I have been thinking lately. About conventions. About rules. About interhuman norms and precepts. And about the place where they might be coming from. And about why I do believe in them in general but why I don't care about them in particular.
I understand their origins, and I also do understand those who apply them throughout each and every incident they find themselves in. And I would love to say that I work the same way. Unfortunately, however, this is not so. I don't claim that I am unorthodox, I don't and won't ever even try to argue that I fall for the bohème or might even be one of them. I am not. Unorthodoxies are just as much laced in a corset of rules as the acts of the conventionalists. Regularly breaking the rules is unimpulsive and predictable and as such accompanied by the same tedium and conformity that any house of regulations is built upon.
In an era where we are forced to invent new definitions for any movement that mankind ever brought up since we are in the habit of exaggeration and excess, in an era that needs to wed the term conservatism with a prefix titled social or an object named value, it doesn't make much sense to call yourself something, does it?
Values are misused in every layer of society and they always have been to attract the weak and the lost and ultimately to control the latter. Yet values are far away from being a grand intellectual invention at least according to my (utterly stubborn) moral idea. Values are self-explanatory, obvious and innate. Values are instinctive.
I don't deny the great human talent to subvert it's instincts - the ones that dwell in ourselves and the ones that we face in our counterparts to turn them into unremorseful stooges.
We don't have to talk about that, and I certainly shouldn't as I lack the ability to entirely grasp the wider context.
But I do have a certain understanding of the interhuman laws and rules that I am surrounded by and the desperate attempt of the people around me to press their actions and non-actions into the laws and rules they read into their counterparts' ideals because they think that they are expected to do so.
And this is exactly the point where I lose my sympathy, my empathy and my understanding. I believe that we could lead a far more unencumbered and unladen coexistence if we would stop to think that we are supposed to live up to what we think our vis a vis expects. We entirely underestimate the ability of our fellow being's to decide for themselves what they can cope with and what they can't. Lies are the most obnoxious and irreverent attack on the power to judge of the ones we lie to. Just imagine we would lack the gene of falsehood and the amazing side-effect this condition would entail. We could be entirely confident that the people around us were there because they wish to. We could be entirely assured that our actions and non-actions were accepted which of course wouldn't equal approved but this isn't something that a grown-up and genuine human being should strive for anyhow.
When I observe people who spin a sweet yarn instead of being silent or truthful just because they underestimate people and their permissiveness and because they believe that their actions would be disapproved, I get sick.
And I wonder if the ability to lie is really genetically manifested as the result of a spontaneous mutation at some point of human evolution or if it is purely and simply a nasty little human weakness.
"I really will go straight to school tomorrow and I'll be good."~ Pinocchio
Silence is the relative or total lack of audible sound or the absence of communication.
I wonder: Isn’t silence one of the mightiest and most communicative forms of expression we have at hand?
I am fairly convinced that the deprivation of words can communicate just as much as a sermon of syllables – in case the mute person manages to use silence as a sonorous weapon.
To be perceptible, silence must be rich in undertones, that tend to resonate louder than an explicitly uttered opinion.
Silence must be coloured with a dozen shades that one after the other return into the recipient’s ears like a boomerang due to the margin for interpretation.
It cannot be denied that even words can mean anything and nothing despite their formal definition and depending on their packaging, and we must not disregard the human ability to lie and tell the untruth at this point either; but whereas the verbal expression can trigger a dialogue, silence cannot be answered but simply mirrored and returned – which is not in the least as rewarding as a checkmate argument that brings your opponent to his or her knees.
For me personally, silence is inevitably linked to either deadlocks or grey areas and transitional periods, to “in betweens” and “either/ors” and as such to not particularly appealing situations. When I lose my tongue, I have either nothing to say or I cannot talk about a certain “either/or”-matter due to the fact that I or Miss Fortuna and her fateful friends haven’t come to a decision yet.
Recently I stumbled across a line in a song that said: “Big questions need small answers. Yes. Or No.” So, when I fall silent I am most probably arm wrestling with a big question. The challenge trophy: A choice.
And since making choices is an excruciating condition – at least for me – I tend to retreat into a state of mind that allows no words.
So I must say that silence is far more than just the lack of audible sound, silence can be louder than a thunder and more painful than a thousand decibel.
"If you do not understand my Silence, how will you understand my Words." ~ Author Unknown
December 31. New Year's Eve. The turn of the year. A recurring horror. A reliable shocker. Year after year around calendar week 52 I witness the same tragedy. Inside myself and in the outside world in the insides of my fellow human beings. And although I should slowly but surely know how I react to the migration from one year to the next, I just won't manage to avoid the hysteria that it involves, let alone fight back. Quite the contrary. Every year I fall for this "time of change" and join the game.
As soon as the Xmas gluttony gently settles down around our winter-lazy hips, we get ready for our yearly clear-out in a fairly hysterical manner. We follow the compulsive annual momentum that triggers an internal and external cleaning mania and brandish the cloths and broomsticks to remove all the emotional and physical dirt stains that the past months left behind. We take out the sieve to sort out good and bad manners, objects, homines sapientes, habits and incidents. The good into the pot, the bad into the crop. After 51 weeks there is not much left that goes into the pot. Our poor crops have a lot to chew in December. Not only roast goose, plum pudding and mulled wine but everything that falls victim to the great inventory.
And one must also reflect a lot pre-New Years Eve-ly. That, of course, is obligatory. We take us by the hand and jointly find this time of year to be one of sentimental moments. We have the melancholy. Everyone around us is reminiscing compulsively. Everyone feels the great urge to come to terms with the past, to figure out certain things and roast ourselves and/or others as well as our dreams and achievements. At the end of the New Year's Tribunal, we all come to the same conclusion: "Next year something has to change."
All of a sudden everyone has to change everything everywhere. Next year, we will optionally either think more of ourselves or of our brothers and sisters. We will give up smoking in a throng and maltreat our weaker selves with sports instead. Beer and sausage sandwich will turn into ginger tea and wild rice, TV programmes will make way for textbooks, films will turn into operas and those of us who strictly sticked with the "stand on the right"-rule on the escalators in December, will frequent the stairs in January when we will drag ourselves to the drugstore to snatch one of the last remaining packages of Nicorette or Slimfast off the special offers shelf.
And those who already don't smoke or have already achieved size -1 thanks to Makrobiotism and therefore don't have to slim happy all the way, can excavate their childhood dreams that will finally become reality in the new year. Among the top ten mid-life-crisis-dreams that are pulled out of the hats in December are: organic restaurants, country homes with egg-laying chicken or milk-producing goat/cow, a sailing license including boat, world trips, learning a foreign language (Swedish, Russian and Chinese are the favourites of 2005-10), roaming the Way of St. James or repairing a wrecked old-timer with one's own hands and screw drivers. The list is endless. Basically, it includes those desires and wishes that we have never pursued and never will pursue since we either lack the time, financial resources or brain cells.
In a word: New Year's Eve is and will always be a tragedy. When the year celebrates its birthday, for us the party is over. We shoot off a few firecrackers, bring down some habits as well as disqualified girlfriends and boyfriends and shoot ourselves in the foot by smoking a last package of cigarettes, scoffing a box of chocolates and emptying two bottles of champagne in a row because: tomorrow, the journey of fun ends. From tomorrow on we will be fun-free, fat-free, sporty, non-smoking, self-reflective, sober, healthy eaters with lots of ambition, altruism and a capitalised and bold "Carpe Diem" written on our foreheads.
Until February, when we will realise during our Yoga class that we still can't scratch our left ears with our right pinky toes, that we are still a bit chubby and that the interpretation of the "one glass of wine can't do any harm"-excuse is not as flexible as our Yoga instructor. Furthermore, "Carpe Diem" can be quite tiring in the long run.
And then we can quickly have some fun until May when we all need to start working on our summer-sun-beach-bikini-body. At least those who have time to go on a summer-sun-beach-bikini-vacation. The others will then fall back on their mothballed cigarettes due to frustration, learn Swedish (as in Sweden they close everything down for two months during the summer, and quality of life is in general considerably higher up there), or complain about the summer. It's no longer what it used to be, is it?
But I have to go now. My Swedish teacher is picking me up for our Yoga class. Happy New Year.
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31. Dezember. Silvester. Der Jahreswechsel. Ein immer wiederkehrendes Grauen. Ein verlässlicher Schocker. Alljährlich wiederholt sich um Kalenderwoche 52 herum dasselbe Trauerspiel. In mir drinnen und auch draußen in dem Drinnen meiner Artgenossen. Und obgleich ich ja nun langsam wirklich haargenau weiß, wie sich die Migration von einem zum anderen Jahr auf mich auswirkt, kann ich den damit verbundenen Hysterien nur unschwer aus dem Wege gehen, geschweigedenn will es mir gelingen, mich erfolgreich zur Wehr zu setzen. Ganz im Gegenteil. Ich falle Jahr um Jahr wieder auf diese "Zeit des Umbruchs" herein und spiele das Spiel immer wieder mit. Kaum lässt sich der Weihnachtsspeck sanft auf den winterfaulen Hüften nieder, wird hysterisch ausgemistet. In triebhafter Eigendynamik wird jetzt aufgeräumt. Innerlich und äußerlich. Man schwingt das Putztuch, rückt hartnäckigen emotionalen und physischen Schmutzflecken zu Leibe, zückt das Sieb zum Aussortieren guter und schlechter Manieren, Objekte, Homines sapientes, Angewohnheiten und Gegebenheiten. Die Guten ins Töpfchen, die Schlechten ins Kröpfchen. Da bleibt nicht viel übrig fürs Töpfchen nach 51 Wochen. Das arme Kröpfchen muss viel Schlucken im Dezember. Nicht nur Gans, Stollen und Glühwein, sondern alles, was der großen Inventur zum Opfer fällt.
Und man muss auch ganz viel reflektieren prä-silvesterlich. Das gehört dazu. Wir sind alle gemeinsam sentimental. Wir haben die Melancholie. Rund um uns herum wird sich zwanghaft zurückerinnert. Jeder verspürt das dringende Anliegen mit sich und dem vergangenen Jahr ins Reine zu kommen, sich über Dinge klar zu werden und mit sich und/oder anderen sowie den Träumen und den Errungenschaften der vergangenen Monate ins Gericht zu gehen.
Und am Ende des Silvestertribunals kommen wir alle zu demselben Schluss: "Nächstes Jahr muss sich einiges ändern". Überall müssen plötzlich alle alles anders machen. Wahlweise möchte man in der nahenden beziehungsweise drohenden Zukunft mehr an sich selbst oder mehr an seine Nächsten denken, man gibt im Pulk das Rauchen auf, um stattdessen den Schweinehund mit Sport zu malträtieren. Aus Bier und Wurstbrot werden Ingwertee und Wildkornreis, aus TV wird Bildungsband, aus Kino Operette und wer sich im Dezember noch gerne an das "rechts Stehen" auf der Rolltreppe gehalten hat, der frequentiert im Januar schnaufend die Treppen, wenn er sich zum Drogeriemarkt schleppt, um noch die letzte verbliebene Schachtel Nicorette oder Slimfast im Sonderangebotsregal zu ergattern. Und diejenigen, die bereits nicht rauchen oder im Zuge des Makrobiotismus schon Magermaße angenommen haben und deswegen so bleiben dürften, wie sie sind, die haben dann noch ihre Jugendträume, aus denen im nächsten Jahr endlich Realität werden soll. In der Top-Ten der Mittlebenskrisenträume, die Ende Dezember aus der Kiste gekramt werden, tümmeln sich Bio-Restaurants, Häuser auf dem Land mit eigenem eierlegenden Huhn oder milchproduzierender Ziege/Kuh, der Segelführerschein samt Boot, die Weltreise, das Erlernen einer Fremdsprache (Schwedisch, Russisch und Chinesisch gehören zu den Favoriten 2005-10), das Abspazieren des Jakobswegs oder das Instandsetzen eines abgewrackten Oldtimers mit den eigenen Händen und Schraubenziehern. Die Liste ist endlos. Grundsätzlich umfasst sie diejenigen Begehren und Herzensbedürfnisse, die wir niemals in die Tat umgesetzt haben und auch nicht werden, weil uns hierzu entweder die Zeit, Finanzmittel oder Gehirnzellen fehlen.
Kurz gesagt: Silvester ist und bleibt eine Tragödie. Wenn das Jahr Geburtstag feiert, haben wir nicht mehr viel zu lachen. Wir schießen ein paar Knallkörper in die Luft, ein paar Angewohnheiten und disqualifizierte Freundinnen und Freunde ab und uns selbst ins Knie, wenn wir noch ganz fix zwei, drei letzte Schachteln Zigaretten rauchen, circa 23 Pralinen verschlingen und statt einer lieber zwei Flaschen Champagner leeren, denn "ab morgen ist Schluss". Schluss mit lustig. Ab morgen sind wir unlustige, sportliche, nichtrauchende, selbstreflektierte, nüchterne Gesundernährer mit ganz viel Ambition, Nächstenliebe und einem dicken "Carpe Diem" auf der Stirn.
Bis Februar, wenn wir merken, dass wir uns im Yoga immer noch nicht mit der kleinen Zehe hinter dem Ohr kratzen können, dass wir immer noch ein bisschen dick sind und dass die Ausrede "ein Glas Wein kann nicht schaden" eben doch nicht so dehnbar ist wie unser Yoga-Lehrer. Außerdem ist "Carpe Diem" doch ziemlich anstrengend auf die Dauer.
Und dann können wir schnell ein bisschen Spaß haben bis es Mai wird und wir wieder alle an unserer Bikinisommersonnestrandfigur arbeiten müssen. Zumindest diejenigen, die Zeit haben, Bikinisommersonnestrandurlaub zu machen. Die anderen greifen jetzt entweder aus Frust zur eingemotteten Zigarette, lernen Schwedisch (weil in Schweden, da machen die ganze zwei Monate Sommerurlaub und überhaupt ist dort die Lebensqualität viel höher) oder meckern über den Sommer. Der ist ja auch nicht mehr das, was er mal war.
Und ich, ich muss jetzt los. Zum Yoga mit dem Schwedischlehrer. Frohes Neues!
