Just a story won’t do. You’d have turned down Gone With The Wind.

Hiya everybody!

I am just zipping through here to tell you that I’m busy, busy, busy and running around like a headless chicken or that White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. Whichever one you like best.

I am covering films at the Zurich Film Festival for my Swiss internet film portal (www.outnow.ch) and my Hashimoto is acting up. My TSH values are off the charts which is really not good. They are higher right now than when I first went to see my doc and got the diagnosis and my energy is really low. So I’m trying to stick to my guns, do the work I have to do and survive until the 3rd of October, when I get a weekend off at the Schauburg’s 70mm Film Festival in Karlsruhe. It’s not easy and so that’s why I’ve not been blogging a lot lately. Just though I’d let you know.

Now excuse me while I finish building a photoblog for my friend Anna, finish a movie review, do my next ghostwriting assignment and fill out the paperwork for my stay-prolongation in Switzerland. After which I will go cry in a corner and sob over how nobody loves me and never will again and how I’ll die alone without ever having known true love. I swear I hate this Hashimoto-hormones-running-wild crap that I can do nothing about.

Live long and prosper, o ye untouched by thyroidal diseases, peace,

Anna

Oh are you setting up Ross with someone? Does she have a wedding dress?

So here we are, it’s Sunday night and I am exhausted. I spent all day yesterday at my friend Anna’s wedding. I was the official wedding photographer. I took close to 1000 pictures. I was on my feet 11 hours straight. I had to take a cab all the way from Rapperswil to Zurich because I didn’t have the nerve to wait for the train (which I’d just missed at 1:10am) and that unfortunately cost me 172 CHF. I’m getting it back when I get my pay for Saturday, but still I’d rather not have them spent that money on my cab ride. The sum of all this? I’m exhausted.

It was, however, a beautiful wedding and baptism (they had their new baby daughter baptised as well, all in one fell swoop). Very classic, very stylish (gosh these people were all well-dressed!), very dignified with that special Swiss amount of understated fun. Anna’s father is a philharmonic flutist – and, I think, orchestra chef at the Basel Theatre – and he played the flute during the mass. Later in the evening, they had a tango band which played the most wonderful tango music throughout the evening and Anna and Beat had their first dance as a married couple to a tango-waltz hybrid. So that was a little out of the ordinary and it was a really nice touch.

I should be writing a new column and my latest movie review but I am too tired and my brain can’t handle writing something it would have to think through in the first place. Instead, I’m gonna leave you here for tonight, finish my peach juice and then write a post about make-up bases and powders over at Big Diva.

Live long and prosper,

Anna

No one say anything frivolous for the next few moments, I’m having a significant experience.

So, the podcasting thing… didn’t work. I do like talking, but podcasting is kinda weird to me. At least so far. I think I can express myself much better in writing.

And so I’ve got an announcement for all of ladies (and the fellas who happened upon my blog in search of men in corsets, fishnets and feather boas, you know who you are my darlings) who read this blog: I’ve got a make-up blog now! Advice, tricks, how-to’s, the whole shebang! Let’s face it, it had to happen sometime.

So go on over to Big Diva and stock up on those make-up goodies. We will have a lot of fun over there and I’m sure you don’t wanna miss out on it! Link to the side as well.

Live long and beautiful,

Anna

He’s cute with a capital Q!

It figures that I write a post about how love eludes me completely and then I stumble upon a guy who is super duper yowzy yowza extra cute. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if anything’s happening here and I stand by what I wrote earlier. But ohmygosh he is so cute and I’ve gotta tell y’all about it! I’m such a girly-girl. *hangs head in shame*

I recently resumed working at the call centre, which I have really ambiguous feelings about. The job? Hate it. The people in the team? Love them. But this summer I took a rather long break, after the Hashimoto diagnosis and because I was feeling really ill. And then I slapped my vacation time on the back of that and all in all, didn’t work at the call centre for about 2 months. In the meantime, lots of new people have started working there. Mr. Cello is one of them.

He’s 20 (usually a turn-off, but hey, I’m trying not to be ageist here and he’s making it really easy), he plays the cello and studies music here in Zurich. He’s got crazily beautiful blue-brownish eyes and the most gorgeous dark lashes I’ve ever seen. Ever. Really. He’s tall and well built and he’s got hands, oh my, those hands… I think watching him play the cello would be too much for me. His complexion is… sun-kissed and he’s got a sweet little smile. He is the textbook definition of “eye candy”. Like, totally.

We introduced ourselves standing in line for the toilet. Not very romantic – not very anything – but it was funny all the same. He makes an effort to speak high German with me, although he doesn’t have to. But I think he likes it. It’s like he gets to practice it or something. Ever since we’ve met (and that’s about, oh, a week?), he flashes a smile at me every once in a while. And today, he sat across from me. And we had a lot of quiet fun. Quiet fun? Well you see, when you’re on the phone all the time, you speak into your headset, not so much to the people around you. But you do make handsignals and mouth words and make funny faces at each other. So it’s fun, but quiet. Because the people in the headset get and make the noise.

Mr. Cello did a few things that made me think “hmm, is there something going on here?”. First of all, he made sure we exchanged a few words during every break. Then, he asked me if he could have some water from my bottle. In case you’re currently thinking “she is completely delusional”, I’ll say: asking someone to have some of their beverage is highly unusual at the call centre. We share cigarettes, biscuits, pencils, paper, grapes and post-it notes, but in the two years I’ve been working there, not once have I seen anyone share a liquid. Strange, isn’t it? Usually everyone brings their own and those who don’t just go drink from the tap in the toilet. So that’s why it struck me as a little funny. That, and I’m probably also delusional.

Mr. Cello also stared at my tatas a little. I was wearing a top with quite a plunging neckline and my bra peeked out every now and then. Mr. Cello seemed to notice.

I once read an interview with Dita von Teese in which she was asked what a woman could do to seduce a man, before the actual taking-the-clothes-off part. She said every woman should invest in the most beautiful powder compact she could find and then take it out during the date and retrace her lipstick while locking eyes with the beau across from her. Personally, my philosophy is: a lady doesn’t touch up (or heaven forbid, apply!) her make-up in front of a gentleman. Actually, not in front of anybody if she can help it, but good Lord, definitely not in front of a man! I haven’t read or heard that somewhere, it’s just something I practice. I think make-up is an over-exposed expression of self, it’s supposed to sculpt and enhance a face. While wearing it, you are wearing a mask that is perfectly fitted to improve and express yourself. It’s like the theatre masks of ancient Greece. You project a version of yourself when you wear make-up. Putting it on and retouching it in front of, let’s face it, the very people who you are most trying to entice, seduce, lure and sometimes fool with it is just nonsensical. By doing so, you break the spell you’ve had them under, no matter how light that spell was. I really must be a make-up diva if I even have a make-up philosophy I so religious adhere to.

Tonight at the call centre, I came in with some dark raspberry coloured lipgloss and during the hours of talking it wore off a bit and my lips got dry again. While Mr. Cello was still outside, I got my gloss out and just as I was applying it, he came back. He locked eyes with me while sitting down and observed me gently sweeping the sponge applicator over my lips. I put the gloss away, pressed my lips together and resumed working. I looked up from my computer only to find him still staring at my lips. As our eyes locked a second time he seemed to snap out of it, shook his head slightly and smiled. Then we both continued working. And I thought about Dita’s words.

When we finally got out of work, we waited for the tram to come for a long time. We were all dressed too lightly – it has turned really chilly today – especially me. He asked if I wasn’t getting too cold. And then, somehow, somebody said something about hairs growing back in various body places. He said something along the lines of “yeah, men have it tough, they have to shave everyday” and I made a remark about how it was different for men and women, that men looked sexy with a bit of stubble (hey, they do!!) but women with stubble on their legs were not so hot. He said: “but it’s winter, you’re wearing long trousers anyway” and I replied “yes, but one never knows, does one?”. He cocked his head a little, thought about it for two seconds and then said to me: “well, of course if there’s a boyfriend who gets upset at the unshaven legs…”. I simply said “true, but for that, there’d have to be a boyfriend”. And he gave me a very satisfied look.

A few stops later we changed over to the bus and while we were waiting, we continued a rather pleasant conversation. Then a bus came. It was the wrong one for me but he had thought it was the right one and as it came to a stop in front of us Mr. Cello said “well, there’s your bus then” and laid his hand on my shoulder in a half stroke. He touched my shoulder. Maybe it’s because he’s an artist, a musician, maybe it’s because… I don’t know. But SWISS MEN DON’T TOUCH. Not unless they know you really well. When I said I’d decided to take the next bus, I detected a infinitely small, sly grin in the corner of his mouth. I think he felt I’d really just decided to ride the bus with him as long as I could. He seemed to like that. When I got out of the bus, he shouted “I’ll see you tomorrow then!” and I said “sorry, I’m only back on Friday”. He looked a little disappointed.

All in all, this probably means nothing at all. It has happened many times before that Swiss men have acted in ways that I thought very obviously flirtatious and it turned out they were just being nice. This is probably no different, except that he is unbelievably cute and he is smart. But, just like any other Swiss man, he is also inscrutable, at least so far. All the things I’ve listed above are a little unusual behaviour for a Swiss but then again, it’s very likely I’m delusional because he is just so darn cute.

Swiss men are just strange. Usually they are very friendly but refrain from giving any signals. Basically, they don’t really communicate their intentions until the very last moment, where they almost fall to their knees, pledging their love to you. And then you can’t get rid of them. You’ve got to say this for them: they are not commitment-phobic. I have never seen a nation where so many people are in relationships that last for years on end. They take a hell of a long time to get there but once they’ve arrived, they don’t give up, they don’t let up.

Anyhoo, I just felt like sharing my impressions of Mr. Cello with you tonight. I hope I didn’t bore you too much. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go watch Vaughn kill his bitch of a wife Lauren Reed and get back together with Sydney Bristow. There’s nothing like Alias if you need a substitute for your real-world eye candy.

Live long and prosper,

Anna

ps: did I mention he is cute?

pps: look up “cute” in the dictionary, there’s Mr. Cello’s picture next to it!

ppps: I swear, I usually try characterising men in more differentiated ways than “cute” but he is just that. Cute. Cute, cute, cute, cute, cute, cute, cute. Cute.

pppps: with a capital Q!

Some things end, some things begin and some things never change.

His name was Josef. He was my best friend in the world and my first real love. Him confiding in me that he liked a certain Jasmine was the first bruise love ever left on my heart. I can still feel that little scar deep inside my bosom.

Many years ago, in a childhood I’d call happy and fulfilling for the most part, we used to go to my grandparents’ house in the country. In my mind, we were there almost every weekend. My parents tell me that’s not quite accurate but I would have wished it to be.

The times I spent there are amongst the most precious of my life. I was outside all day long, climbing rocks, exploring old castle ruins, tumbling down grassy hills. Josef was my partner in every crime. I saw him more than I saw my parents whenever we were in that blessed little Bavarian village, Hütting. He lived on a real farm, with cows and pigs and bunnies in wooden cages next to the dungheap. There was a small barn next to the pigs’ shed. Downstairs they kept firewood but upstairs was a part of our kingdom. There were two and a half rooms with creaky, dirty floorboards that barely held together and we had carted an inordinate amount of discarded objects up there. Old pots and pans, broken forks, dishtowels full of holes. We even had an old wooden sledge and a turn-of-the-century, rusting tin bathtub. We loved mixing mud, water, grass and grains into a slimy glop and pretend we were making dinner. I remember there was always much dissent over who should eat it and we usually ended up trying to throw big handfuls of it at one another. I also remember that although we were playing house, I was never the typical housewife. Half of the time, Josef made dinner. When he got fed up with me because I always sent him on errands, he’d trick me into going into the backroom, then swiftly run out the door and close the latch. I had no way of getting out because getting out would have meant shrinking to the size of a mouse and escaping through the holes in the roof, but I never minded. I trusted he would come back for me when he got bored all by himself, and he always did. Whenever he did that, I’d climb into the tin bathtub, look at the sky through the holes above me and daydream or make up stories. Sometimes it’d take an hour or even two but eventually Josef was always back for me and then he’d burst in the door, wrestle with me and tickle me.  Then the two of us would rumble down the steep stairs and end up, panting and laughing, outside.

I was never a shy child. And I knew from a very early age on what love was. Not family love but people-love. Heck, my first day in kindergarten (I was two), I caused a sex scandal because I just went up to a little boy I thought was cute and kissed him. He’d starting crying because he was scared and my parents were called.

So I knew what attraction was. But with Josef, things were different. They were better. He was my best friend, first and foremost. I always felt completely free with him. I didn’t have to pretend I was a good little girl, like I had to in school. I didn’t have to explain what I meant, because he knew. What I didn’t know about, like making slides out of cardboard or feeding cows, he taught me. And what he didn’t know about, like how to say “hello my name is” in French and English or how a metro works, he let me teach him.

However, I do think I always liked him, romantically. I didn’t label it that way when I was a child but the feeling of it was unmistakeably there. I had butterflies every time I went to his house in the mornings and rang the bell, asking if he would like to come out and play, to which he of course always said yes. When we fooled around on the swings he always pretended I was Jane and he was Cheetah. I remember that the first time we played that, a pang went through my heart because he hadn’t chosen to be Tarzan.

I was in love with Josef and it was more than puppy-love, although it was also puppy-love. I loved him because there were no boundaries between us. We were very different individuals but we shared an incredibly unique unity. Yet I always knew, deep down, there would come a day when that would change. And it did. Sometime between my 11th and 12th birthday, things changed. My stays in Hütting became less and less until they finally stopped completely. We were both in highschool at that point and had far less time and far more worries. Life was life and we lost sight of each other.

Years later, I tried writing him a letter. He never replied. In 2005, I wrote him yet another letter, which also went unanswered. Since then, he appears in my dreams quite often. At first they saddened me because they reminded me of how we never spoke anymore, let alone got to race snails by baiting them with lettuce. Now, I’ve gotten used to them.

Googling him never occured to me. Until today. I can’t really say why it only dawned on me today I could do that but that’s the way it is. So I googled him and sure enough, I found him. He’s leading the life I always knew he was destined to (and that’s why I knew we would never be together, even as a little girl). He’s a civil servant, has a blonde, bespectacled girlfriend who is studying at the local university to become a teacher and his hobbies include dancing. The only remnant of my, possible, influence on him? He’s a civil servant who deals with foreigners’ queries.

And it’s so ironic that for years, I have had the hots for actor Michael Vartan. Josef grown up looks just like him.

Life never seems to turn out the way you would wish it to turn out. At least not for me and not so far. That’s why I don’t make detailed plans. I have general goals, big goals, that I want to achieve in life but the way to them remains a complete mystery, subject to many changes and deviations. I like it this way. To me, living life this way, this incomplete and sometimes haphazard way, means I remain open. I need to remain open to the world around me, to all the changes, moods, crises and other happenings that shape our daily lives and our little universe, because my job is to report back. To translate and inform. To give and touch and receive and be touched equally.

But for all my joyful independence, my passion for my work, my love for my friends and family, I still miss something. And that is love. The kind of love I shared with Josef, even though we never spoke of it and never will. I feel like right now, more than ever, having the privilege to be with someone with whom I could be completely myself is what I’m missing. And I’m saying that not because I think he/she is around the corner. I’m saying that thinking they might not ever be around any corner in my world.

Every friendship has limits and often, we do our best to stretch them and it works. Love, however, is maybe the only human emotion that sometimes can have no limits. I hope to find that one day. Or be found by it. But right now, I’m not holding my breath. It’s strange how I feel so much a part of this world these days and simultaneously, so much removed from it because it seems like no one I encounter can truly relate to me, fully. I feel like an alien, a shape-shifter who appears human but is in fact a completely different entity. And though precisely this might get me where I want to be in other respects, I fear that there might not be another shape-shifter like me on this beautiful planet.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

ps: I haven’t written these past days because my little brother came to visit. More about that maybe at a later date. In the meantime, enjoy this wonderful song by the ever-amazing Alanis. At least, I can relate to her.

It enables me to be superior to myself. There’s nothing to be gained by just looking pretty like Isabella. Every beauty mark must conceal a thought and every curl must be full of humour, as well as brilliantine.

My participation in my journalism school’s 24h teaching marathon yesternight has majorly screwed with my sleeping rhythm.

So what did I do tonight after dinner? I didn’t go out with friends, although I could have. But truth be told, when I found myself doing the dishes and thinking “actually, tonight I’d really rather be doing this than going out”, I realised that if I really were to go out, it wouldn’t be much fun. It’s also very expensive to spend a night on the town in Zurich and I just didn’t feel like spending money today. Add that to actually having to finish unpacking, tidying and feeling tired from the night before and you’ve got yourself a movie night. At least I did. I watched Marnie by good ol’ Alfred Hitchcock. I was very shocked and surprised by many things that are not typically Hitchcockian. And I really don’t think that Sean Connery is as miscast in it as everybody always says. Sure, his Scottish accent comes through all the time. But he plays the character exceedingly well and can truly be called a genuine Hitchcock leading man.

But I’m not about to go on a diatribe about Marnie. No, I’m gonna tell you what I did next. I went crazy, is what I did. Remember that post I wrote after coming back from France? TJ said she didn’t know I was a make-up diva and I loved that sweet remark. Tonight, I have conclusively proved I am a make-up diva. A very, very crazy and deranged make-up diva. Let’s see the evidence, shall we?

Okay, so this is the look I went for. Forties/fifties style hair and evening make-up. Since I am a wildchild and love colours, I completely disregarded the “only eyes OR lips” rule and made them both pop. Besides, I think that a black eyeliner cat eye look is probably one of the only looks where you can indeed also colour the lips brightly and still have it look good. Oh yeah, and I’m not naked, in case you were wondering. I’m just wearing my strapless black dress. Sorry to burst your bubble fellas. Not.

This was to introduce you to the look. From now on, it’s gonna get a little more deranged.

I’m easing you into this. This is me thinking “look soft and sweet”. I think I managed somewhat. Any softer and you could call me a snuffly blanket.

Insert your favourite Hitchcock-heroine-in-distress quote here. God I love Hitchcock.

Oh my! Well I never! He did what?! Is that a naked man? Oh my goodness gracious!

I can read your every thought… Please note the “an irrepressible genius, an unforgettable story” tagline on the poster behind me. That’s important. Now you know who you’re looking at. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe. I love that Charlie Chaplin documentary poster. Someone very dear to me stole it from the NFT in London five years ago for yours truly. My, how time flies by…

I had to look like this. There was a facehugger coming at me from inside my camera. Can you tell I shot those late at night under the influence of a movie? No? Good, phooey.

I figured that while I had eyeliner on, I might as well go for the Marilyn bedroom eyes. And I failed miserably. But hey, at least you got a laugh out of it, right? Wanna know the really sad thing about all this though? I never plan on taking pics in the end. I do the look just for fun and then I love it all so much I wanna document it for posterity. And then I snap and go blog about it.

That’s Anna for ya. Anna Nicole. I find it frightening how easy it was to look this wasted. If I can do this completely sober, I think it’s best not to go trying to find out what I do under the influence. Let’s quickly move on to something, if equally weird, a little cuter, shall we?

I kinda like this one, in a strange, inexplicable way. I look a bit like a weird, gussied-up ingénue, don’t I?

Ooh wait, I think I found one that might get me a step closer to the Marilyn bedroom eyes!

What say you? I say, I think the more colour I put on my lips, the more asymmetrical they appear. They’re not, actually, but they look it. Strange… Lipsticks work in mysterious ways…

Pfff…. I give up! I’m fed up! I look up. Gosh, I’m hilarious.

I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse. You stop calling me Droopy-Eye McCrooked-Lips and I’ll let you live.

If you’ve made it to the end of this post, I commend you and applaud you for it. Really. Good night and good luck!

Kisses…

… my darlings.

German philosophy is easy. Comedy’s hard.

Hey everybody!

I’m finally done with my movie review and that makes me very happy. Not everything a journalist gets to write is pleasant. Actually, I find the more unpleasant the research, the more having to write about what you had to research sucks.

Anyway, I’m here to bring you some more Dylan Moran! Seeing as the last one I posted actually elicited a comment from beloved father, I figure this next one will go over well too. What can I say, I’m a daddy’s girl. I really am. I was so shocked and happy to see that my father commented, that now I’ll apparently do anything to get that again. Though knowing him, he might not comment again precisely because now I’ve said all that.

But I love my daddy and so here’s some more Dylan Moran (to be honest, I had meant to post that one along with the first clip, but then I realised how long it takes to transcribe three minutes of a stand-up routine and gave up). This time, he talks about Germany. Yikes!

DM: But this idea of the good life being elsewhere does possess people. And I suppose a lot of people now, because Europe is freed up and everything, people move within Germany. A lot of… within Europe rather. I said Germany, but I meant Europe. I don’t know why I said Germany. But loads of people go to Germany, actually. Recently, for the World Cup. Lot of English people went over to make uninformed, prejudicial remarks about German people. And Germany. Totally ignorant and bigoted! Know nothing about it but they feel free to insult it. Because they’re English and they’re bigoted. And because Germany is a toilet. A truly dreadful place! Nobody ever has any reason to go there, it is a totally dreadful place. And that’s just the way it is because if you’re talking to, you know, a modern… I went there! On the same weekend I went to Australia and California, and it’s uh… You see the thing is, you’re talking to a modern, nice, affable German person. And they’re saying to you something like: “you know, well, it’s a critical time now for Germany within Europe also locally, economically, pretty good, we have been better but we’re very vibrant in the theatre and arts” and so on. All the time you’re listening to this, you’re thinking: “mmm, yeah, yeah, mmm, Hitler, Hitler, Hitler, Hitler…”. “There’s the Hitler, when you did the Hitler thing with Hitler!” “Hitler, booofffz, Hitler, Hitler!” And the people look like pork. You can’t get away from that. They do, they look like pork scratchings on a towel and you can’t eat the food because you would have to complain about it and that would mean speaking German. It’s a disgusting language, nobody should ever speak it. Even Hitler was a vegetarian, that’s how bad the food is. You couldn’t speak German ’cause it’s a horrible sound. It sounds like typewriters eating tin foil while being kicked down stairs. Somebody is talking to you in German and they say “hachen li kiekele hachen shoo hach! Jehe!” and you think what is happening to you from behind, how can we make it stop? Please go away. No that’s not prejudiced, that’s just observation. And the thing is English people are very bigoted though, I find. I say that as a neutral Irish person. You know, Ireland wasn’t involved in the war at all! Ireland’s reaction in the war was to go: “What? There’s a what on? Sorry what? I’m not dressed! What is it, what? You want to what? We need, you need to, what?? What is a…? What? Oh! It’s a war, a war! Oh it’s over, is it? Oh we’ll go, what, what you want?” And uh… not very useful. But English people are quite prejudiced, I think. Because I’ve noticed this recently because I have lots of English friends who are very dear to me and… I realised recently, when you’re talking to an English person and you’re from elsewhere, they share with you. They do a lovely thing when they’re talking to you. They impersonate you as they’re talking to you. Somebody says to me: “Do you want another drink then?”, you know in that English voice that suggests they’re just about to die at any moment. “Do you want another drink?” “I would, I’d love another drink, that’d be great, that’d be grand, thank you.” They do you! They go: “Oh would yer? That’d be great, that’d be grand, that’d be lovely”. What the fuck are you doing??!!

Hope you enjoyed it, I’m going to make myself some dinner now!

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

You know, I have a theory that hieroglyphics are just an ancient comic strip about a character called Sphinxy.

So… I thought I wasn’t going to write for a few more days, but here I am again.

I’m half done with preparing a crash course in hieroglyphics for tomorrow night and I feel pretty good about myself because of that. All that’s left to do now is write it up all neat and tidy, make a few photocopies and an overhead transparency and I’ll be done. Which leaves me, as of right now, more or less free to do something else.

The truth is: I’m putting off writing my newest film review. I have to give it in on Saturday and I will, of course, but I just really don’t feel like writing it right now. The film was so bad that I broke my rule of not watching any new films until the review is done and went to see The Mummy III, just to get rid of the awful aftertaste of the press screening. Unfortunately, whenever I have to write something specific, with a set date and all, my mind starts writing other things, that it would rather write.

So basically, I’ve got my next two film columns (at least) figured out, I’ve got a short story, two poems and an article for my student newspaper all madly swirling around in my head. Yup, that’s me. I can’t seem to ever help it. When I’m in the pre-writing phase, the words and sentences form in my head, float around, exchange places, morph into more interesting expressions, get discarded again, are replaced, rebuilt, renewed. Until I finally can’t take it any longer and nothing else I do can keep my mind from going back to that pool of letters and punctuation marks and I not only dip my quill in it, but immerse myself in it completely. Then I am writing and the words spill onto the page and suddenly, all the literary sandcastles I’ve built before are swept away by the tide of craft. My fantastical word creations are forced to face reality and what I am doing is no longer dreaming up the sword but forging it with blood and sweat and tears. The words who flitted freely in the sweet air of my imagination become subjected to a gravitational pull and conform to the laws of urgency and effectiveness.

Mainly I am lucky and the results of this process are wonderful. I am, more often than not, blessed to be able to come up with texts that are both steadfast from the craft point of view as well as agreeable to read. At least that’s what I tell myself

Anyhoo, I can’t see hieroglyphics anymore for today and so the question is: what do I do next? I desperately want to go see Wanted, which is opening today. Then again, I’m wearing really comfy clothes and my hair is slowly getting too greasy to show it outside the house and I’ve got a couple of films I could watch on DVD. So going to the theatre would mean taking a shower, putting on some other set of clothes and then journeying to the Abaton. Ugh… But then again, I could do with some fresh night air. Somebody help me decide!!

Speaking of the Abaton, I was there last night and nobody I knew was there. Except my friend Stefan’s wife, who pretended not to see me. That’s right, you read correctly. I met him in 2005 at a film festival and we’ve gotten along great ever since. We appreciate each other’s company, we always have a good laugh and tease each other incessantly. Then he introduced me to his wife. She smiled and was extremely delightful that first time I saw her. After that, she got insanely jealous of me. I say insanely, because it is absolutely insane to be jealous of me regarding her husband. I like the man, sure, but not in that way. I think that is abundantly clear, since we never see each other outside of the cinema (guess why), even if it does, occasionally but not often, happen that we spend a few hours together at his workplace. When I first moved to Zurich, Stefan was a dear. He helped me overcome my first serious jolt of homesickness and I am still very grateful for that. In the beginning, he would say things like: “if you want, you could come over to dinner sometime” or “if you’re troubled by the sockets in your appartment, I can help you fix them and rewire some of your appliances”. I used to say: “as soon as I’ve got my own place, I’m inviting you and Mrs Stefan to dinner”. We never got around to any of that, seeing as Mrs Stefan’s smile always turned into a frown whenever she saw me.

Stefan knows about this, he was even the one who brought it up first (and saved me some embarassment, I wouldn’t have mentioned it myself I think) when the signs of her dislike became too obvious. He said “yeah, she’s not very good at hiding it when she dislikes someone, I’ve tried to make that better, but I haven’t really succeeded so far”. I have no idea why she is so jealous. I don’t want anything from her husband, never have and never will. He wants even less from me than I want from him, romantically speaking. He loves her very much, which is quite obvious to anyone who hears him talking about her. But he and I do have a right to see each other as friends. I actually asked him once, if it was okay if I still came. He told me of course. He said that simply because she didn’t like me, didn’t mean he had to feel the same way and that he is a free man, free to choose his friends.

Since then, I’ve been avoiding Mrs Stefan, because I don’t want to add anything to her negative impression of me. On the contrary, I always ask Stefan if she is doing alright with her two jobs and if everything is fine, if she’s still happy with her newest job. Stefan and I don’t hang out or even say hello whenever they happen to have a shift together. But last night, I was really a bit… amusedly offended.

She was tending to the cinema I was in and during the break (I am going to shoot whoever invented that for Swiss movie-watching), I was standing around outside when I saw a female coming towards me. All I could make out from that distance was that she was blonde. I’m a bit shortsighted, so I couldn’t make out her face at first. But she kept coming towards me and I realised it was Mrs Stefan. She, in turn, realised it was me. Actually, it would have been too late to turn around now. The polite thing to do would have been to keep walking, say (or at least nod, Christ!) hello and walk on. But she didn’t. As she realised who I was, panic briefly flickered over her face, then it turned stone-cold and, without batting an eyelash, she turned on her heels and walked back to whence she had come. In a hurry.

I stood there a bit bewildered and a bit offended at the same time. Finally I decided just to laugh it off. I’m not the one who’s doing anything wrong and if she chooses to behave like that, so be it. I just don’t understand jealousy. I understand coveting something or even someone. But not jealousy, I really don’t get it. I have never been jealous and I’ve never given any of my partners reason to be jealous. Or any of my friends. I think it’s an ugly character trait not only because it makes you quite disagreeable to others, but because it also makes you yourself miserable.

Anyhow, Wanted or not Wanted tonight? I have about twenty more minutes to make my mind up… Rrrarrgh!

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna