THE FINE HEART

My Magnum Opus

THE FINE HEART — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 20:07:15 +0000

She regularly appears to me in the dark. In the damp, rain drenched streets, among the low light, and in the company of my friends, so outrageously outspoken and snide that it borders on indecent, but charming- always charming. She is a creature that is well liked, one that is talked of, but never as a part of normal conversation, as any other acquaintance’s recent marriage, or scandal would be, but rather as something that warranted a special set of scales to measure with, a different aspect of conversation all together.

It was one particular Thursday that she caught up with me as I was preparing to turn the key in the lock of my door, and retire for the night. It was around 10 o’clock, and had long fallen dark outside, the trees lining the street before my doorstep vaguely visible, and the familiar shapes, though entirely unfamiliar shrouded in daunting black, bending languidly at the mercy of the breeze that sifted through them. I was tired, and all-together mentally at my limits that night, but could not be honest in saying I was not happy to see her. Her clever, self-aware fingers snatched at my jacket lapels, and all but dragged me back down the steps, away from my home, away from the planned end to my evening, away from my final cup of tea, a bath, and a few dreaming moments before sleep may have carried me off. I was, I confess, not quite as chagrined as I made out to be in that moment. Stumbling down the last step, I turned to face her mirthful black eyes, her silver and gray hair, her impatient dark blue eyes.
“An ambush, how pleasant”, I started, trying for an imperious tone, one only she could truly master.
She laughed wonderfully and exultantly, of course she knew I was being purposefully obtuse. Taking me by the arm, carelessly assuming I would follow, as I did.
At length she spoke,
“Today, we will be an adventure.” with a slight tilt of her head, and eyebrows I could not see, but I knew were slightly raised, tone slightly patronizing. But I loved it. And she knew.

We walked briskly, and quietly in the dark, our steps echoing through the empty street, seemingly made solely of stone. Cobblestone and brick, solid but cold. Nothing was spoken on the journey, but her cool hand in mine betrayed purpose, and when I dared to glance at her profile beside me, the slight tilt of her lips, and slant of her eye reminded me of life. Of the antithesis of a cup of tea, of digging, and digging, and of finding nothing, but sensing, knowing, that it was all hidden in that smile, in those now grey-green eyes, and on my wide open face as I glanced up at the solid sky, and took a breath.

After winding streets and alleys, we arrived at a large wooden work-house, that I presumed housed a shipyard. She strode on ahead, while I lingered in my deductions, without ceremony sliding open the titanic, sturdy doors with little effort, and then proceeded to slipping into the small dark space she had made. I hesitantly followed.

It was a half-constructed ship, the looming, giant hull having already been built, the majestic figurehead in place, but cranes and equipment, and planks, and hammers betraying the ongoing project of construction, reminding of tireless hours in the heat, in the rain, reminding of work. Around the supporting beams, was what looked like a graveyard of ships past, pieces lying abandoned in no particular order. The half-built ship was like a great beast in the middle of a sea of clutter, like an unlikely, improbable beginning amidst meaningless pieces. But at the same time, it was ugly, ugly to witness the middle of this process, unfinished.

I stood at the door, and she immediately started climbing. Gracefully stepping over the clutter, making her way nimbly up the scaffolding with minimal trouble. I waded hesitantly though, and reached one of the supporting pillars, staring up at her at the highest point of the ship, suddenly feeling small and sweat-soaked in my jacket.
“Watch me, this will be something to remember.” She calmly clambered to the highest point possible, and with narrowed eyes surveyed the surroundings, as if she did not know that I was watching her. It was a look of sheer calculation, cold, and knowing. Knowing the power she possessed over me, and over anything she wished. She stood still, for a moment, as if asserting her position at the very top, confirming the climb, making sure I, and the world marked it. She then abruptly spun around, and disappeared from sight in the construction.

I was in awe at her decision, at her assertion of herself, now, like in everything else she ever did, and on edge, with dry tension, for I had no idea what was to follow. She was the element of controlled danger in everyone else’s sitting room. Because they were not imaginative, and full of an inner pressure to do and affect, and they certainly did not want to be, but they appreciated owning a slice of her danger by being acquainted.

Reappearing at the bottom, a slight ways in front of my now sitting form, she now stood with a wedge-like piece of wood, and a hammer, and strode purposefully towards one of the two supporting beams. With her stride, I felt utter panic, because knowing her, or knowing her in broad strokes, I knew what was now to come. Like a whirlwind, she would sweep up anything in her path for a statement, or a point, and now was no exception. She would stop at no lowly thing. I choked, because I could not stop her in anything she would choose to do, but could not just stand and say yes.
“This- what are you going to do?” I asked in the hope that my fears would prove unwarranted. With mocking eyes she rounded on me, and held up her tools,
“My dear, this will be the undoing of this great ship, and it will be beautiful.”
“Wait, what?” I knew. “You can’t just- people actually built this- are in the process of building this, I’m not saying the sight will not be a great one, but can you honestly destroy so much that has been laboured over?” I asked cautiously, fearing the answer. Still standing facing me, her metallic-black eyes twinkling, she off-handedly replied,
“Meaningless, of course. What we will do, will bring meaning.”
“You absolutely can not-” I started, because though I understood perfectly what she was saying, I could not make it agree with this utter destruction. Seeing my contemplation, sensing that I had extracted myself from the “we”, she stepped forward, and agitatedly, impatiently, anxiously declared,
“Now! Do you not understand? I absolutely abhor your petty, pedestrian, plebian hesitation. What is it that holds you back? Is this half built groaning creature really of any importance to you? Is this it?”
“Well, no, but-” I wanted to tell her. I wanted to show her, her own madness in that moment.
“No, it is not.” She answered for me. “It is because you are scared, scared to hurt and offend and so you sit, and you are nice and sweet and understanding, and you nod, and laugh but in reality, you know and understand nothing.” I drew in a breath. “It is all about you and me now. Not about effort or price. What is the price of seeing it all fall down?”

I abruptly stood. Her eyebrows positively in her hairline; It was wild, and she was wild and the definition of ugly destruction, and words, words of sweet and bitter, de-constructing and baring, and exposing all of the special and dear parts of things that may have once been divine, turning on them with garish derision- and maybe it was because I was already exhausted, and not in the right state of mind, or maybe it was the specific conditions of sight and sound and atmosphere of that night alone, but that moment I knew; if I was to save myself, I needed to be gone from here, and her, and in the twinkling of her infinitely and completely barbed eyes, I felt revulsion, the longing to take a stab in the dark, to shed my shell of propriety. When her cool eyes, knowingly twinkling and razor sharp would dull, but not before growing wide, for she didn’t expect this, and she didn’t know me then.

I do not recall how I managed to uproot myself, or if, in the distance I heard the groaning, crashing, snapping sound of a ship falling in on itself on dry land. And when I fell, at long last into my clean, white sheets, I though, no- I did not hate her, she was-, I hated that she could not exist every second of every day. She would never appear when I was repairing my cupboard doors, nor would she bear witness to my spectacular efforts at the laundry. She was not made for the mundane, not able to be placed in a real context, and thus doomed to be flawed. I knew for certain, she could never exist permanently and steadily, she was a destructive exception. With this thought, I fell asleep.

And walking out into the first sunshine of spring, the sky so deeply blue and light and unblemished and uncompromising, I could have sworn she didn’t exist. For how could she, in this field, in this world so dream-like?

The tip of the iceberg

THE FINE HEART — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 14:47:11 +0000

Incidentally, the walk from the SBahn station to my house is a rather lengthy one, of about 16 minutes. Now I know, walking for 16 minutes is not necessarily that taxing, but if you are me (which I hope you are not), this means that a certain measure of planning must be done, before any undertakings that happen to be located outside the patch of area between my house and said SBahn station, can be undertaken. What this implies, is that because of the distance, time taken and the imperative nature of planning, I am not able to roll out of bed, and throw myself across the distance with untied shoelaces and a group of actions I named “staggering-while-rummaging-and-doing-my-hair-badly”. The 16 minutes require commitment. If I happen to be late, I am left stood staring after the train, having hiked there, probably in a state of half-sleep, extremely annoyed because now I have to wait in the cold, after rushing needlessly, probably being laughed at by all of the other regular train waiters present, when I could still be at home. In bed. The essential difference is, had I been late for, say, a bus about 4 minutes away, I would have been able to brush it off (in a fit of denial) as an intentional early morning stroll, and gone back home to wait for the next one.
So from this negative starting point, comes a litany of negative embellishments, that make the walk to and from the train station unbearable for me.
So, needless to say, I have a certain strong dislike or hate for the 16 minutes, on principle. The scenery presented is unbelievably ratty and vexing, in addition to being peppered with lamp posts in in-the-way places, and weird pavements that disappear, making an erratic pattern of movement inevitable due to the number of times one has to cross the street in search for the continuing pavement.

The result of this rather lengthy exposition is, that it was 12.30am, I was cold, and embarking once again on the dreaded 16 minutes. My normal method of coming to terms with it is a mixture of listening to my iPod, and employing a walking style I call “the bop”- wherein I walk bouncily, and try to convince myself that I am indeed walking on sunshine. Whatever the case, on the day in question, I happened to be on a rather long stretch of pavement that cummulates in a curve, shrouded in darkness. I had my earphones on, and quite unexpectedly shuffled to the song “Tip of the Iceberg” by Owl City. A song that is quite literally made of sugar. The temperature inexplicably increased, the deserted street seemed to glow with light. In the heat of the moment, and with the energy that the song gave me, I felt an ill-advised exhalation. I started skipping and singing along at the top of my voice, rounding the spectacle off with a series of pirouettes that were accomplished with great vigour, and brought me, hands horizontal, spinning at a great enough speed as to make my hair spin parallel to my arms, closer to the end of the road.

Somewhere in the middle of the particularly sugary bit of electronic composition, I kicked into overdrive, and spun and spun and spun and spun and- wait, there was a weird blob in front of me- spu-n- and yes. There was indeed a man and a dog about 3 metres outside of spin radius. Ah…oh, what? After a brief lapse into confusion, I decided it was time to think. Salvage what was left to salvage of the situation, with the least bit of awkwardness. I determined that from distance the man was from the corner, he must have been a witness to most of my singing and dancing. I could not just stop spinning, because that would make the situation even more awkward than it already was. I decided, therefore on a course of action that would result in the minimum embarrassment. I thought 2 more, slower spins would make it seem like I was actually deciding to stop my prancing about, and not actually admitting that this was indeed a highly awkward situation.

After I had slowed down to a bumpy-stumbly stop facing the person, I was able to fully assess the situation. It was a man, his eyebrows in his hairline, and a hat, loosely balancing on his head, and a dog on a short leash that was sniffing the snow. To add insult to injury, it occured to me that a third pary had been conscious of my blunderings; a car that had evidentally come around the corned with its headlights on me. There was a strange burning sensation that spread over my whole body, concentrating however on my face.

Perhaps it was the overload in humiliation and annoyance that made me say the subsequent words, or maybe it was my innate ability to make already uncomfortable situations infinitely more uncomfortable. I stood rooted to the spot, and utterd a noisy “Uh, yeeeaaaaah”, before I uprooted myself, and hastily tried to bypass the man and dog, ignoring any looks they might shoot me. This bypass involved steering onto the snow, as the man and dog occupied the entire pavement between them. I then proceeded to awkwardly scale the icy face of the snow as fast as I possible could, to get away from the the man’s mocking eyebrows. Wobbling and half-slipping a bit, I managed to get back to the pavement, and then ran home as fast as I could.

I am happy to report that the rest of the way home was completed without further incidence.

This is about little kids

THE FINE HEART — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 23:06:48 +0000

In that niche of time between Physics Paper 2 and 3, I happened to stumble upon a particularly interesting time to have lunch, one which I normally do not encounter: The time after the primary to Grade 2 kids get lunch, and before the Grade 3 to 5 kids are let out of their cages. It is a time of peace, leisure, noise- but not too much noise-, little faces full of Grade 12 inspired awe, and a grasp on the ultimate privelege- no power- the supreme power of lunchline dominance. One could argue -hey, don’t the Grade 12′s have Lunchline Power over generally any grade?- yes. But this is better. No Grade 6 bitchy-girl faces to accidentally incur, no smart-alec boy with the trolley bag to shove out of the way, just Grade 1 and 2, who don’t get to go in the lunch line yet. Default win.
At any rate, I had settled into a mid-diningroom seat, with Dominik, Adrian and Yang, giving an optimal ratio between distance to entrance door, distance to cantine and distance to door leading outside (that some scallywags seem to find humour in opening. In winter), with a Schnitzel, and promise of a good long rehash of Paper 2, some swearing, some gloating, a comparison of Schnitzel vs. the vegetarian dish, and a competition on who eats slowest (I won shadap). Then, however, the peace was broken, the solace disrupted. The entrance of the Grade 3-5′s was upon us. Miles of bodies, and Oh! the noise- Nah, ok, I’m lying, they were hardly different from their younger counterparts. Just as small, just as overlookable, with, however, one small difference. They had an upgraded level of diningroom priveleges, and with these, come an uncanny and disturbing confidence, one that leaves me no room to doubt their futures as those same Grade 6′s blocking the German coridoor, and then rudely bashing you with their huge schoolbags, and yapping a nice “whaaaat?” in your face, before making their way to wood-tech or food or Geography, or what all those subjects are called.
Anyhow, a particularly fine specimen, and her respective G3 cliche had graced our table with their presence, spreading themselves from the far end of the table, slowly but surely towards our nice carefully picked middle-ish-left position, until finally, they had reached the borders of our land, marked with the placement of my hardfuckencore messenger bag, and a few physics-related trinkets. Now we were forced into hearing each others conversations, and Oh! Jokes. It went something along the lines of:
“And he asked her if she had a PS3, and she said no, and he was like “oh” and then he asked me if I had a PS3 and I was like “yah”, and then he said (gesturing wildly between herself and her food) “we fiitt toogeeetherr”"-
This warranted a collective laugh, a hairflip from the story telling girl (who was apparently the cliche leader) and a pointed “ignore”, from my end.
But really, it was all manageable. I didn’t sense cardiac arrest on the horizon, and resolved to tune out the background radiation, and concentrate on Adrian’s harrowing, emotionally engaging tour-de-force tale of just how exactly Paper 2 raped him, and making Dominik feel uncomfortable in between.
This was when I felt a lingering, hovering presence near my right shoulder, in the form of a put-together young lady, with turquoise glasses and a blonde longish bob, and a tray unnecessarily close to my person. She then proceeded to ask me “Is anyone sitting here”, in a voice that may, to the layman have sounded “cute” or “polite”, but to me, there was a distinct undercurrent of “I’m a girl with glasses, and short blonde hair, and blah, and I’m awesome”, as if she thought it was weird that we were sitting at their table or something. Well, I wasn’t having it. So I said: “yes”, with a serious and contemplative look towards the chair. After a short awkward silence during which I stared at her ears, and she did that weird, side to side eye shift, that you do when you want to indicated to everyone present that you think the subject/person in question is highly questionable and strange, but not in a good way, without actually outright saying it. This was the moment when I was like, f it, no one does the weird shifty eyes with me- so I mumbled a defeated “I mean no. Forget it”, and proceeded to move my bag, telling myself that they weren’t worth my superior wit and-
-… my friends, namely Yang are telling me that “Frani, you are weirding out the little kids, and no, that is not a good thing, and- what? look, now they are staring at us… I think they are scarred for life-”
But I don’ cayah, I am of the decidedly humble opinion that no matter what I choose grace the world with in terms of words, I am in G12. So don’t give me the eyes yo. What I actually said was a really loud “Dude, whateverrrr, It’s like Grade 3.”

What’s that Dominik? I am receiving information stating that the entire table to the right of us is talking about me and story-telling-hair-flippy girl is giving me the bitch look? This is my chance, I will retaliate for once. In a wordless understanding with Dominik, filled with epic eyebrow movements, we decided we would shoot the whole table our patented “dual bitch-look-of-doom”. So when I had deemed the time right, I turned my head to the right, and fixated the table with my most venomous, calculating glare. One of the quieter, keychain-owning girls noticed and rapidly averted her gaze, but on the whole, there was silence and dustballs. Apparently they were done with me. Well.

I turn to my side to see if Dominik was as outraged as I was, and notice him engrossed in rearranging his calculator in his bag.
“Hey, what? I thought we were doing a retaliatory look!”

“Oh, I thought you were just randomly looking at me weird.”

Adrian informed me that this whole exchange reminded him of Louis CK’s rant about… kids. Just mine was less funny, and a little more like me getting pwned by Grade 3′s.

When diplomacy fails

THE FINE HEART — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 13:27:31 +0000

So it was that special time again, where Linda and I go grocery shopping together. And by “shopping” I mean aimlessly wandering around Spar in the DZ, talking about soup, and by “grocery” I mean Brazil nuts, a (in retrospect not worth buying) sandwich, and onion rings. But introductory pleasantries aside, we ended up, not surprisingly, at the Kassa. We were lined up at the first check out counter, in a row of three. Anyone who knows Spar in the DZ will be familiar with the desperate battle, or rather the uncomfortable-ness of trying to pass through the isle, when a line of people at the check out are protruding into it, because of the appalling interior layouting the Spar interior designer was responsible for. In any case, we were at the end of a rather short queue, only slightly butting into the walkway. But this was precisely our downfall. While I was facing Linda, most probably engrossed in a riveting discussion of some kind, a Filipino woman carrying a six-pack of water jostled by unapologetically. Trying to politely deflect this blow, and keep it from turning into a domino effect like phenomena along the check out, I turned to the side, managing to only lightly brush the lady in front of me, as opposed to shoving her into the gum stand. In fact, I actually thought her huge and regal looking fur coat would have acted as a buffer, letting this mundane occurrence pass by without any further incident. This is when it all went wrong.

All of a sudden, “old grouchy lady”, or OGL as she will subsequently be referred to, wheeled around, and barked at us shortly:

“You can wait.”

And promptly turned back around. I was stunned more than anything, not really able to summon to mind the correct social decorum at such short notice. But the white noise in my head didn’t last long before OGL decided we needed another dose of her cheer, and repeated her previous statement, but chose this time to expand it to a generalized statement about the lack of respect present for the pension-age set, although “You can wait.” remained a liberally mumbled mantra throughout.

By this time, I had gathered up my three brain cells from where I dropped them in shock, and decided to apply my abundant diplomatic skills to decharge the situation. Putting my hand on her fur coat, in what I hoped was easy camaraderie, I attempted to explain the circumstances that lead to the unfortunate case of light contact between her insulated figure, and mine. I got about as far as “protruding out of the line, and then-” when the attention she had temporarily granted me, timed out. She spun around, muttering “yeah, yeah, yeah”.

Although the dismissal was not really the most pleasant of things, she seemed convinced, and I was glad that the conflict was over. Now I could safely go back to contemplating the pros and cons of Stroeck vs. Spar sandwiches. But, once again, it was not to be. As soon as the OGL had turned her back, Linda was on the offensive, her unexpectedly badass German B-High articulation at the ready, hands curled into fists (presumably preparing to get physical), and feet shuffling back and forth, not unlike a small Asian boxer.
“What? We didn’t do anything how can you expect us to respect you, if you do not deserve respect yourself? Huh?”
Her voice was so shamelessly self-righteous, I nearly felt the urge to step back and watch the spectacle, but as usual, my shyness of conflict and unwillingness to get into any kind of situation (“that’s right, I do not want to mess, hows that?”) prevented that. I awkwardly shoved myself in front of a nearly capoeira-ing Linda, and quickly mumbled “Shut up, just shut up”.

I thought the OGL hadn’t noticed Linda’s passionate outbursts, but apparently she did, because from under Linda’s protests, I could hear the OGL muttering. Shocked, I turned to see if my ears had been deceiving me, but apparently not. The OGL was unloading her groceries onto the band, smirking at us, loudly muttering “Yes, just shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up”, until it faded into nothing but a stunned silence.

Oh it’s ON!

Except it wasn’t, because I am a wimp, and couldn’t stand up for my friend, so instead, I decided to amuse myself by making fun of her less than average dental hygiene, and leave the conflict at that. Linda, however was raring to go, muttering well-articulated obscenities under her breath, thirsting for metaphorical blood. To my delight, and Linda’s dismay, the OGL had now engaged the Cashier in a riveting discussion on the non-existent price reduction on mandarins, that required assistance from one further employee.

Still outraged, I exited the Spar with Linda, and immediately started ranting about the unbelievable menace that this woman undoubtedly posed to society as a whole.
Linda said,
“I like fighting.”

Note: All dialogue except for the very last exchange took place in German.
Note 2: Credit for the title goes to Matthew, obviously a genius.

An impassioned something on snow

THE FINE HEART — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 18:44:58 +0000

So after both of my arch-rivals, Sir German-A1 Oral[1] and his less philosophical but doubly making up for it in pedantic-ness and deadly structural issues, brother Sir English-A1 Oral[2], had been successfully slain (with an arguable amount of success, but a gratuitous amount of “like”, “basically”, and of course “um”), I found myself ruminating on the concept of snow, as one does in the wake of such trial and tribulation. I mean, I was thinking, wasn’t it so awesome, around Christmas, walking around, the snowflakes really huge, but not wet, so it was actually snow, not some kind of glorified rain. I remember being really delighted at the fact that the snow finally managed to overcome the ultimate test of snowflake-dom: roads, and everyone was kind of pissed off, because they were forced to do work like shovelling snow, or other non-fun, snow related activities… But now, after the battle of the brothers Oral, it seems, gone are the fun times. Now it’s all hard and crusty and dry, piled in long lines on the side of the street, and on side-walks, there are trails or remnants of snow, in the form of devilish ice, that seems to smite me at every turn. In fact, it’s like an angry, dying slug. Dying because of the dryness and the general, long, crusty structure, slug because of the slippery (and in this case, icy) trails it leaves, and angry for no particular reason, just I thought the slightly disgusting imagery would somehow be improved by that and… things. Oh, you thought I was going somewhere with this? No, I wasn’t. But anyway, here’s a video. Any parallels drawn are false.

[1] “Studierzimmer I”
[2] Binsley Poplars

Hamlet – Act I in mock dramatic sequences

THE FINE HEART — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 21:58:19 +0000

I mean could you get more jokes Frani?
Please?
Ignore.

Hamlet in mock dramatic sequences

Written by Franziska Harbich
Edited by no one, obviously, you retard.
Dedicated to Silvia and Vassia

Act I Scene 1

The time of day: *is night*
Atmosphere: *is suspenseful*
The atmosphere of Scene 1 of Macbeth: *can be compared to this*
The Ghost: *is sulky, imposing and kinda random*
The cock: *crows*
The ghost: *goes*
The rhyme: *rhymes*
Horatio: *is a fan of repetition and regards Hamlet with duty and love*
Hendiadys: *is in abundance*

Act I Scene 2

Contrast in atmosphere to previous scene: *is present*
Claudius: *does a Medea and likes likes delivering things in parts*
The Speech: *is long, tedious and boring*
Claudius: *is a conniving bastard and makes it seem like the marriage wasn’t even his idea*
The accepted decorum: *is ignored*
The crowd: *loves it*
The Name Laertes: *is repeated five times*
Laertes: *is shocked*
The Reader: *thinks Laertes must really be a G*
Claudius: *is a whore for Polonius*
Laertes: *is bendy*
Polonius’ slow and laboursome nature: *is displayed*
Hamlet: *does puns*
Gertrude: *is all: grief is overrated, yo*
Hamlet: *is a paragon of morality*
Claudius: *buts in with some crap*
Gertrude: *is an incestuous, backstabbing biotch*
Hamlet: *is emo*
Gertrude: *pats him on the back; there, there dear, you’ll learn to love our backstabbery in time*
Claudius: *doesn’ gedit, or does but whatever*

All Exit: *with flourish*

Hamlet: *complains and stuff*
A comparison between Hyperion to a Satyr: *is made*
The Words “Incestuous Sheets”: *are said*
Horatio And Company: *are here for the funeral*
Hamlet: *is still a bit pissy*
Horatio: *undergoes interrogation as to the true nature of the Ghost which he had just told Hamlet about*
The Ghost’s Beard: *was grizzl’d*

Act I Scene 3

Laertes: *has infinite wisdom and lets Ophelia know that Hamlet is only in it for the sex*
Ophelia: *fu, get out ma face, or whevs, a.k.a thou doth be a hypocrite dear brother*
Reference to Hopkins: *exists at some point*
Polonius: *enters slowly*
Doubleness: *is very much at large*
Laertes: *comments on his father’s delightful company*
Polonius: *gives a speech about something*
Laertes: *is finally allowed to leave, reminding us that the speech was useless and Hamlet is stuck in Denmark*
Polonius: *makes another speech, but this time with 30% more doubleness and featuring images of war AND business*

Act I Scene 4

Hamlet, Horatio, The Ghost & co.: *meet up*

Act I Scene 5

The Ghost: *wallows in self-pity and quite frankly is kinda annoying*
Hamlet: *O God!*
The Ghost: *drives the guilt trip bus a.k.a O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!*
Hamlet: *flails*
Horatio: *wazzwrong?*
Hamlet: *issues a warning of future madness*

A short play on adult material

THE FINE HEART — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 17:00:06 +0000

Players:

Guest at the house, infamously grumpy in mornings.

Dee:

Son, gets red easily, goes “all out” a lot, likes it rough.

Aunt:

Aunt, just had a hip operation, is therefore strictly on crutches, witty in an “older Austrian citizen” way.

Mother:

Alpine sports enthusiast

Dad:

Famous for his words of wisdom

An adjoined dining and living room set up. Wallpaper, nicely set table, bread, cutlery, fish, eggs, cheese, nice lighting. The television is on, some sort of countdown is playing in the background. All players in the living room watching the television except F and Dee, who are in the living room near the drinks cabinet, incredulous, but unsuspecting, drinks in hand. They drink water and ice-tea respectively.

It started relatively normally. Dee and I are preparing for a relatively normal evening, positioning ourselves at the back of the the room.

Mother (coming into the room): matter of fact tone Your daughter called.

Dad (from sofa): in a matching tone No. You can check my phone, I got no calls.

Mother (pausing): nonplussed Well, that’s what she told me.

Dad: wisely It’s all a matter of phone networks trailing off

Dee and F move to the dining table, and start sitting down. The rest of the party come over as well.

Dee: inquiring Have you not eaten yet?

Aunt (making her way across the room with crutches): with mirth We’ll just eat twice. I always get hungry again when midnight rolls around…

The entire party except Dad is seated at the table consuming dinner again, light chatter about mundane subjects, an easy family atmosphere.

Sudden dance music rips through previously serene atmosphere at unnatural decibel levels. Behind the table, the television is seen. Many writhing bodies, the exact gender of which is not distinguishable.

Dad (finally making his way to the table, facing the startled party):tone probably sarcastic Since the youth is here explaining further the choice of channel by gesturing between Dee, F and the television.

The rest of the party acknowledge this explanation and carry on eating.

Mother: Your son just just called me to tell me that he just called- cut off

Dad: text book like Well don’t talk to me about it, it’s clearly not a problem to do with the phone itself; I mean, what do you think these-

Aunt: interested tone Mmhmm, yes-

Dee and Franziska tune these conversation out and notice the television. It seems this is a gay channel running in the background of this family function. An orgy of bodies men and women in various sexual positions accompanies the blaring music.

Dad: – Its new years, what do you expect - I mean, there are – how many people do you think are calling each other right now? half expecting an answer-

Dee nudges F. Two guys are making out blatantly on screen. Dee is red in the face. F hopes no one notices. The wind whistles. A wave of devastation runs through both. Please, please, can no one look at the television right- now-

Dad: – You know, it’s not just us. It is most probably an overloaded network, I mean this time of year truly poses a hard test for all telephone networks.

Aunt (leaning over, cutting off all other conversations): in a stage whisper that is strangely louder than normal speech- essentially shouting Are they homosexual?-

Tense silence fills the lower end of the table containing Dad and Mother. Dee and F have a hard time keeping faces straight. This cannot be happening. Aunt seems excitedly launching into a description of a seemingly unrelated event, setting a completely different conversation course.

Aunt: nonplussed You know, when I was young, (gesturing towards Mother), we used to be completely enamoured with James Dean, you know at the time – oh when he died, we were devastated – well at the time -

Dee lets out a long breath, his face is clearing slowly. F chokes on something. This still cannot be happening.

Aunt: – and, well his friend, he was gay!, that was such a shame. We were all in such despair when we found out. All of my friends wanted to marry him, you know? – Na, he was gay. Shame.

Tense silence falls, food is being consumed at rapid velocities. F feels it cannot get more tense than this, ever, and thoroughly enjoys the cherry tomatoes . Dee eats home made mayonnaise-egg, and makes a big deal out of making F try some. This is the epitome of familial awkwardness.

—>

Dinner finishes, and a less controversial countdown is put on. New years rolls around. Fireworks are observed. Dee makes a passing comment to F that it won’t be long until the older set will make their way to their respective sleeping quarters. The party is seated around the coffee table, in front of the television, deciding on entertainment. Aunt is seated on a slightly raised chair in front of the couch, nearer to the television. Mother is behind her, Dee and F are on the couch, Dad is on the armchair next to the couch on the other side. The Dome is chosen, a countdown of the best songs of the decade. Silence and Alcazar, and green screened “celebrities” giving their two cents on whatever band was playing.

Dad: breaking the silence, speaking primarily to Aunt Well, one thing is really apparent here, is the technology used in these productions is overwhelming -

Dee and F laugh at the pitiful lip syncing job that these “party-hit” celebs accomplish, partly not even bothering to pretend with microphones, the singers just mouthing the words in front of an enthusiastic crowd.

Dad: sagely alone the cutting and editing, and the positioning of the cameras in these shows must have cost millions, I mean its just unbelievable, some of these effects referring to the lightning effects behind the presenters - In my day, this kind of thing wasn’t possible. It really is unbelievable -

Ad break, featuring an abundance of women moaning in various states of undress. Silence fills the room. The channel is not changed. This is pornography.

Dad (frozen): faces the television, seemingly uncomprehending.

Mother: laughs slowly-

Aunt: jovially starts up conversation Are those breasts real? I’ve always wondered what that kind of material feels like, I mean, all of that stuff that gets pumped into them, they are bound not to feel - a conversation F did not further follow ensues. -

The channel is changed from RTLII to MTV, a music video by Nelly ft. Justin Timberlake is playing. A remark is made as to this video seeming to have been produced right when iMovie came out because of its feature of seemingly every single font and effect possible. Girls dance in underwear and less.

Dad: dead-pan Truly weak production quality.

Aunt: understandingly Mhmm, I see it.

Justin Timberlake and Nelly proceed to make themselves at home in the playboy mansion. Girls are shaking their asses. One of them lost their pants while playing tennis.

Well, it certainly can’t get worse. Dee and F laugh, but not because it’s funny. At last this painful video is over and - Ad break

A tense 20 seconds of silence over yet more ads for various forms of adult entertainment, including anime porn. Moaning is heard throughout the room. This time the party is not silent.

Mother: Stefan… questioning though not shocked, referring to Dad

Silence

Dad (still, shooting Dee and F a slightly pointed look): slightly self-righteous and accusing I thought that this was what the youth wanted to watch…

Mother leaves in a conversation with Aunt that started up as soon as the ad break commenced, shaking head, as if this happened all the time.

The channel is still the same one. Moans and naughty voices are heard.

F: laboured breath, choking, as if asking a favour Could we please change the channel for one second?

Dee: attempts to live in his shirt, face red with devastation.

The channel is finally changed. Dad leaves with resignation, as if this was the norm with the youth of today. The television shows a folk musician in the sunshine.

Dee: tone reminding of Saturday afternoons, light-hearted, face however red want to watch Gossipgirl?

We ended up watching four episodes. This was my new years.

A grand idea featuring Starbucks

THE FINE HEART — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 18:31:19 +0000

As many students, as studious as me can attest to, the G12 IB holidays really are abundant with visits to Starbucks. The truthfulness of this above statement aside, today, I went to the Starbucks at Landstraße for the first time and was shocked. Like -o- shocked. I had my awesome red glittery tumbler in tow, and arrived at the counter. The first sign was in front of me at this point already. Apparently the people do not know how to line up here. Contrary to the norm, the people were lined up not away from the drink-pick-up-place, but towards it. Then! When my turn arrived, and I finally faced the barista, I noticed her eyebrows. They were drawn on. I’m not kidding. I tried to ignore this and instead I stared at her mouth. I placed my tumbler on the counter and asked for tea, expecting her to be familiar with all of the offers. She then moves to get a cup, but then seems to remember that I didn’t specify the size. She then drawls, seemingly deeply confused, in a not-not stoned way, “do you want it in that?” looking at the tumbler. Now I was confused. I ran through all of the possible answers in my head:
A simple “No.”?
Or a No with elaboration?: “No, I’m just placing this Starbucks tumbler on the counter for fun.”
Or something a bit more trippy?: What? What do I want in what? staring at the tumbler Nonononono. This is not mine glaring at tumbler, breathing deeply Don’ – just – run away with the tumbler.
What I actually did was gave her my near-patented disgusted look of “I know Starbucks better than you”, and said in a sing-song voice “Yes.”
I don’t think she got it.
She then asked me what size I wanted. This sealed the deal. Before I thought she was just a random stoner. Now she was certainly the pegged as The Worst Barista Ever. My tumbler is not one of variable size. It has a fixed volume, the volume of tall. That is all. And then as if it couldn’t get any worse, she didn’t give me another tea bag for a water refill.

Goh’d.

So. I thought. I’m going to do Vienna Starbucks reviews.

Shut up in yo’ face

THE FINE HEART — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 14:45:17 +0000

So, I had successfully convinced my sister to watch (by her definition) a “random movie” with me. That is, a non-blockbuster-hit. Eugh. “How to be” it was. Because I wanted to further assess Rob Pattinsons acting. After I had seen “Little Ashes” and deemed his skills “the shizz”, I was eager to see more of his awkwardness.

Yes. After sitting down in a slightly uncomfortable position on the sofa (not changing said position, because I’m strange and like torturing myself), the screening device (hp notebook in this case) on the coffee table, I realised: This is… me. He is me, just that wonky part that stays in my head. The part that is overruled by the semblance of a “socially-acceptable”-filter (who’s existence is debated over by people who know me).
All this boring crap aside. The point please. I love this film. It really epitomizes my type of humour… It’s kind of subtly as well as blatantly funny, and kind of pathetic. Art is awkward and defines the word pathetic, but so does everyone around him. It is a kind of sadness that is just fun to watch. So all in all, it was quite a joy. In my mirth, I chance a glance over to my sister, and fully expect shiny cheeks, moistened by tears of the undeniably funny, but instead am confronted with a look of sheer boredom and a cough. Then: “I don’t get it”. I died one painful death, then decided it wasn’t worth it. It must have been the uncomfortable position she was sitting in. But her state of comfort really wasn’t my metaphorical wood to chop. So her loss.

Feeling kind of down and failure-like because of my recent insight, I went for a walk with aforementioned sister, and proceeded to ignore her by gazing into the night sky and listening to my ipod. What followed was a lengthy, -what I thought was- one-sided debate on the nature of one of the flying objects in the sky. Apparently I had been speaking out loud, and my sister had been answering, me not taking any notice however, because I was listening to The Music, carrying out my conversation on my own. We both established more or less in an argument that it couldn’t have been a shooting star because it had a trail and flashing lights. Even though this wasn’t a huge event, my own level of FAIL struck me hard that night.

A moment later, I saw a shooting star and forgot to make a wish.

I can’t believe how you looked at me

THE FINE HEART — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 21:12:37 +0000

I love her. I actually love her. It’s in the clothes and the shamelessness and the concept. In the purpose. It is in the excruciation intricacy of care for her music and for her job. It’s like she takes herself, and what she does seriously. Like an (and I am truly reluctant to utter this pretentious word) artist. Like she has meaning. I.e, compare to merely the song title “Since U been gone” by dear Ms. Clarkson. That should be self-explanatory. This last point was the most important. She really means it. She’s not just half-heartedly shaking her ass around. You may love or hate what she does, but you can’t deny that what she does do drips with effort and passion. You can feel it in the tone of her voice; it’s not about how well she sings, but by the fists that she bangs on the piano and the ending “Why you so speechless? -”.