I Got A Liebster (Yes, it's Denglish)

The Liebster award is one of those fantabulous blogger prizes given by bloggers to bloggers. Thank you Chris Kelworth for awarding me with it. Chris is a writer, a fellow Weekend Writing Warrior and a diligent blogger. Wheew, you're quite the busy bee! I think I have to award you with an Emsig; if there only was such a thing. :) I read up on the Liebster; it apparently derives from a German blogger tradition, given to "liebsten blogs" meaning "dearest" or "favorite" blogs. Awww. I'm touched. Thank you Chris. Now, in perfect Liebster tradition, I will answer 11 questions, and share 11 facts about myself.

1. Do you believe in ghosts/aliens/the supernatural? 

No, but I believe in axe murderers, rapists and mean people, hiding in the shadows out there to get me. I think I'd rather believe in aliens or a friendly little ghost...

2. Why do you blog?

I think I have stuff to say, interesting stuff. Yes, I think my brain is spectacular. And that's an understatement. Love youus, Frontal lobe!!

3. What's your favorite book series?

Hands down - His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman. It's a shame that only The Golden Compass was made into a movie. I think it's one of the best fantasy series ever written.

4. If you could interview one celebrity, who and what would be your million dollar question?

The late Christopher Hitchens (on being brilliant): Is it lonely up there?

5. Pet Peeves? 

OK, I had to look up what that means. There are things I find annoying in other people, but mostly these are all things I am myself guilty of, like eating noisily, driving stupidly, or being a pain.

 6. Favorite Magazine?

The one and only magazine I ever subscribed to from mid to end 80's: Garfield!

7. Will you give me 100 $?

I'm flattered that you'd think me upper class. Stuff I could give you instead: A can of beans, a PEGI folder and/or a sparkling cat sticker.

8. Do you play any instruments?

I wish I did. Gave up playing my Bontempi organ career decades ago. And I didn't have the nerves to fully commit to learning the guitar.

9. What is the worst book you ever read?

Maybe this one.

10. What's with all the cats?! 

My cats are my children. Now leave me alone.

11. How's that 100 $ coming along?

Didn't you like the sparkling cat sticker?

+11 random facts you never wanted to know

➊ I'm a teeth grinder - at night my mouth becomes a grain mill. I wonder what it grinds. Story bits, hopefully.

➋ I once tried saving the world - me and some friends of mine reported a local drug dealer to the police when we were teens.

➌ I'm a movie nut - I like to dissect acting and story. Loudly. That's why I rarely go to cinemas. I'm banned for life.

➍ I'm a spiritual sponge - the bathroom is my place of inspiration.

➎ I'm shy - I don't like to use my phone in public.

➏ I'm a woman - but there was a time when I thought I resembled a dog.

➐ I'm German - born and raised.

➑ I can be a bit of a stalker, I was when I met my husband - Hey, I just met you. And I am crazy. Got your number: will call you daily.

➒ I prefer audiobooks to books, for the simple fact that I like being read to.

➓ I get Tobey Maguire and Elijah Wood confused on a regular basis. I think they share more than a similarity in demeanor, I bet it's the exact same whiny DNA!!

➊➊ I don't have 100 Dollars.


As you may know I do have my very own special tagging tradition for awards. We should all have fun doing these things and be free and willing to participate, not feel forced due to being nominated. If you read this, and you haven't gotten a Liebster award - consider yourself tagged!

Weekend Writing Warriors: Forever Gone

Hey there, Warriors, I'm glad you could make it!! This week, I'll continue with Anoethau right where we left off the last time. Artie is in hiding on board a transatlantic freighter. He tries to stay under the radar, but is soon discovered by the ship's cook Francis. Francis offers him work in the kitchen as payment for the passage...



Pedro gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. When the laughter died down, they both picked up peeling carrots, and potatoes after that. The kitchen soon fell silent except for Francis’ occasional whistles and the sound of water boiling vigorously inside pots.

When Artie went outside the galley, the sky had put on a darkening coat. He leaned against the railing and looked at the sea. It was calm and even but for the icy wind nipping at his ears. The ship had long departed New York Harbor, and he regretted not having seen it take off. His last chance to say good bye; he had missed it.

Me, Worrying Part III

Sunday, 10/2, later that day


I'm yelling at the poor woman at the doctor's office. My voice sounds unusually loud and hard. "Don't give him just Ibuprofen..I wouldn't have taken him to the emergency doctor if that was all he needed." 

I don't know if it's distrust on her part, or thinking him an addict wanting to score pain medication, or if she just thinks nothing at all. 

There is something deeply terrifying about watching someone you love being in excruciating pain. 

My husband squirms on that bench like a snake, holding his stomach with both his hands. He can't talk, and if he makes an effort, the noise that comes out doesn't even sound human.

No, I'm thinking, that's not just another colic. That is something much much worse.

"How old is your husband?", the other woman asks me.
"37," I hear myself say. No, but that's not right.
"Sorry, I meant to say he's 38." She crosses out 37, and scribbles the number 38 in the column.
No, that's not right either. She runs out of the room so quickly, I can't tell her. At this point I don't remember how old he is, or what year he was born in. No, not anything, just thick clouds of fog.

The next thing I know is that the guys from the ambulance are hurdling up the stairs. They appear to have some instinct about what hubby might be suffering from. I keep thinking you're wrong, it's not the heart, but who am I to tell them what it is not.  

No bowel activity. At least that should ring some kind of bell. 
But it doesn't. 

As they carry him down the stairs and take him out, up to the ambulance I find myself looking away. The gurney shrieks, and yammers. It has been used way too often. It deserves a break. Next thing I know - I'm sitting in my car, backed into a parking space. The ambulance is behind me, and I'm parked in. The lights keep on flashing. I'm waiting for them to drive away.  

I hope they don't use the horn. 

It must be 15 minutes until they leave, but I could be wrong. I'm sitting quietly, like a ghost in the dark. I don't even remember how I got home. I shouldn't have driven myself. My hands were too far away from my brain that day. 


Even later..


I'm home. Why don't we have a sports bag? I'm packing a suitcase instead, a wheelie case. A vacation trolley does send some kind of eccentric weirdo message, but it's all I have. After all, a stay in the hospital is not a self-discovery adventure trip. Or is it?

Packing now. First things first. 

He should have his earplugs, and his iPad. To him, that's usually more important than things to wear or a razor. I'm thinking about what I would need in that kind of situation, except for the strength to hold on to dear life. I'm packing socks, all in different shades of dark blue. I grab several T-shirts, pants. I'm on autopilot now. 

I'm making surprisingly calm phone calls to people and I write emails. It doesn't make sense to me, why I do it. Just so they know? I'm just worrying everybody, including myself. I should keep my yap shut, I'm thinking as I write, and call, and tell people, what little I know about my husband's condition.

I'm on the road, it's pitch black. The night is icy and incredibly cold. I'm driving by instinct. I have been at this hospital before. Some part of me knows the way. I'm deadly afraid of arriving. What if he's dead, I'm thinking. I almost crash into a parking car on the side of the road. No such thoughts, I'm thinking. Part of me wants to cause a huge pile up. Be done with it. 

What little control I had that day.

Incredibly late


I'm there, at the hospital where fluorescent lights and ugly ambiance guarantee everyone a horrible time. The waiting area with piles of old magazines and stained coffee mugs is uninviting. People have been waiting here all day. For years. I'm approaching the receptionist. 

"Is..he alive?" is all I can muster up to say.
"Who?"
I'm thinking, shit, someone died. She looks at me like I'm nuts. 
I probably deserve it. 
I tell her his name. 
"He's still in the emergency room. It will take a while." 
And so it does. 

The hours poke along the corridors and the thick doors rarely swing open. There is Room 1 and Room 2. Voices inside. Someone tells me to stay outside and wait. Too afraid to go inside anyways. 

There are fat people, people with masks, people without teeth, bleeding people, and they are all waiting, most of them to be taken into custody. One person keeps busy talking to himself. Not a bad idea, I'm thinking. If it calms him down. I'm sitting there, waiting for some kind of sign. Maybe from god, or someone else dressed in white, who knows.

People are either idiots or they don't know how to talk to people in distress. They just swing those words around. Severe....acute..the word pancreas keeps floating around. And gall stone blockage. And transfer to another hospital. Yes, I'm nodding, OK; I get it. Another ambulance arrives, more people with masks come out. They let me see him now - my feet are like pudding as I approach the gurney. 

He's white as a sheet, and the grey in his hair and beard stands out in the harsh light. He looks unfamiliar.

And yet, when he slowly lifts his hand and puts it in mine, it feels so warm. Familiar. I'm thinking, yes, that's him. That's the one I know.

"I need my iPhone.." he whispers..
And I'm thinking, good, he's still there. 

He's all geared up. 
He will put up a fight. 

And as they carry him off into the dark, that one saying keeps flashing in my mind...

...the one about living our lives so well that death will tremble to take us.

And I'm thinking, yes, I know he will.

Another Earth reviewed

There is something interesting going on with science fiction film lately, as it is widely used as a vehicle to tell stories about profoundly earthly concerns. With Scifi drama Love, a very traditional breed of epos and heroism has been reintroduced to film, and strangely enough, the combination of classical and visionary elements worked out well. And while Cloud Atlas was the more successful dramatic Scifi blockbuster, the critics didn't love it as much as they did Love. 

The interesting edge Indie drama Another Earth offers, is that the science fiction elements appear to be altogether accessory - at first.

Another earth-like planet is discovered the same day astrophysics freshman Rhoda drives under the influence and crashes her car into another. A mother and son get killed, while the husband and father barely survives the collision. Rhoda goes to prison, and after four years she comes back into the world, disillusioned about life, hopeless, and desperately trying to make amends for her mistake. She applies for a lowly cleaning job at a local school, as well as the space program to travel to the new planet, Earth 2. 

(Yes, that's the most uninspired name ever since Don't Worry We'll Think of a Title came out, I agree). 

She also learns that the lone survivor of the car crash lives close-by, so one day, she decides to pay him a visit...

What happens in the following is a human drama about guilt, redemption and the impossible quest for forgiveness. The film is beautifully allegoric in the way it exemplifies the grand scale, the cosmic events as opposed to the main plot. Lead actress Brit Marling pours her soul into this role, it's palpable in every single frame she's in; plus she also co-wrote the script with director Mike Cahill, who made his debut with this feature film. 

While Lars von Trier's Melancholia, coming from a similar angle did the far better job utilizing the scientific aspects of world collision in nagging accuracy, Another Earth has the more intriguing plot and distinct character motivation in its pocket, and is even more capable to let those worlds collide on a emotional level. 

And on top of that, there is a really surprising twist in the last few moments of the film, having to do with the premise; a thought-provoking turn that makes you think, yes, of course, why didn't I think of that? 

It's a good one. Go see it.

Weekend Writing Warriors: In Disguise

 

Hey Warriors, and welcome to another fun-filled Sunday with wewriwa! Soooo, what do we have here today, another scene from Anoethau! Main character Artie is the guy I have been following around during NaNoWriMo. Ever since he found a magical weapon in his vegetable patch, things haven't been going so well for him. At this point in the story, having violated his parole, he needs to keep a low profile for a little while..luckily he finds a job in a cookhouse, run by a guy named Francis...the people working there think his name is Richie..



“Richie, where did you work before Francis hired you?” Pedro asked, as they each grabbed a carrot from the large pile in front of them, “a kitchen in New York?” 
Francis stopped stirring and looked up from the pot; the both of them seemed awfully curious about the new crew member. 
Although Artie had worked at a breakfast diner in Oakley, he didn't consider himself a full-fledged cook. People at Timm's had rarely ordered anything besides the typical breakfast meals, a small number of dishes including eggs and bacon.
“A small diner in Idaho,” he replied, which, for once, wasn't a lie. 
“So, did you learn how to peel carrots there?” Francis asked, the irony spread thick in his voice. Artie looked down, the guy next to him was bursting with laughter. 
The carrot in his hand was peeled down to a tiny shred. 

Short Notice: Heartbeat

There are many forces at work, the forces that cause the beating of your heart. Having a sinoatrial node is one of those things. It is the tissue, that will keep the heart in a certain steady pace. Electrophysiology gives rise to the short circuit, or conduit of heartbeat.

Have you ever wondered if there is such a thing as a long circuit? It may sound silly, but yes, I'm asking for the electropsychology of heartbeat, or something that gives some form of motivation for it to beat.

(Yes, I know... extra sappy intro today. Feel free to blame it on the serious case of candy and teddy bear poisoning I am currently suffering from..)

Still, back to the potential existence of e-psychology..

Is there, or is there not such a thing as a heartbeat motivation? As expected, what tells your heart to beat is not the heart itself but something entirely different..

Right, and we're here again at Grand Central. It's the brain. It always seems to come down to it! Brain is in charge of all things voluntary and involuntary. It is Mommy Goose, at the head end of the table, telling her children (body parts) what to do. That's her job.

What she likes to do in her time off however, is to read a good book, a great one even, if there is time. Were it not for those excellent stories, shimmering horizons and glaring heroes, Mommy wouldn't have a reason to get out of bed once that dark, cloud-covered Monday morning comes, again and again, another one each week. 

Opinions differ on this question. Many people argue that that is not motivation however; motivation - to them - is things we don't have, future-wants. They state that it's money or the prospect of success keeping us going, as in reasons why we want to strive forward, implying that we're dutiful creatures, caring creatures, even greedy ones first, and explorers second.

But think about it; while a job, well done or a sorrow, nullified may cause ephemeral satisfaction in the reward center of your brain (aka Mommy's living room), we tend to quickly shrug it off and sign another small check mark on that long list of to-do's. And as we move on we forget about it. That list is as long as our lives. 

Because there is no long-term significance in short-sighted achievements. Wheew, that was a mouthful. Better focus on the keeping-ourselves-entertained-while-we-get-there part, wherever the destination may be. Hoping for metamorphosis through things to come is less rewarding than taking that brain out for a spin and let it see things; it will light up like a Christmas tree and bring happiness; yap, keep it circulated - that's what we are wired for. And all those things, life, stories, real or imaginary, they are right there, tangible and up for grabs.

Excellent defib for tired hearts: Howl's Moving Castle

~Get well soon, hubbs!~

Weekend Writing Warriors: Stalwart

Yay, it's WeWriWa, week #2. I'm glad you could join us. What I have here, is another excerpt from Anoethau, fast forwarding from where we left off last week, to introduce one of the other major players, and yes, before you ask, this all goes down in a public toilet. So please, have a ball today, writers, readers, and don't forget to visit us on our website every now and again, for there might be interesting stuff happening besides sign-up..like this week's prize..I mean, have you seen the size of it??! :)

Cabby moved forward towards the grime-stained urinal. Another small step, and another. He snarled. The little bell at his collar rang in that same high-pitched frequency Artie had heard once before. He drew the sword. The shadows crept closer and closer, but Cabby held his ground. He anchored his paws into the floor. As a warrior would do, Artie realized, and mirrored the dog's stance on his own two feet as best he could.

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Weekend Writing Warriors: Little White Hilt

Welcome writers, for today is the first Sunday of Weekend Writing Warriors! Squee!! I'm so thrilled and excited to making the rounds, being a happy blog-hopping bee and all! So, for the first WeWriWa, what could be more appropriate than a story about a man who found an ancient and magical weapon in his vegetable patch? Since he's out on parole, he tries to get rid of it quickly, but of course, with magical weapons, it's not as easy as throwing away gum wrapper: this is Artie Kendrick, and the Little White Hilt, sword of myth & legends.

 

He turned it within his palm, and the moon cast his light on the upper part of the blade. Artie's gaze fell upon an engraving on the steel.

He felt the roughness between his fingers, cold and sharp – when the letters came alive in front of his mind’s eye; a message, reflecting from the surface of the river, a voice, murmured from the far side of the reed.

“Take....me....up...”

A cold shiver ran down his spine. What kind of trick was this? 

A stir went through the river bank. Someone - or something - came tearing through the reeds.

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