the tram

There are certain things in south-west Germany which you cannot not experience: bureaucracy, beer, images of sex, alcohol in general, Gluehwein, the cold, cobbles, trains, the list goes on a bit (and these things are not necessarily exclusive to the south-west, but that's where I am...) And somewhere in this vast, beauteous list we can find a very special, very important, unavoidable entity: the tram. It has authority over vehicles and humans alike; it runs smoothly along its custom made grooves in the cobbles; it could cost you 2.10 Euro or 40 Euro, or it could be free; and it enjoys the hands, feet and bottoms of many a body, many times a day, due to its freakishly super frequency.
For me, travelling on it creates a similar mind set to that of when I'm brushing my teeth before bed. You're doing something, which will have other more thrilling things follow it (going to bed, reading/going to a seminar, reading) and it's an important part of your routine in which you just...think. There's little-to-no concentration required in brushing your teeth, which you have practised now for years, so that pretty much allows the mind to do it's own thing. For a few minutes, you are not required to do anything else. It's jogging for the lazy and hygiene conscious. Same with the tram. You just get on (making sure not to fall over a pram or seven, squishy squishy), find a suitable sitting bit and keep one eye open for old or pregnant people who may need a wee rest more than you. This is, of course, when it is a slightly less hectic time of the day and you are alone. The conditions are surprisingly particular.
So, you're there, brushing your teeth or sitting or standing on the tram and your mind swills all its ordinary thoughts to the sway of the moment, like a hand releasing the interesting innards of a fine brandy. It's tranquil and useful.
You're still aware though. Always conscious of any outward disturbances: a knock on the door, a new passenger. Now, here's who I saw a few days ago get on my tram.
I don't know his name. It could have been anything. I won't ever need to find out any details about his identity. However, he still had a pull. The pull of the weird. You know it. You know it so well because it happens every single time something comes into your minuscule slot of existence, because it changes your perspective more than you are comfortable with. And this time he looked homeless. He was probably in his late 60s, smelt of bad luck and walked in pain. His thinning grey-white hair was sticking out in ways surfers could only dream of, and Einstein would have heartily approved. It was charming, in a rough sort of way. He pushed ahead of him a wobbly suitcase trolley, normally found in airports, laden with an uncharacteristically swanky suitcase, large. With further inspection, the stereotypical plastic bags swung merrily filled with unknown treasures. Alcohol? String? Magic wand? Broken Christmas gifts? Really, he had the impression of a Santa on the dole, gone bust, corrupted, the elves mutinied, alimony to the missus. A tragic concept.
At any rate, he got off one or two stops later, stumbling and silent. But I wonder what he was thinking of as he stood here, clutching on to his suitcase trolley, his personal things, sloshing gently to the wavy movements of the tram. All I ever heard him say though was "lass mich mal raus".

a harsh realisation

At heart I do consider myself anti-technology. I disapprove of it gradually (and worse, sometimes suddenly) replacing ordinary communication from human being to human being; voice to voice; face to face. I don't mind the telephone, but too much social  networking is surely bad for your genuine social skills. For example, in a conversation with someone they can gather my mood, meaning and attitude instantaneously as I say something. My eyebrows  might knit, I might smile without teeth, I might smile with teeth, I might raise my eyebrows, I might laugh - all these things are so under-represented via (all too aptly named) social network 'walls'. A genuine, hearty, full-bodied laugh just cannot be summed up by ": L" or "hahahaha". Anyone can write those. Your laugh is unique; the very sound of it warms the interlocutors' insides with the most comforting of satisfactions. If I laughed at something written on a screen, the only people who would enjoy it would be those supping on crappy Capuccinos in their unfortunate proximity to me in any outlet of a well-known coffee shop. Sad.
   My general stand point isn't "internet will eat your children", but more a worry that it'll take over and de-mobilise those who have minimal access, and that's why I struggle with it. And more often than not do not abide by its silly laws. So you can imagine how disappointed I was when for the first four weeks of being in this foreign land, without internet on tap (a desperate pipe dream), I struggled.
   There were many things to complete in those unexpectedly awkward baby steps: registering as a citizen, a student, a student of a particular faculty; setting up a bank account; getting city bearings; working out the transport system and it really goes on for quite a while like that. My favourite irony is being sent an email detailing the details I needed of how and where to pick up my internet modem and activate my internet. (Thank God for my friendly, already-internet-owning flatmate). So all these things, all so reliant on access to the internet, all so vital to my life here in Germany, all contradicted my overriding feelings: I NEED the internet. I rely on it for such a spectrum of specialities that life without it is impossible, no matter how much I would adore to bury my head in a library only made of books, void of that erratic clickity click of computer keys. I guess I'm in the wrong era. I hope some past life of mine enjoyed and appreciated the simplicities of little technology: like visiting the travel agent to book a flight and paying by cheque, rather than Easyjet demanding inside leg measurements and £10 admin fees. Or wandering round market stalls with a woven basket, rather than Tesco.com being your nutritional adviser/legs.
   I think to be young and sceptical about technology is a rare mix, so I'm going to revel in the oxymoronity of it all. I guess I just don't care enough about knowing how things work in the modern world. Give me file-o-fax, a busted up guitar and a belly laugh any day.

the song dilemma

In April I started learning to play the guitar to distract myself in a sneaky way. Now I'm blogging irregularly...a second sneaky distraction perhaps? Nah, it's not a distraction, it's just something slightly less stressful than thinking about having to do work for university, yet is still productive, so all those negative connotations a distraction can have just...vanish.
I often feel that what I produce is very shit at actually representing me. Even writing that sentence, and this, and the next however many, make me sound like a dick. I can't even work out why. Self-reflection and thought processes just seem to have this air of pretension. It's the idea of putting too much thought actually into yourself and then having the complete arrogance to write it down. It's too complicated...I'm not even arrogant and yet I find myself sitting here in my beret (because it's cold) and my cashmere jumper (because it's cold) in a hotel (because my Grandmother booked it for me) in Frankfurt (because I'm studying at university) and all these factors point to 'posh bitch'. Stupid connotations. Stupid stereotypes.
But I've just distracted myself within my distraction. What the fuck is this? I want to write about my song. The song that I have half written. Because I write songs now too. (oh God. this IS boho) (But why am I so self-conscious? Does my self-consciousness cancel out my possibly posh impression? I'm cutting down on ellipses now) (Sorry) I have half written a song about a stereotype. The man who sits in Business Class. There are two reasons for this: I was sitting on a Lufthansa flight in seat 4D this Friday and I was separated from the Business Class section by a blue curtain, a cheap looking blue curtain at that, and I thought "If that blue curtain were to be chopped down somehow (perhaps by an angry raccoon trained to cut down curtains or a tall dyspraxic brandishing a very strong plastic knife normally used for plane 'food') then all that would have separated myself and Mr Business Class is the cost of the ticket." I also wanted to write a comedy song. And with this conjecture I began to hum a tune to myself about the merry one hour and forty minutes Mr Business Class and I would have, breaking the boundaries of the bourgeois as we made bandannas of the blue curtain and flicked the non-believers the bird.
The chorus went like this:

We'd dance up and down the aisle singing Nena's biggest hits
99 Luftballoons with some made up English bits
Oh, if it wasn't for this blue curtain
Keeping us apart
I'd gladly give you my cheap ass economy heart


And then later, I decided, the verse(s) would go like this:

Dear Mr Business Class, you do look very smart,
The type to bring down a company
Or suppress an angry fart
Dear Mr Business Class, as I watch you from afar,
I imagine your sexually frustrated wife
Shagging the postman in your car
While you swan around the airport
With your Emporio (sm)Armani suit
A blatant small-man-complex
And 3 year's therapy to boot


I know I should not judge
But you're likely judging me
Thinking "Who is this boho-whore,
A gypsy? Has to be!"
Dear Mr Business Class, this song is quite benign,
We both know that blue curtain
Is an inconclusive sign
That you and I can never be
This cheap divide is far to great
So fuck off behind your curtain,
You high-class, pin-striped state.


The dilemma therein lies in the attitude. The mood changed completely when I was thinking about it later last night. The initial chorus is joyous and harmonious, and the verses are brutally judgemental. I want the song to be humorous and for it to achieve this I should look at the comics I admire...right? Let's think...Jack Dee, Dylan Moran, Bill Bailey, Jo Brand, Victoria Wood, Russell Howard...and their comedy styles? Bitter, bitter, mix with music, bitter, joyous, joyous. Although nothing but a snippet of the comedians I can remember right now, the general over-riding feeling is of bitterness. But my personal attitude to life is much more affiliated with the likes of Wood and Howard. So do I write this song bitterly? Or joyously? Do I write it for the audience? Or for myself?

let's start at the beginning and then deviate completely

How annoying is that? Surely it's too early in my blogging career to have writer's block as soon as I'm confronted with a big white empty bit. I genuinely had amazing and fascinating things that had been swimming around my brain. Damn. I'm going to have to buy myself a moleskin and write things down as I think of them. I will have to surgically attach it to myself though because I'm really quite good at leaving things behind just when I need them most. I have about ten notepads which all contain various splurges of inspiration I never ever remember to collate or carry. Nothing of much value to anyone of course, but nobody ever writes creatively for someone else. It's about satisfying some part of you; some bursting wordy part all squiggly and confused that won't shut up unless you unsquiggle the squiggles and scribble. 

I found a few poemy things I had written at the tender ages of 13 through 15 while clearing lots of other things. They're  dramatic and space-filled. I don't mean they have gaping holes, I mean they often involved planets and stars and galaxies and love. It's quite strange reading back actually. It just shows how no matter how much you avoid something ( I study foreign languages at university ) it still manages to spill out. Literally or virtually. Perhaps I should have taken a different path and studied English. It's far too much of a cliché to truly satisfy me though. And, despite my character convictions, I couldn't bear the looks from adults as I told them. At least when I tell them about German and Spanish they make an expression which implies they're impressed. How self-conscious do I sound?! This identity thing really is a bit of an issue actually. I'm genuinely struggling with it. Thinking of a name for my blog, or a display name, or an email address, or a password or whatever other form of creativity the internet demands of me for identity purposes, always stresses me out. Not to a major degree like my sister borrowing my favourite Sonic Youth t-shirt without permission, but more like sifting through Alpen taking out all the banana bits kind of stress level. You see, for me, the words you choose for these little details all are demonstrative of your personality in some way or another. How you use capital letters, those (hugely chavvy) little black love hearts, squiggly lines, spelling mistakes, abbreviations - they all add up to create an instant impression on which you'll be forever judged. Even your Bluetooth name or what you called your iPod - it's all a huge deal and a talking point if it's out of the ordinary. The thing is, the only thing that is out of the ordinary is being ordinary. Charlie Brooker wrote about how to be a 'mental' teenager is to be a boring teenager because the ordinary teenager is mental. So when my friends noticed that my iPod is simply called "Hannah" and not "CrAzY4PaOlOnUtInI2k7" or something equally shit, it was discussion worthy. I disapprove.

So my creative vessel for those few moments in which I find myself compelled to write will not be in some ordinary alternative colour; it will not discuss the nights out where I've woken up in a camper van in North Berwick next to a 15 year old drug dealer who only eats spaghetti hoops with vodka; it will not have spelling mistakes; it will not go on and on about how shit my life is; it will (rarely) complain; it will not be of an unbearably pretentious ilk and finally, it will be as unplanned and spontaneous as any vaguely inspired mind. My blog will be an individual because I am an individual (but not in the wanky definition - just the exclusively singular kind), but I cannot deny that there is every chance I sound like a billion other people out there. But in every comparison fault is found: because we look for it. We look for fault in other people to make ourselves feel superior and provide us with confidence to survive in this author-eat-author/blogger-eat-blogger world. Best of luck. 

(I am still going to buy a moleskin notepad. This blogging thing will never catch on)