arm straightened almost out of its own volition while his mind remained blank. And still his finger would not curl around the trigger. It seemed to take hours for the flimsy piece of cloth to touch the ground and noiselessly crumple into a heap. And for one moment it seemed like the world itself caught its breath.
The sharp crack of the powder discharge ripped through the breathless silence like a hammer fall and echoed among the trees.
A single shot.
The ornate pistol with the dark wooden grip and the floral etchings on the barrel tumbled onto the moist soil, its cock still pulled back.
He wavered. Her face was there again. Her nut-brown eyes turned up ever so slightly to meet his gaze and her head cocked and her lips pursed into that pout of hers that looked to be just about to break into a broad smile. Just as if she was going to say something.
I love you?
But then the world went dark and he saw no more.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A New Perspective
It's now been a bit more than 24 hours since my bicycle was stolen. I had gone to my previous place to help out my landlady with some technical problems. I propped up the bike on the sidewalk, called her to say I had arrived, she let me into her house - and for the first time in my life I forgot to lock up my bike. When I came back out two hours later it was gone.
I was shocked. Surprised. Even now I'm not really angry or upset. Stupid me, I just told myself, serves me right for not locking it up. I pay the price for negligence. I have only myself to blame. When I told my parents about it their reaction was actually one of anger - at me. How could I have been so stupid?!
In the end, it was one of my colleagues who offered a more reasonable opinion. Sure it was negligence, he said, that was the natural reaction. It happens but that wasn't a reason to blame myself. The person to blame was still the thief and nobody else. My bike being stolen was not a logical consequence of me leaving it unlocked. So I shouldn't be too harsh on myself.
I actually think he's very right. Of course, we don't live in a perfect world. There are criminals and one person's negligence may encourage another's dishonesty. Of course, we should try to avoid that. But we should also remember that for a theft to happen it still primarily takes a thief, someone unscrupulous enough to walk away with someone else's property. That's the person to be mad at - if you want to get mad at all.
And if nothing else: Your property has already been stolen. Beating yourself up over it will only make you feel worse. Might just as well blame the actual culprit. Neither attitude will bring your property back. But one will at least make you live a bit easier.
I was shocked. Surprised. Even now I'm not really angry or upset. Stupid me, I just told myself, serves me right for not locking it up. I pay the price for negligence. I have only myself to blame. When I told my parents about it their reaction was actually one of anger - at me. How could I have been so stupid?!
In the end, it was one of my colleagues who offered a more reasonable opinion. Sure it was negligence, he said, that was the natural reaction. It happens but that wasn't a reason to blame myself. The person to blame was still the thief and nobody else. My bike being stolen was not a logical consequence of me leaving it unlocked. So I shouldn't be too harsh on myself.
I actually think he's very right. Of course, we don't live in a perfect world. There are criminals and one person's negligence may encourage another's dishonesty. Of course, we should try to avoid that. But we should also remember that for a theft to happen it still primarily takes a thief, someone unscrupulous enough to walk away with someone else's property. That's the person to be mad at - if you want to get mad at all.
And if nothing else: Your property has already been stolen. Beating yourself up over it will only make you feel worse. Might just as well blame the actual culprit. Neither attitude will bring your property back. But one will at least make you live a bit easier.
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