The lyf so short

Komisch (nicht "haha" komisch, das andere komisch)*, wie einem Beleidigungen jahrelang nachschleichen bzw. immer wieder an die Oberfläche gespült werden.

Ich weiß es noch genau: Wir saßen in lustiger Rollenspielrunde zusammen, das Setting war science-fiction-mäßig angehaucht, und ich kommentierte die postulierte künftige Energieknappheit wegen der nahezu erschöpften fossilen Brennstoffe damit, dass die Menschheit ihren Energiebedarf doch inzwischen sicher längst mittels Photosynthese deckt.

Darauf warf mir eine Mitspielerin, die das vermutlich längst vergessen hat, einen abschätzigen Blick zu und stellte fest: "Man merkt echt, dass du in der Oberstufe kein Bio hattest."

Ich hab's geschluckt, ein möglichst gleichmütiges "Jo, so isses" in den Raum geworfen und versucht, die Sache zu vergessen. Aber manchmal kommt sie wieder hoch. Vor knappen zehn Jahren zum Beispiel, als ich über eine Forschungsreihe der Ruhr-Uni Bochum las, in der sie mit Hilfe genetisch modifizierter Algen Wasserstoff (statt Sauerstoff, das war die Modifikation) gewonnen haben, der wiederum zur Energiegewinnung genutzt werden sollte.

Oder heute, wo ich diesen Artikel über "reverse photosynthesis" gelesen habe.

Aber hey. Man merkt halt, dass Ahnungslosigkeit (oder war's bloß ein Mangel an Phantasie?) nicht auf diejenigen beschränkt ist, die in der Oberstufe kein Bio hatten...

- - -
*Und das funktioniert offensichtlich über lange, LANGE Zeiträume. Bei diesem Einleitungssatz fiel mir nämlich ein, wie mich mal eine Praktikantin im Kindergarten angemacht hat, weil ich - damals 4 oder 5, wohlgemerkt! - zu ihr sagte "Komisch, dass der Kevin so lange krank ist". "DAS IST NICHT KOMISCH! DAS IST TRAURIG!" Den Sinn von "komisch" hatte ich nicht gemeint, und das wusste die blöde Kuh doch auch! Fast 30 Jahre her, gärt immer noch. Wenn ich mir Kanji so gut merken könnte wie Beleidigungen, wär mein Studium anders verlaufen... na klar, und hätte ich Bio nicht abgewählt, um mein Latinum zu machen, dann auch!

Happy New Year!

Here, have a picture I took in the garden this morning just to show you what an effed up year 2015 was, including the weather. (Hint: Roses normally flower from June til October in these parts. In December/January, they shouldn't even have leaves.)



I don't think I did that End-of-year-meme in a couple of years because it ended up sounding too depressive. This wasn't a good year so it's probably going to sound worse, but I'll do the meme anyway. For future reference or something.

( Under the cut for length and general uninterestingness )

Right. That was that. Onward, upward!

... especially my own.

But I just realised that by this month, Jörg and I have been sharing our living-space for ten years. (Which means that we had our tenth becoming-an-item anniversary last December, which we didn't notice or celebrate. At least we remembered our fifth wedding anniversary two months before that...)
Holy crap, I'm old enough to have ten-year-anniversaries. (Yes, you're allowed to laugh now!)

Considering that Jörg and I have entirely different ideas about what constitutes sufficient quantities of orderliness, living together for ten years without either breaking up or killing each other is actually quite an achievement.

Actually, considering that back then I was a completely different (even more immature than now ;)) person, I... sort of wonder how that worked out. But apparently it did.

In fact, back when I fell in love with Jörg (May 2001), I wouldn't actually have thought that we'd ever become an item. He was "too old", he already had a girlfriend, and he was moving "far away" (for 18-year-old, car-less me) to "near Frankfurt". Since then, I found out that he sort of had a crush on me too (OMGWTFBBQ). And then his girlfriend split up with him. (They're still friends, and she tolerates me, although our relationship is still slightly awkward.) And then we started going out together, and moved in together, and, and...

Holy crap, gals, I had no clue where this our tender young relationship would be going, or if it was meant to last, when we moved into that flat. And now, that's already ten years in the past. And we've got a house, and got married, and got a son, and a second one on the way, and...

... well. Ten years isn't a lifetime, but it's certainly a good start, I'd say.

Happy sharing-a-life anniversary to the two of us, and I hope one day we'll celebrate our golden wedding anniversary and laugh at the fact that I once got so excited about one measly decade. ^^

... that I'll just start with the usual retrospective meme. And then we'll see what else of 2012 I get summarised.

( 2012 in retrospect: the usual questionnaire )

Wasn't that fun. :P

During my second or third re-reading of the Sandman series, I was bitten by a plotbunny for a graphic novel that I always wanted to... write? draw? create, anyway. (Random aside: Mark of Mark Reads currently reads The Sandman.)
I actually drew a few (really crappy) panels, and I wrote a few scenes in all-text.
Basically, it was a Silmarillion/Real World crossover in which in the end ALL THE MYTHS WOULD TURN OUT TO BE TRUE. I did all this "future" research for suitable events that would be useful for the storyline, too! I was delighted that there would be a Venus transit in 2012, BEFORE the Olympic Games, for instance, because both of those would work really well for SECRET PLOT I had in mind! And it had to be 2012 because of THE END OF THE WORLD (that was long before Roland Emmerich announced his attention to make a crap movie based on the premise).

Well, and then I never got around to doing much about it.
And anyway, there was so much time left until 2012!

...

That Venus transit happened yesterday. In the storyline of my presumably-never-to-be-written grand graphic novel, Venus would now have disappeared and Fëanor (not his style to wait for the Valar to finally come around, is it?) would be in possession of one Silmaril again. And so it begins.
...
...
...
Well, it sounded better in my head anyway.

Still, I'm feeling slightly wistful. I mean, I really invested brainpower into that story, and actually saw several panels - pages, even - before my mind's eye, and always sort of looked forward to getting them done for real. (The ones I did draw, of course, never looked half as good. :P) But by now it feels sort of pointless to do anything about the thing. In 2013, the surprise ending would after all be no longer surprising...
Blah.

Oh well. At least I can always re-read The Sandman. >_>

Because I'm too lazy to write about our Christmas:

Ye classic retrospective end-of-year meme. Let's hope I remember to change all 2010s to 2011s, etc.

( Cut for length and blathering )

And here's to the new...

They are currently celebrating the 100th anniversary of the scouting movement.

I am no longer in the scouts, but they were a huge and important part of my life for ten years, so naturally all this celebrating - and it has to be a lot if even the German newspapers manage to mention it - makes me turn a little wistful. (It was, after all, not the scouting movement that made me leave, it was just that I was growing ever more incompatible with our local group).

Now those familiar with scouting anywhere in the world but unfamiliar with scouting in Germany need, I suppose, a brief explanation.
In Germany, the scouts are not patriotic. I mean, I don't know whether they are patriotic everywhere else - but with the French (... well, duh), American, Canadian, South African or Swedish scouts I met along the line, patriotism was always part of the game. In the German scouts, it is not. The reason can be found in the years between 1933 and 1945, like anyone's going to be surprised now; after that, anything that looked as though it intended to educate young people towards patriotism was highly suspicious. (The German scouting movement as such was forbidden in 1938, and was re-established in 1946).
German scouts are, instead, religious. They're really rather like the YMCA, just with neckerchiefs and funny hats. (Except the YMCA in, say, America, doesn't seem to have much to do with its name either, so the comparison may not work.) They're church-run and church-supported. That isn't as bad as you may imagine now; they were really rather tolerant about the whole thing. I was in a catholic scout movement even though I'm protestant, and we had unconfessional and pagan kids in our group which wasn't a problem either. Being church-run really only meant that there was always some kind of service before any kind of celebration. It also meant that the parish priest would drop by on camp Sundays (if it wasn't too far; otherwise one of the leaders got to do the service). He was okay, too. Due to a certain resemblance to the old Sir Alec Guiness he was nick-named Obi-wan, because that was what he looked like in his tunicle.

Being rather like the YMCA, group meetings generally meant playing dodgeball or Brennball or hide-and-seek (when we were younger) or sitting around chatting (when we were older). Sometimes our leaders could be motivated to organise something more interesting, like first aid or pushcart-building, but generally the whole thing wasn't overly exciting. I used to fantasize about scouting life in other countries where (so I imagined; I have no idea whether it's true) being in the scouts meant having adventures every other day, with motivated, creative group leaders, well-organised troops and - badges. God, how I envied those foreign scouts for the badges they could make! I mean, like, fulfilling tasks in order to gain a badge for stuff like pioneering, hiking and so on! (When I was on vacation with my parents, I'd usually force them to visit a local scout shop if there was one, so I could get some memorabilia and books (the latter only if the language of the country was English; in France I only took comic books. >_>)) There were no badges in our scouting organisation. Too military. German scouting has been - for the reasons mentioned above, and also for post-modern rationals - de-militarised as much as possible. You only wear the uniform for high feasts, so to say, or in camp. It all makes sense to 24-year old Lyra, but the problem is that most kids love the military stuff, and it seemed terribly unfair that if I ran around in scouting uniform I got strange looks whereas kids who ran around in the Young Fire-fighters uniform were coooool. Kids in general tend to be more savage and warrior-fannish than most idealists seem to realise, but that's a different topic altogether.

I had joined the scouts hoping for high adventure. Oh, I got it sometimes: Camping in torrential rain, learning climbing and abseiling, canoeing, sailing (yes, I know the Ijsselmeer doesn't exactly qualify for "high adventure" - but the illusion works!), and there were evenings spent singing around the campfire. Once a year there was some kind of regional jamboree on St. George's Day (St. George is the patron saint of boy scouts; I don't know whether this is known in countries where the scouts are not church-run?), and once a year there was Stammestag when all the different age groups of the local branch got together and did a ralley. But these events were fairly rare and far between, and between the last and the next there was: dodgeball, Brennball, hide-and-seek. I was there for the adventure, and I tried to get our group to do more adventurous things: In those days I was still bossy and not afraid to try and get people to do what I wanted. I think I annoyed everybody very much. :D

Although there was little hope of me ever being able to use all that stuff, I turned to the noble theory of adventure, reading Rüdiger Nehberg, or the scouting handbook (despite everything else said about the German scouts, that handbook is actually quite excellent with a lot of really random knowledge) and, later, handbooks. I was the Hermione Granger of scouting. I knew all sorts of random things - what knot to use what for (useful), what kind of barks best to use for tinder (useful), how to make an emergency shelter (useless unless in ralley situations), how to behave in case of an avalanche (I have yet to encounter an avalanche closer than 300 meters away. ... or not.), how to build camp-towers (useless because nobody allows a fifteen-year old girl to try that, phooey). I practiced pitching a tent with only one hand (just in case anyone ever wants to write a fanfic in which post-Thangorodrim Maedhros puts up a tent: messy but possible), building bridges from ropes and logs and all that jazz. Sometimes it got in handy, in which case most of the kids in our group decided that I was an insufferable know-it-all, and most of the time it was just useless. But I really, really enjoyed it. And I always hoped I'd be able to use it some day. I always wanted to be some kind of last action hero. *coughs*

Aside from the adventure-thirst, what fascinated me about scouting was the internationality. Our local branch had contacts with a group in our town's French sister city, and with a Swedish group in Eskilstuna; in 1998, we visited the latter and took part in a big Swedish scouting event, the DUST camp, where I had the time of my life (also, where I fell in love for the first time. I mean, with a real, non-fictional person). In 1999 the Swedes and the French group came to visit us to celebrate our branch's 50th anniversary, and in 2000 we took part in the Nationale Jamboree in Heerlen (that is in the Netherlands), and I loved these meetings (they were the only parties I went to in my innocent youth, really) and the masses of people getting together because they shared a hobby. (I admit it, I love being part of a crowd of like-minded people. I'm a herd animal. It's what I love about gasshuku (which is like a jamboree for karateka, really :D) and about LARP events and about the Japan Day and all).

In the end I decided that I was tired of having to put up with snide co-scouts in my local group; I was tired of being thought silly because, while they had interests suitable for 17-year olds, I was still a romantic with a hunger for the clichéd adventures; I was tired of the mobbing and the cliques; and I was in my last year in high school and used the graduation preparations as an excuse of having no more time. I didn't regret leaving the group; except for two or three people, I hadn't really been friends with anyone. I did regret leaving scouting, because of the things I loved about the movement. I suppose I should have tried finding a new group, but chances of finding one that suited me were slim, and so I turned my attention to jûdô and karate, where we at least didn't play dodgeball. I went canoeing with some people from school, and to Prague with some other people, and to jûdô camp with the club of the guy I had just fallen in love with*; and we've all moved on. But sometimes - when there is a jamboree, or when there are celebrations like there are now - I miss being a member of the scouts.

I suppose I'll look into it again. When I have kids in scouting age, for example. Then I'll be one of the group leaders and I'll teach them all sorts of useless knowledge, go on adventurous trips, and teach them that it's perfectly fine to prefer rainy Pentecoste camps to Spice Girls concerts and to find How to tie what knot to what purpose (... not like that, you pervs!) way more interesting than Bravo.

And now you may laugh.


*Incidentally, that happens to be the guy who is my boyfriend now, but it took three years to come to that.