Storyselling

It's as easy as that: Obama has an inspiring narrative. Clinton has not.
Fore more details (on the present state, not necessarily on narratives): look here at the NY Times.

On Beck and the left-handed child

German politics are like kindergarten these days:
"Don't play with that obnoxious kid!" - "You said you wouldn't play with him!" - "Look, he wants to play with that eerie kid!" - "You are a cheater!" - "Bah!" And so on.

What has actually happened? A new kid joined the crowd, left-handed and of doubtful upbringings, and everyone's trying to redline him and hopes that he'll just go away again. But this kid is here to stay. So, live with it. Bitching around and mobbing won't do. After all, this isn't kindergarten anymore. At least it's not supposed to be.

The only really arguable thing about this matter is the premature determination all the other kids displayed when they first heard that someone new would be joining their playground. Now one of them is losing his face, apparently, and all the others yell at him. And he well deserves a beating - for showing the wrong determination at the wrong time in the wrong place. But not for trying to make the best out of the situation now at hand. Reality won't go away if you just ignore it or scream at it long enough - although you might get the impression that this is exactly the way German politics work: If you can't beat it, ignore it.
And never mind the people who put the new kid in there, i.e. the voters or the voter's will. They obviously are wrong, but too stupid to tell, so they must be told. And there goes the whole hullabaloo again.

The child Beck might get a beating. But at least he's trying to change his approach to reality for once. That's more than the rest of the crowd seems to be capable of.

"But he may not use my toys!" *Sigh.*

Rice in China

I kind of like this news. Rice is in China. Who would have thought of that?

TMB (XV): A Short History of Everything (II)

Again, I sat on the kitchen table, this time with had a glass, filled with a good shot of amber-coloured liquid.

They had killed Koesthler. That was the only way they could know about me.

They had followed me around. That was the only way they could know about Mr. X.

They had my girlfriend and were using her to pressure me.

They did not have my girlfriend. But they knew about her. They must have observed me, and tried to make me believe they had her, to pressure me.

What did they want? Well, Mr. X for sure. They wanted me to continue what I was doing. They wanted the information on Speyar to be found, by me. So they were not working for Speyar.

Or they were working for Speyar, and were trying to locate possible leaks, and I was supposed to find them for them.

Or they were agents of any of the other firms in the weapons industry, about which we'd delivered Mr. X with information.

How much did they know about me? How long had they been following me?

Our business worked on the premise of inconspicuousness. That was dead beat now. No way to re-establish it with those brutes on my heels.

They hadn't told me what they wanted actually. So they were counting on me to deliver it anyway, inevitably. I didn't even know myself what I was supposed to deliver. They were one step ahead of me.

Correction: I knew what I was supposed to deliver, at least to Mr. X. But I didn't know how to, at least since Mr. Koesthler's untimely death.

Whatever it was they wanted from me, it had nothing to do with Speyar. They could have roasted Koesthler themselves. I was sure they were capable of this. Very professional charisma. They would do whatever was necessary.

So they wanted me to find out something or someone they weren't able to find out themselves. Or they were aiming at Mr. X – but why kill Koesthler, when they knew of me anyway? Why not let me get the information of his and lead them to Mr. X right away?

Except they'd only learned of me from Koesthler. But why kill him?

I didn't know. But there was a picture beginning to form in my mind. I supported it by a good dram of whisky.

Finally, I did what I should have done long ago. I phoned the directory inquiries.

Gier vs. staatsbürgerliche Gesinnung

Gelesen und gefunden in der ZEIT, für gut befunden - weshalb ich hier zitieren möchte. Dank an Martin Dupick für seine Gedanken, und auch auf den Artikel selbst sei der Vollständigkeit halber verwiesen.

...

Herr Zummwinkel ist der Versuchung zu betrügen erlegen, das passiert Menschen aller sozialen Schichten täglich. Als Beispiel sei neben dem Steuer- der Sozialhilfebetrug genannt, in beiden Fällen wird der anonyme Staat bestohlen. Fakt aber ist, dass der anonyme Staat von uns allen gebildet wird. Die Hand eines Herrn Zumwinkel oder eines Sozialhilfebetrügers geht in unser aller Taschen. Unsere soziale Gemeinschaften wird zum einen durch das Gesetz und zum anderen durch unsere staatsbürgerliche Gesinnung geschützt.

Ein integerer Staatsbürger würde seine Gesinnung in etwa so formulieren:

Der Staat, das sind wir alle. Wir zahlen Steuern um Sachen zu bezahlen, die wir alle brauchen und benutzen, Sachen die sich keiner alleine leisten könnte; Polizei, Schulen, Gerichte etc. Je mehr jemand hat, desto mehr soll er geben, das nennen wir Solidarität. Je mehr jemand bekommt, desto bescheidener soll er werden, das nennen wir Dankbarkeit.

Ein verrotteter Staatsbürger denkt in etwa so:

Der Staat, das sind die anderen. Die zahlen Steuern um Sachen zu bezahlen, die ich brauche und benutze, Sachen die ich mir nicht leisten könnte; Polizei, Schulen, Gerichte, etc. Je mehr jemand hat, desto mehr kann er mir geben, das nenne ich Gerechtigkeit. Je mehr ich mir nehme, desto mehr will ich haben, das nenne ich Vernunft.

Steinbrück beklagt völlig zu recht, dass das staatsbürgerliche Bewußtsein der Deutschen ein wenig mehr Integrität vertragen könnte. Menschen wie Zumwinkel verdienen Mißachtung. Trotz seiner beachtlichen Lebensleistung kann da kein Funke Respekt verbleiben. Es ist völlig egal, ob Steuerhinterziehung legal oder trickreich ist, sie ist zutiefst unsolidarisch. Einem darf aber nicht weniger schlecht werden, wenn man die Linke und deren abstoßende Wählerschaft erblickt, der es zur Gänze an Dankbarkeit fehlt. Ethisch sitzt der Anhang der Linken mit Zumwinkel und Konsorten in einem Boot; auf der einen Seite die Starken, die nichts geben wollen, und auf der anderen Seite die Schwachen, die den Starken nichts lassen wollen; keine Solidarität hier, keine Dankbarkeit dort, Gier auf beiden Seiten.

[Martin Dupick, Kommentar auf ZEIT online]

TMB XIV: Visit from the Zoo

"I don't know what you're speaking of."

That was a threadbare elusion, but I couldn't think of anything else. Simply the fact that he knew the names, Arthur Koesthlers as well as Mr. X's codename, showed that he wasn't guessing in thin air. I hoped he would talk on. Didn't know what to make of this.

He seemed to enjoy my puzzlement. On his face, something resembling a fine smile seemed to substitute the gloomy expression. He hadn't blinked for a single time yet.

"Arthur Koesthler: Working for the Speyar company for thirty years. Nineteen years in development, eleven years in the sales department. Fired half a year ago. Had an appointment with you tomorrow. Unfortunately isn't in shape to attend."

The monologue pleased him. He was beaming like a schoolboy reciting the basics in front of the class.

"Mr. X: The dark mystery man, but not so mysterious anymore. He's a client of your firm. You deliver him. Koesthler was supposed to be your source. Now that source has run dry. You're in trouble."

"How'd you find out where I live?" I asked.

His smile grew even broader.

"We have our methods, just as you have yours", he answered. "This visit of mine, or should I say us, is just an informal get-together."

Over in the shades, a couple of gorillas moved into view. They'd stood still like statues. Hadn't had the slightest idea they'd been there. Must even have stopped breathing. Deep-sea divers, without a doubt. Dark suits, bulging under their armpits. They were only lacking sunglasses.

"Your gorillas lack sunglasses", I told the cool guy on my sofa. "And you lack the right contact. I got no idea what you're talking about. Sounds like some scary Scotland Yard to me." This said, I reached for the whisky bottle on the cupboard.

"You're lacking something as well", the bloke said. "Been sitting here for a long time yesterday night. Been quite surprised yesterday afternoon, hmm?"

I could imagine what the guy was aiming at. Yet I couldn't believe my ears.

"We'll meet again. Keep a low profile. Do your work. And better do it well."

"I can't sleep. People come into my apartment and keep me awake", I said.

"Sorrow and pain can do that as well", he told me. He nodded to his menagerie, than moved towards the door.

Out if a sudden, I leaped for him. Tried to catch him on the wrist. His gorillas must have waited for something like that. Before I could even touch him, a hard blow felled me. An axe split my head. With a loud crash, I slumped on the floor.

He didn't even say anything, just shot me another of his dark gazes, then opened the door and stepped out, his apes right behind. One of them was putting away the gun he'd used to crush my skull.

The door closed, and I was alone. Trying not to touch anywhere those guys had touched, I crept into the kitchen to the bottle of whisky.

The clock read half past one.

This was one of those nights.

Heading East

Beautiful stories. Beautiful pictures. Great blog.

TMB XIII: Breaking and Entering

Arthur Koesthler would be buried someday next week. He'd died of a heart attack. That's what the autopsy report stated. Had worked for a major weapon manufacturing company all his life, until at age 52 he was "released" from work by one of the management hotshots running the firm. He was looking for new work, but naturally didn't come across any. We had come into contact, arranged for a meeting, and he'd succumbed to ill health. Had died in his hotel room three days ago, all doors closed, all locks intact, no fingerprints other than his own, no visitors, no nothing. Or so the story went.

He'd had a troublesome life eventually, but he'd left these troubles behind. On the other hand, with his death my troubles were only starting.

In a way, smoking was like bicycling or swimming: you never really forgot how to do it once you'd gotten the hang of it. Could quit smoking for years (or bicycling for that matter), and one day return and take up just where you'd let off. In other words, the pack of cigarettes lasted me for about three hours. My conscious self lasted about half an hour longer. That was when I decided it was about time to go home.

Usually, I'm a careful and considerate guy, paying attention to details. Tonight, I wasn't – drinking always brought another type of my personality in the foreground, the one sporting reckless abandon and cunning funkiness, or so I thought. Thus, I covered the distance to my home in a cheerful mood, not wasting a thought on my quandary, but savouring the very last cigarette and the fresh, moist night air. I unlocked the door, took up a day's worth of free newspapers and junk mail, and headed up the stairs. I dropped the lot right on the side table next to the door, went straight to the kitchen, and retrieved a chilled bottle of beer for good measure. I removed the crown cap and took a sip. Then I noticed that something was wrong.

That something could be easily traced to the man seated on my sofa. Above average height, rather muscular frame, wore a dark suit, dark shoes looking more expensive than my entire furniture, and a dark look – the last one on his face. I froze in my tracks, then leaned on the door frame. He eyed me, silently. He seemed at ease with himself and the world. The dark look of his just served to underline that appearance.

I did a quick mental check: the lock on the door had been intact. The door itself had been closed. The air in the room was as stale as always after a long day out – so no broken windows. Of course, he could have applied some more subtle methods of breaking and entering, but I couldn't tell. As far as I knew, he could've been in here all day long. Would explain his vibrancy. Of course, I could always ask.

Had he wanted to kill me, I'd already been dead. So I decided I could just as well take another sip of my beer and try to disentangle the situation.

"Care for a beer?", I asked. That elicited no discernible response.

"How'd you come in?"

He still fixated on my eyes, but now his mouth started moving. We were making progress.

"Arthur Koesthler", he said. "Mr. X." Then continued to watch me closely.

The rest of my beer I downed in a go. My inner turmoil I kept to myself.

Camus, Chandler, Miller und die eine Stimme

Es war an der Zeit, den Dingen einmal wieder eine andere Wendung zu geben. Im alltäglichen Klein-Klein hatte ich die größere Perspektive aus den Augen verloren. Ich tappte im Dunkeln wie ein Bergmann ohne Brille. Allein mit meinem Kanarienvogel, der im Schatten leise vor sich hin sang. Überflüssig zu erwähnen, dass es sich dabei natürlich um meine Geistmaschine handelte.

Camus hatte das für mich getan. Er schrieb nicht besonders. Aber er hatte Gedanken, die denen glichen, die ich die meinen nannte, und er hatte sie elaboriert und geputzt und geschmückt, und sie glänzten fein und sie gingen mir nahe. Ich erkannte mich selbst wieder, so wie jeder sich selbst wiedererkennen sollte in den Schriften eines Autors, wenn diese wahrhaftig sind – wie ich mich in Henry Miller wiederfinden konnte, oder in Raymond Chandler, was das anging. Nun, in den letzten Stunden des vorigen und den ersten Stunden dieses Tages hatte ich mich jedenfalls in Camus' Schriften wiedergefunden. Und das tat gut.

Er hatte es eingefangen, auf seine Weise. Das Leben, die Absurdität und anscheinende Sinnlosigkeit des Lebens, und darin aufzeigend die ganze Herrlichkeit der Schöpfung, Amen und Hallelujah. Camus war ein Schluck kühles Wasser nach einer Wüstenetappe, oder ein Glas kaltes Bier im Garten an einem heißen Sommertag, während der Blick über den Bodensee zu den schneekalten Alpen hinüberging. Der See war wichtig. Er komplettierte das Panorama – mein eigenes, ganz privates Panorama auf Camus. "Licht und Schatten", das auch eines meiner Themen (die Unendlichkeit des Lichts, besonders des mediterranen; das Geheimnis des Schattens; und die Bedingtheit zwischen den beiden), und ein passender Titel für seine Meditationen über die Existenz, geborgen in verschiedenen Gewändern, doch in der Essenz immer um die wichtigen, die wahren Fragen kreisend. (Gab es Antworten? Oder, anders gefragt: brauchte man überhaupt Antworten auf diese Fragen? Waren nicht die Fragen selbst genug?)

Die Antworten waren immer die gleichen. Es waren immer jene Antworten, die ein Mensch nur im Inneren seines Herzens finden konnte, im Kern seiner eigenen, seltsamen Existenz. Camus half ihm, die richtigen Fragen zu stellen. Die Antworten musste man selbst "gehen", den Weg zu ihnen auf eigene Faust zurücklegen. Camus und ich, wir verstanden uns gut. Es war mal eine andere Angelegenheit als mit Chandler, der immer einen auf dicke Hose machte, so angenehm er mir als Schreibender auch war und so sehr ich ihn verehrte und achtete. Ich war mir sicher, auch Chandler trieben die gleichen, die ewigen Fragen um – nur seine Antworten waren natürlich andere. Es war wichtig, die Fragen zu kennen – und sich zu vergegenwärtigen, wie reich das Leben an Möglichkeiten zu ihrer "Beantwortung" war. (Die Anführungszeichen aus folgendem Grund: weil die "Beantwortung" kein fester Fels, sondern nur ein sich immer wandelnder Prozess sein konnte, eine fortwährende asymptotische Annäherung. Annäherung an was? Nun, an uns selbst natürlich.)

Camus tat noch etwas anderes für mich: Er gab mir einen Teil meiner Stimme wieder. Vor dem Beginn des "Hard-Boiled", in einer Zeit, die mir so weit zurückzuliegen schien wie das Mittelalter, hatte ich mich einer anderen Sprache bedient. Einer leichteren, schwebenderen Sprache, doch auf ihre Weise nicht weniger nahrhaft als die "coole" Herangehensweise Chandlers. Ich hatte einiges geschrieben in dieser Sprache, und ich hatte einiges gedacht in jener Art zu denken, die mit dieser Sprache einherging. Camus dachte ebenso. Das war eine schöne Entdeckung. Ein Partner im Geiste, über die Zeit hinweg. Gut, ich mochte meinen zusätzlichen (oder gar bestimmenden) Einschlag Henry Millers haben, der meiner Version der ewigen Sprache eine gehörige Portion Ekstase hinzufügte, wie eine Lanze Licht, die durch dämmriges Dunkel schnitt wie ein heißes Messer durch irische Butter, und natürlich war nichts jemals gleich – nur verschiedene Ausprägungen des eigentlich Unerreichbaren -, und doch tat Camus mir gut. Wollten wir uns also Sisyphos als einen glücklichen Menschen vorstellen – er hatte seine Aufgabe. Camus wiederum half mir, der meinen wieder näher zu treten.

TMB (XII): From One Joint To The Next

Were a couple of drinks we eventually downed. But what could you do – we just got carried away. Sometimes I wondered how a bunch of happy drunks could run an organisation like ours and yet succeed in doing so. Only, of course, until I remembered that most of the guys had an iron frame, fist and constitution right underneath that happy-drunk-appearance. And literally so.

I wasn't one of the iron-fisted. I was on board for my brains, or so I told myself. Could also have been the sheer luck I sported from time to time. If so, luck had deserted me recently.

When I left the office, the stars had already come out. They shone across the sky with a dignified standoffishness. Even scared the moon off. Well, perhaps he'd show his face later. Perhaps not. I had different things on my mind, I decided.

It was too late to believably get a taxi to the industrial area, so I walked for two miles to the rim of the suburbs and then called a cab from my mobile. I could have asked one of the guys to take me that far in one of their cars, but it hadn't appeared to me. Just like it hadn't appeared to me to ask Judy another time for the fucking telephone number. I was just about to dial her up when the taxi arrived. So I skipped the call for the time being and stepped in and stated my address. On second thoughts, I shouldn't have done so. Should have stated my usual next-block-street. Just to be on the safe side. But I was tired. It had been a long night, and it had been a long day. I was as tired as some bear, awakened from hibernation three months ahead of the schedule. That's what I felt like: as if I was trapped in the wrong existence, some other life, some other time, feeling perfectly like my own, but feazing already at the seams. At second thoughts, I cancelled my destination and directed the taxi to one of my favourite bars. It was a small, cosy, customary place, nothing special, nothing extraordinary, but clean, cheerful and understated, just as I liked it. Sure, I'd already had my fill, but these were special circumstances. The taxi driver just nodded, changed gears and course and delivered me within fifteen minutes. Smooth going, if I'd ever seen one. I paid my fare and stepped out into a light drizzle – no more stars, and no moon either, just a by and by slightly overcast sky. The driver took the tip, nodded again and off he went. Never would have thought I'd see the guy again, and under such circumstances. You never knew.

Next to the bar, there was your typical neighbourhood tobacco corner shop. I entered there first and bought my first pack of cigarettes in five years. I only returned twenty seconds later to buy a lighter.

American Society for Velociraptor Attack Prevention

September's already over, but yet this information could prove vital for anyone concerned in the Pacific Northwest. So here you are.