Oh, Of Course! IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU, ISN’T IT?

Yeah, actually, it is. *lol*
But seriously: I’ve been looking for some good memes to do lately and today, I found one! I’m not inspired enough to write a completely original post today, so I’m making do with the Five Nights Meme, which I’ve seen in a couple of places by now. Instructions are simple: you have to tell about five nights of your life which were memorable. Let’s see what I come up with.

Disclaimer: for those of you who are easily grossed out by sex-related topics, skip nights 1 and 2. But then again, you know me well enough to know that I’d dare to tell all that here. It’s not that bad or graphic, but I don’t want you to be able to say I didn’t warn you. So here goes nothing.

Night #1

It was a rather cool autumn night in the year 2001. A friend of mine and I had decided to go gay-bar hopping. I wanted to score myself a girl that night and he wanted a guy. Or so we thought. By the fourth or fifth bar we landed in, it was pretty obvious that neither of us was going to get what we’d originally come for and I was beginning to be seriously turned on by him. I was constantly grabbing at his butt in a more than unlady-like fashion and he seemed to like it. And anyway, he was still bi at that time. At this point, I wish to emphasize that we were not drunk. Alcohol had nothing to do with anything that night. He’d had a drink and I’d had nothing, so we were both fully lucid. Luckily, I don’t need to get drunk to act drunk. I’m crazy enough as it is.
Anyhoo: we both had the hots for each other that night and so we decided to, well, insert the Nike slogan here. We got on the U-bahn and in the wagon with us was only one lost looking 20 something girl whom my friend proceeded to share with, loudly and with lots of giggles, that we two were going to a youth hostel now to go have sex. I giggled wildly too.
When we reached the youth hostel, they were about to close (it was around 2am I think) and it turned out that between the two of us, we were 6 Euros short of what it would have cost us to spend the night. But he and I are not people who are easily defeated and so we did what we’d actually tried to avoid at first: we went to my parents’. Fortunately, the office in that flat has a fire door, which makes the room quite sound-proof. And so it came that the couch on which my friend and I had slept on many a nights, without anything ever happening, lost its virginity. For four freakin’ hours. Afterwards, I got up, went downstairs into my own bed and fell asleep, smiling. Why alone? Because I felt like I needed some space to digest what had happened. A few hours later, at the crack of dawn, my friend got up, we kissed goodbye and he left before my parents awoke. It was perfect. Years later, it turned out that it had been his first time too and I could hardly believe it. And to this day, this awesome friend still introduces me like that to his friends: “This is Anna, we slept together, it was amazing and she’s my soulmate”. Enough said.

Night #2

Do you know that feeling, when your life gets so surreal it seems like it should be happening in a sitcom? This is one of those nights.
I had been at my training dig for two weeks and it felt like an eternity. It also still felt strange to be so far away from home and to know that this particular weekend, I would spend at the dig, not in my comfy bed in Munich. Sure, I loved the dig, but it was the first time I’d really been away from home for an extended period of time, for work and with people I’d only just met there.
That weekend, we were having a party. Don’t imagine anything fancy: we pushed the beer benches to the side in the refectorium, carried a few of them outside, close to the pond, got out the beer, dimmed the lights and pressed play on an antique boombox. It was great fun and there was even some dancing, but then the Poles put on their ABBA tape and let it play in an endless loop. After the 2nd “Dancing Queen” I was about ready to throw the boombox in the pond, so I left the refectorium and went into the castle’s inner court. There, I heard the faint sound of a piano playing in the distance. Then I remembered: Vitek knew how to play the piano, could it be him? Vitek was also on one of the digs in the area and we’d met a few days before. He was cute, I thought, and he seemed intelligent and he had a black sense of humour. All the Polish girls from the dig (and there were lots) swooned when his name came up.
The piano again, something classic and romantic. I decided to look into that and went upstairs. In the giant hall in which the black piano usually stood alone and lost was a throng of girls and, at the instrument itself, sat Vitek, playing something heavenly. The girls sat all around the piano and one, with long brown hair and batty eyelashes stood beside it, lightly resting her elbow on it, looking at Vitek as if he was Adrian Brody and then, upon seeing me, looking like she was going to go for my jugular if I got any closer. I flashed her the sweetest smile I could manage, turned on my heels and headed back outside. Mr Smooth obviously had his hands full and he had not noticed me, so all was good. I’d had a good laugh and in a little while, I would go to bed. But I wanted to sit by the pond a little and gaze at the stars, which, on top of this hill where the castle was, could be seen shining brightly and in their full, sparkling, glory.
As I was making my way up the dust road towards my destination, I was suddenly aware of someone following me. I turned around and there was Vitek, beer in hand and a sly smile on his lips. “Awful ABBA” he said with his thick Polish accent. I nodded and said I’d wanted to get away from the “party”. He said “me too, this party is almost over anyway” and I noticed he had come closer. Much closer. He kissed me. I pulled away from the sheer surprise of the gesture. Then I kissed him back, hard, and he dropped the bottle of beer in the dust. As it rolled away he started kissing my neck and I looked up and saw the stars. “God, beautiful stars” I said and he looked up too. “Yes”, he said and took my hand. Then he dragged me towards the big iron gate and I didn’t say anything, I just followed him. He led me into the woods, down a narrow path where the trees were so tall that they came together over our heads and kept the moonlight away. It was so black I could hardly see my hands and we were stumbling over innumerable rocks and roots before we arrived at a clearing that had a playground on it. There, the moon was almost painfully bright.
One bench was all the playground had to sit on properly. We were naked quicker than you can say the word. Before that night, I’d always thought “ripping our clothes off” was a figure of speech. It’s not, trust me. We had an awesome and fun time, during which Vitek kept making little yapping sounds that would have me giggling and in between gasps he kept repeating, like a mantra “you’re so perfect, this night is so perfect, oh my god you’re so perfect”. He didn’t speak a lot of English and we usually communicated in a mix of English and Polish, but I was glad that he knew the word “perfect” so well. A girl likes to hear that.
We were just done when suddenly we heard loud and drunken “Vitek!! Where are you man?” yells coming from the path in the woods. We grabbed our clothes, hoping we hadn’t overlooked any, and ran towards the opposite edge of the clearing, hiding behind trees and bushes. The plan was to get dressed there and make our way back to the castle from the other side, but then we saw our escape route was blocked by a large stream. Going through it would have been real lunacy, so we remained hidden beneath the trees, watching his friends searching for him and finally, with an attention span considerably shortened by the alcohol they’d imbibed, giving up and playing on the playground. They got on the swings and the slide and fooled around for a good half hour. Vitek and I used that time to make out some more. When his friends had left, we got out from behind the greenery and also headed back to the castle, unable to keep our hands off each other. A ten minute walk took us almost an hour. We parted in front of the castle doors and I went to the lavatory because I needed to brush my teeth. One look in the mirror made me thank the heavens no one else was still awake at this hour. I was completely disshevelled, and not only had I put all my clothes on inside out, but they were also front-to-back. It was then that I noticed my butt was itchy. I looked down and saw little red patches. I had rubbed against the nettles that had peaked through the wooden bench. As my adrenaline/endorphin rush was wearing off now, I started to feel the effects. I laughed and tried to calm the itch with some cold water, then changed into my PJs and snuck into my dormitory where everybody else was fast asleep.
The next morning I woke at dawn, utterly happy and content. I felt so good being in Nienover, all my petty worries had vanished and I owed it all to some great sex with a Pole, no pun intended. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I grabbed some clothes, my Discman and went for a long walk in the woods, singing along to Christina Aguilera’s “Keep on singing my song” and other mood-enhancers. When I got back, the whole castle was awake and a few Poles were sitting on their balcony, which faced towards the main road leading to the castle. I saw them too late and was still belting out some song as I was walking. When I finally did see them, I saw them grinning huge grins at me. Yep, all the Poles knew. I didn’t care though, until my friends at the dig started calling me Hermione and kept the nickname up for the rest of our campaign. Why? Because Vitek looked like Harry Potter by the light of the day.

Night #3

The air was electric and the sky was the colour of lead. We all knew a storm was coming and stepped outside to see it begin. It wasn’t long before the winds were strong and the shutters of the entire house were banging so loudly we had to go fasten them for fear they’d do some damage. The air’s smell changed from almost moist to acrid and dusty and the sky was painted a rusty shade of red as the sandstorm swelled to its full strenghth. Never have I felt so humble and grateful to be allowed to witness such unbridled, magnificent power. Never have I felt so at peace with the world around me. Egypt bared my soul right then and there. I still thank it for that gift.

Night #4

My first night in Zurich. I felt so tiny and a little bit alone. But I was still excited to be here, to have made it so far on my own. I was eager to see what the next week would bring. I felt happy. Tiny, but happy. I still remember the walls of my room being very gray and feeling like the night watchmen in the building across could see me and come to my rescue if someone should break into the flat.

Night #5

The night when Steve and I got together was magical. It was very late when we got back to his place and we were both a little anxious, I think. Then we sat on the sofa and I cuddled up to him. Suddenly, he inhaled the scent of my hair and said “mmmh, your hair smells so good”. That was when I knew everything would be alright. I turned my head a little, looked in his blue eyes and giggled, happy. Then we kissed.
We stayed up all night, in each others’ arms and I talked about Shakespeare and he talked about Pink Floyd and I remember thinking how wonderful it was that I had found a man who was happy to listen to me quoting Shakespeare. Dawn was golden with a hint of powdery orange and light pink. We noticed the birds starting to sing at the same time. If for nothing else, I will always love him for that night alone.

So there you go, you’ve been with me to five nights that have been memorable for me. Maybe you enjoyed the ride.

Peace,

Anna

ps: à propos meme, there’s a new about me section on my How To blog

Pack And Be Gone!

Over to my How To blog, where a juicy new post on procrastination awaits you. Yes, I know you want a new post here, but I’m tired and I now need to go watch one my newest favourite movies again. To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar is a masterpiece. It beats Priscilla: Queen of the Desert if you ask me.

Off I go!

Müntschie,

Anna

Gin!! What’s Wrong With You, Have You Got Tourette’s Suddenly?

I do. I have a very specific subform of Tourette’s Syndrome. It’s an affliction that will last a lifetime. I don’t like to speak about it, but I have it and I feel I need to share, because maybe I can help others. If I speak up, others might finally understand what their mysterious ailment is and it will help them cope and accept themselves more.

It’s called Echolalia Cinematographica in Latin. I just call it Film Tourette’s Syndrome, or FTS for short.

It appears spontaneously and can last only a few seconds or go on for some minutes. You see, with the years, my brain has stocked up on an unfathomable amount of movie quotes. Because I live, breathe and eat movies, this has degenerated to the point that I cannot go an entire day without some quotes just springing up in my mind when I see or hear something, when somebody says something and worst of all when I’m watching a film, because then my brain connects what I’m currently experiencing (yes, a movie is an experience) with what it already knows. Over time, this syndrome expands and I’m not limited to movie quotes alone anymore: taglines of all kind, book quotes, musical quotes and even plain quotes from conversations I’ve had, add to my daily torments.
What is making me speak out now? At first, the quotes were only in my head. I could keep a straight face and carry on a conversation. Then, slowly (Miriam might argue about that adjective, but…), insidiously, certain quotes I love a lot came out of my mouth. After that started the urge to explain the quotes context and if the person I was talking to didn’t understand, I could get tremendously worked up and even annoyed. Now, I give full-on monologues. I’m sure at least a good third of this blog’s readers has heard my Independence Day presidential speech. I apologise. But you are more than likely to hear it again. I’m sorry, but such is the nature of FTS. I can’t always control it.
The only way I know how to keep the collateral damage I do low is to not watch too many movies. Which means keeping it down to twice a week at the most. Yes, there’s a correlation between the amount of times I get to sit in the darkened, hallowed halls and the amount of quotes escaping my mouth and mind.

So there, now you know it all. I feel like a burden has been lifted from my shoulders. There’s nothing worse than hiding. And if I’m able to help even one person with this post, then I will have succeeded.

Peace,

Anna

ps: watch out for an upcoming new post over at my How To Blog!
pps: and because making fun of real maladies is not one bit funny, I’ll redeem myself with this link

current music: Die Schlampen Sind Müde by Rosenstolz

Whoo-ee! This Is Better Than A Hog-killing!

Hehe. Guess where my post title is coming from this week. That’s right, it’s from “The Wild Bunch“, closing film at the 3rd Annual 70mm Todd-AO Festival in the Schauburg theatre in Karlsruhe, where I spent my sweet weekend.
It was such a great, amazing, weekend, I don’t even know where to start recounting. On the first day, the last film shown was “Khartoum” with the incomparable Charlton Heston and a damn good Laurence Olivier and as I sat there in the dark, marvelling at the magic and beauty of 70mm, I suddenly had this thought: “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe…”. Moments like these are pure bliss for me. I feel so utterly happy that I get to watch these historical artifacts, get to see these movies the way they were truly meant to be seen.

But enough of that, I’m saving my review for Thomas Hauerslev’s site. Let’s get down to some of the extra-cinematographical stuff that went down last weekend, shall we? Let me use yet another quote: Marina Sirtis once said about her character Deanna Troi in Star Trek: TNG, “I was supposed to be The Brains of the Enterprise, instead, I ended up being The Chick”. That’s a little how Karlsruhe always makes me feel. Which is not inherently bad, but not always satisfying either. The people who attend the festival are among the world’s most avid and knowledgeable 70mm film enjoyers. Most of them go to Bradford every year (and Karlsruhe since it started) and work in the film business. Most of them are men. And let’s just face it, most of them are nerds. The sexy kind, mind you. I haven’t counted but the number of women in Karlsruhe is very, very low. I think that, me included, we were about 5 who attended the entire festival. I don’t mind, in fact, I love being surrounded by men, I usually get along a lot better with them than with a herd of quarrelsome, attention-seeking women. But it does turn me into “The Chick”. I have a passion for movies (anyone who’s dreams feature Miklós Rózsa scores qualifies methinks) and I think I can say I know a lot of them and about them. Heck, I’m about to realise one of my biggest dreams, shoot a short film this term at university. I get camera angles, three-spot-lighting and colour schemes. What I’ve always had troubles with is, as always, when lots of numbers are involved. Yet the ever varying formats of films, 70mm and all it’s forms and derivatives, lenses and projector types are just that: lots of numbers. When one of the men attending the festival says “We’ve got a DP 70 and this and this movie’s copy in a 1:2,55 ratio” he has an exact picture in his mind of how that looks on screen. I don’t. Just hearing such a phrase makes my mind go “???” and I’m sure at least one of those question marks even makes it to my forehead. As much as I’ve tried to learn that stuff, I haven’t really succeeded.
Now this alone could be seen as a weakness that I alone have to come to terms with, but not so when I’m surrounded by a sea of men who know this stuff inside out. There are two possible outcomes when the question mark starts materialising on my forehead: either I get an explanation (usually involving more numbers because in men’s minds the more you explain it like that, the better the explanation – not) or the mark doesn’t show enough and the nerd is so engrossed in his story about what projector was bought and how it performs and what it does to the film and how it compares to the other projector(s) that I just smile and nod and try to get it but don’t have the heart to end the conversation, because it’s obvious the nerd is happy to have found a girl who will listen to all this and in his mind it’s the film freak version of flirting. Which it is. Or can be. The point is I appreciate being flirted with like that (beats “huhhuh you’re sexy can I have your phone number and what’s your name again?” *any* day) and I always like to listen to all of this (explanations with numbers and projector performance stories) because I never give up hope that somewhere in there, there will be a sentence that teaches me something.
Nevertheless, both of these outcomes make for one thing: they turn me into The Chick. Either I’m The Chick That Must Be Taught/Helped or I’m The Chick Who Is Interested In The Same Things I Am Wow. What’s wrong with that, you ask? Nothing, really, except for the small but not overlookable fact that men at 70mm festivals always look at me like the Enterprise’s crew looks at Deanna Troi: she’s cherished but her advice only ever counts when logic and technology fails. Which isn’t very often. All in all, I must say that I prefer talking about the movie, not the format. The format is an artistic decision (and a great one!) that was made to get the movie’s content across to the audience in the best possible way (though there are failures, follow my look towards South Pacific). What counts ultimately is how a movie is done, what it transports, what it moves in you. Sure it’s nice seeing 70mm, but it’s only that nice because it helps the movies to make more sense, it helps you seeing them in their full splendor.
So if you really wanna flirt with me, give me your opinion on the movie, the lighting, the cinematography but not the negative size or the projector used.

Otherwise, the festival was wonderful. I got to meet amazing people, like Mr Museum, who was part of the people who made the incredible Kubrick exhibition that is touring the world (now that’s a man who completely charmed me by saying the most incredibly intelligent things about Spartacus). Or Mr In70mm.com whom I finally mustered up the courage to go approach and who turned out to be completely laid back and happy to help. I owe it to him and his lecture about film formats that I now get the basics in this area. I’m so, so grateful for that, I will need it (I suppose) for making my own movie. I met Jay again whom I’d befriended (note the subtle euphemism for: made out with) last year and that was nice too. The only thing that bothered me a bit about that is that he still seemed to like me and in his eyes, I could constantly see him evaluating whether he still had a shot at befriending me again this year. You know the kind: you’re sitting on a beer bench, innocently eating your teeny-tiny portion of pasta and talking about colour-faded copies and suddenly you look up to see that Jay has shut up and is gazing at you and then into your eyes, completely still and walled in a silence trying to convey deep passion but only succeeding in looking more like a puppy than a soul mate. I’m sorry, I like you Jay, I think you’re funny and you’re obviously intelligent, but we’re just not on the same film reel here. By the third day, I had the feeling all this had faded away and then he took the first occasion he got to tickle me (felt more like a grab but…) and there was that look again. See what being The Chick does?

In other exciting news: I’m writing a feature about Lush Cosmetics and I got an interview with a store manager last week and it was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. The interview itself was great but then he took me “backstage” and showed me all the new, not-yet-in-stores, limited edition Christmas products. And then the miracle of Christmas happened early: he said I could choose and take home all the products I liked! It was hard to maintain my composure and not kiss his feet, but I managed. Then laughed and jumped with joy when I got out of hearing distance of the store. Moments like that one make all the moments of trouble I have with this rotten newspaper of mine worth it. I seriously love my job. I do. I’m so happy that I finally found what’s right for me.

One more thing and then I’m calling it quits today: I’ve got a second blog! Woot! Yup, it’s a funny blog, where I will teach you how to Anna your life up. In Karlsruhe I noticed that my distressingly annoying but funny-when-considered-at-a-safe-distance habits had reached yet another level and so I decided to expand my blog universe and blog about them. So have fun at Anna’s How To Blog and go click on the link I’ve set up on the right.

That’s all for now folks, thanks for reading me (even if some of you buggers never comment or vote on my poll :-p) and being my friends.

Peace,

Anna

Things Happen.

Things happen. People step into our lives and back out again. Days pass and weeks trickle along with no rhyme or reason to them and then on a Sunday night at 3am, things suddenly seem awfully clear.
Things happen. But how much of it all do we control? How much do we truly enjoy and how much pains us? How much bores us? How much do we have to struggle and how much should we struggle to keep afloat in this vastness that is our world, that is our life? How many tears equal one smile? How many smiles are hidden tears?

I read through my last post and it’s all about me wanting something, someone. I was frightened about the sheer amount of “wants” in the last post. A person is not something you can want. I was shocked about my own words in the last post because I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve never, ever, said “I have him” of a boyfriend. I’ve always said “I’m with him” and yet only a few days ago I talk about wanting someone and it sounds like I mean an object, a thing, something I could buy in a store if I had enough money. Why was I like this at that moment?

I’ve met someone over the internet who is… special. I don’t mean met in the sense “I’m crushing on him and we’re going to be together” but in the sense of I encountered him on some site and we got talking and we really like each other. As much as two people who live in different countries and have only ever typed things to each other can like each other. Which surprisingly enough can be quite a lot. C is exceptional, to say the least. He’s managed to single-handedly redefine my image of, well, myself. At first I couldn’t believe him. “Send me a picture of yourself, so I can see what you look like” he asked. I did and I couldn’t believe me. “You’re gorgeous!” he exclaimed upon seeing me on his computer screen and again, I thought he must be joking. “No seriously, you look great” C repeated and even though the words on my screen were silent and written, it ringed truthful in my ears. Over the next two weeks we’ve been chatting a lot. More than I’ve ever cared to chat with anybody. And every time he asks me for a picture, I take another one. Every time he says how great I am, a big part of me blushes a lot and I shake my head in disbelief. And still, C has got me thinking. Thinking about how I’ve viewed myself so far. Thinking about how much I’ve believed all those people who have hated me, ignored me, told me I was ugly. “People put you down enough, you start to believe them” says Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman and as Richard Gere compliments her adds “the bad stuff is easier to believe”. Actually, I cannot believe the amount of people who have wished to put me down in life, especially during my school years. Maybe I am truly weak, to still be affected by that at 22, but there it is.
C doesn’t put me down. C lifts me up and gently deposits me on that frail but precious pedestal that is internet affection. I used to think internet friendships were something for geeks and loosers who had no real life but I’ve come to realise that the internet is so ubiquitous, it has lost all stigma in today’s society. The sex and blackmail and violence and love on the net is just as real to us as in the outside world. When C tells me he will miss me if I don’t come online tomorrow, he means it. And when I go to bed thinking of him and his kind ways, it could not be more real.
Ever since I met C, I’ve walked with my head held a little higher. I see now that there are many men out there who have nothing against the way I look, nothing against some serious curves (please note the subtle euphemism). Last time I was in Munich my father kept going on and on about my looks and that I was making it infinitely harder for myself to get a boyfriend/girlfriend looking like I do. I know he is concerned about my health and he is right to be. But he is wrong about my love life being solely destroyed because of my looks. Of course it makes me secretely ask myself what else is wrong with me that I can’t seem to find someone who will be with me, but I don’t have an answer to that right now. Actually, and I don’t care how arrogant this sounds, I think I’m a pretty good catch. I like myself the way I am, overall.

Which doesn’t stop me from wondering: what would it be like if C and I were in the same country? C is married but he is a hungry soul. He’s in a desert of emotional ice and although he pertinently knows this desert has boundaries that can be overcome, the quest for the edge of the desert is a quiet, sometimes barely noticeable torture. His talks with me (and others like me?) soothe the pain for a while. Nevertheless, it amazes me that his wife, though caring, is ensconced in a world of her own, taken up wholly by her own problems. I don’t mean to sound demeaning to her, because god knows I understand about those things, but how can she have forgotten what kind of an amazing husband is starving by her side? Why do we lose track of those we love and why are we too shy to ask back for some of the love that once was promised to us? What are our limits when it comes to love? I can only say what I’ve experienced in my two relationships and I can only talk about myself but this much I know: there were no limits while I loved. I would have gone to the end of the world for Steve and I mean that.

J’aurais été avec toi, jusqu’en Alaska, qu’importe si je ne supporte pas le froid? J’ai trouvé la chaleur, près du feu des projecteurs, loin de toi…

Things happen. People change. People make other people change. Sometimes we start out in one plane of existence and we end up somewhere completely different with a person. Often, we delude ourselves and we deceive those around us. We suffer silently, stoically and for no reason. Sometimes, we don’t seem to suffer enough.
Personally, I don’t believe in much. I have no religion and I don’t miss it. But one thing I do believe in and that’s love. Love, that can bring back in our dreams the dead, the bygones and that can summon up those who are yet to come. Love, that can happen in the unlikeliest circumstances and last forever. Love that is fleeting and only toys with us. If one thing truly makes the world go round, it’s love. It’s Superman reversing the Earth’s orbit for Lois Lane and it’s what killed Ghandi and Martin Luther King and Kurt Cobain. Because hate is just on the other side of the coin that love is on. The hippies got it right, wanting to free love. I have the feeling that today we tend to incarcerate it. We’re too shy and too scared and often too scarred to admit to it. I don’t know why that is but I do know that I just celebrated when Carola got a new boyfriend, because it’s wonderful to know love.

I don’t know many things, all in all and in this universe, but I do know that love is nothing I take for granted. And the life I’m blessed with. I don’t take that for granted either.

Peace

Anna