So, what is it then? An excersice in don't draft, do?!

I haven't posted anything in ages. Had hardly got started and already I neglected this blog. Let me explain. I think blogging is of immense therapeutic value. And I don't mean the stream of consciousness like sharing of any thought that so happens to pop into the blogger's head. Rather I see it as a cure, or at least an attempt to counteract, perfectionism. Early on, I already noticed that I'm not an honest blogger. I put fiction over fact, or the simulation of fact to be more precise. I can't stand typos - at least those I spot - and correct and republish at leisure. I did like the illusion of continuous activity, so changed the dates accordingly. I hoped no one would notice, no one would be so keen to visit regularly to see... (And aren't bloggers usually supposed to want readers?) But such a long time has passed that you don't need to be a keen reader to stumble accross this barren field of blogging endeavour. So an excuse and proof of my activity behind the scenes instead.

drafts galore.

I realised that I would have got a chain of almost uninterrupted publications, had I not planned but done. Had I not left it for later, but posted without thinking, planning, or perfecting. So I could change my blogging ways. Forbid myself to save as draft. Immediately follow up on inspiring online findings, write about them there and then. Also, the piss spots have been waiting to be shared for a long time now. I could do that now. Just post and ramble on. But they deserve more. You'll see. So, what is it then? A perfectionist's failed attempt at self medication? I guess it's the same as with any other therapy. It only works if you're willing to change, to listen. To be perfectly honest, I'm not. So, what is it then? Just another blog post. Finally.

wet feet rant

I'm sick and tired of wet feet. Really. I've put up with it for ages. But enough is enough.... really.
Admittedly, part of the problem may be that all my shoes seem to have given up any claim to protection. They're all sandals, practically. Apart from, possibly, my hiking shoes, which I am absolutely guilty of not looking after, causing mud to block the "bottom bit meets upper bit" parts, and thus offering water a sneaky way in. So, all my shoes are sandals. Sneakers turned flip flop, gone flitsh flatsh. Some of them take ages to dry, aswell. They're moisterising sandals, kind of. So wet and soggy that I'm constantly walking in puddles. Basically, if my feet were rich house owners they'd spend all day in the pool. Chewing on the occassional nibble-pebble. But now I've had enough, enough pooling around! I shall pray for sunshine. Or buy new shoes. I leave it to anyone's judgement, which strategy is the one most likely to succeed; in a city, where even statues have umbrellas.

Berlin, my love.

As promised, here's another destination. Somewhere else to go and have a look around. Go on, have a look at the great Notes of Berlin. Berlin's always worth a stroll. There's so much to see and I don't mean the regular sights, eventhough they're well worth a look too. I mean the little things, the glimpses of daily life, the weird things you might find anywhere, if only people were bothered enough to pick them up. Notes of Berlin is a collection of the things people have spotted, the things worth noticing. It's these weird and wonderful sights, these signs of life, that make you fall in love with Berlin, if you're that city's way inclined; it's what makes you homesick once you've left. And if you've found such a piece of Berlin yourself, it's what makes you feel like you have an intimate knowledge of the place, a connection. Notes of Berlin is like an album full of souvenirs Berlin itself has conspired to bring you. (Of course, all credit to the site's collectors.) In this post, I've included one of my favourite memories of Berlin from a few sommers ago. Enjoy.

Online ramblings. Findings to share.

Maybe it's a bit too early to reflect upon the writings of this blog, to check their content and rate it. Well, it almost certainly is, so it's lucky that I've only found the following site in German. The blablameter. (Not that an English version of this doesn't exist - admittedly, I haven't looked for it.) So, where was I? The blablameter. It's a neat little site that lets you check the level of bullshit of your text. After you submit a text sample and a moment's consideration, it spits out its levelofshitness comment, and lets you know - the helpful little tool it is - whether this is still acceptable or not. I highly suspect its own level of sarcasm is going through the roof. I shall test some respected samples of literature next, see how it likes some Thomas Mann or maybe even some of Gretchen's ponderings.

Right, line break. Going of track here and am desperately close to confusing my dear non German speaking readers by going off on a tangent of canonesque musings, so I shall go on about something else. As, in my last post, I mentioned that I've been reading a lot of blogs, here's something else I found. Somewhere to while away your time, to go on an online stroll, while you should be doing something else, have the powers of your mind concentrated elsewhere. Anyway, check it out for yourself and then, after visiting and agreeing that nerdism is sexy, return, because I've got something else to show you.

Welcome back. And here it is: Subversive cross-stitch on whokilledbambi. I love the combination of traditional and... well... a fresh view on things. I also love to imagine someone stitching it. And, although highly unlikely, I like to think of that person in some sort of Jane Austen like chaste dress, stitching away quietly, then holding her work at arm's length, appreciating it and admiring this. I've started my own stitching project a couple of year's ago. A Banksy style home sweet home. Still unfinished, but not forgotten, I might take it up again, though I suspect I might have bitten of more then I could chew, pardon, sew.

Did you like my findings? Fancy another stroll? Then come along to my next online rambling. Berlin is calling. And I've got something else I'd like to share. In my next post.

Spring!

Well, I say spring. Meteorologically we're not quite there yet, but look at this! The first spring flowers! Forget about my blooming blisters after 34km/21m of walking, this good-bye to winter was worth it. (Ironically, this picture was taken 10 minutes away from home... should have left it there, I guess.) Anyway, happy springtime everyone.

What do you want to be...

... when you're grown up. I love that question. Particularly - or increasingly, only - when I pretend I'm still 12 years old and all's yet to come. I can still decide what I want to do, where I want to be and what. I still can, of course. And everything can change. Always.

I've read a lot of blogs lately. A short while ago I focussed on photography blogs. And immediately I wanted to become a photographer. A nature photographer to be precise. You walk and see and spot. You make moments last. You take them in.


I guess I just like spotting things. Things I like, things that might be overlooked. Things that just wait to be found and make you feel like you've uncovered a treasure. Things like the little figure of a man balanced on a drain pipe off London's Columbia Road Flower Market.

I'm currently looking at design blogs. And immediately I want to be a creative, a designer. Of furniture, clothes, graphics, blogs, or ideas. Here's an inspiring example. Something else I spotted and wanted to share. 3 cheers to the rainbowzombiesatemyunicorn. Love it.

Are you happy?

Are you happy? The Guardian asked. And Kate Drummond, ice cream vendor, had an answer. An answer, I liked so much, in fact, I framed it. I love the idea of owning an ice cream van and parking it up next to sea side views, a gentle breeze blowing in exactly the right direction (to avaid my hair getting stuck in the ice cream)... I also liked Kate's theory that ice cream is a good indicator for happiness: If it drips down a child's face, all's well... and even better, when the topping's free, defying any money grabbing ice cream super business... Then the thought of children returned. Their laughter. The seed of doubt. Not that I don't like them per se... although, well, the things is, I'm not sure their rowdy presence fits into my picture of tranquil joy. Rather I see myself in my little vintage van, a makeshift bookshelf on one side (with the type of elastic bands you use to secure the load carried on bicyles, strapped along each row of books to prevent them from sliding of during one of my infrequent drives) and customers in a nice, meandering queue, as calm as they are happy.