tradition

Ours is a steak dinner with baked potatoes on Christmas Eve.

My German grandmother arrives to house slippers and a glass of wine (this time she brought her jug) and my aunt brings her kids, a 2 liter of ginger ale, and shi-shi (whipped cream).

It's actually amazing to watch how things change each year. Like my 11 year old cousin who is developing a sense of humor or 17 year cousin who runs a social commentary on every word pronounced in the room. Then there are the things that don't change. Like my aunt's adorable limited taste or my grandmother's youthful face. All of them are beautifully articulated by a holiday that for us means the one time in the year when we all get together to confront and love our family.

This year's highlight was when we passed a candle and "The Night Before Christmas" around the room for a festive reading (a tradition that comes from my dad's Michigan family). My grandmother got the longest page in the book and when her thick German accent arrived at the words "the moon on the breast of the new fallen snow..." she absolutely lost it and couldn't get over the snow having breasts. We exchanged gifts and soon everyone was on their way and my sister and I watched our parents fall asleep in front of the fire and a hilarious videotape of our very own production of "A Charlie Brown Christmas."

Now my parents have to wake US up on Christmas morning so that we can dig through our stockings and unwrap gifts, throwing the wrapping paper at the frisky cat across the room.

A delicious breakfast around the dining room table and a trip to the movies is just about all there is to do in Huntsville, but that's alright because

family is the reason for the season.

back in switzerland

I miss...

the way people enter a cafe

dilapidated buildings

crazy communists

the smell of burning objects from the squats

weeds in the sidewalk

German boys

German girls

Dönner Kebap

graffiti that's street art

street art that's graffiti

sun seeking party zombies

the TV tower in the violet hour

fashionable retailers struggling to survive

my bike's squeaky brakes in the snow

churchbells from both directions on the hour

the walk to the subway station

saying Entschuldigung and Tchüss

sour faces and shouting vendors at the Turkish Markt

the beautiful children

underkept parks, dogs, and drinking laws

overkept buses, trams, and trains

dancing until dawn

sleeping until noon

Hefeweizen

smoking bars with soul music and angry trannies

recycling my bottles to pay for my groceries

being terrified of getting checked on the train

Weinachtsmarkt

being mistaken for a Deutsch-speaking German

giving tours

Frau Thietz

finding myself alone on a bridge

finding myself alone on a street

finding myself.

the brothel

across the street

three men emerge from the wide door

two turn left

and one escapes behind a wheel

the only taste left of this life

lies behind a door with a bell

a sound that announces

the arrival of innocence

stolen

by the choice to indulge

in a fantasy between walls

and empty of eyes and hands and feet

snow

Winter has come to Berlin.

Waking up in the morning to the white glow of falling snow and laced bare trees is an absolute dream. The city is almost silent with its muffling layer of frosting as if the cold flakes powered down the roar of a city that cannot resist reveling in the bitter winter. Women's faces--old and young--are alight before the magical production of the drifting ice blossoms. Hatted inhabitants stick out their tongues for a taste of the strange sugar, and dogs emerge from the subway ahead of their owners to forge the storm and the biting air.

Outside, two children--rosy and golden--amaze in the white field while mothers with youngers look on and bounce to the beat of their own childish hearts--too near and too quick to forget. Boots caps and mittens are all that stand between us and our frozen drops, and the steam emerging from our warm lips twists and turns in the drafts, searching for someone to inhale it in a long kiss. Falling fast and small, the whole earth is covered like the thin surface of a delicious desert, waiting to be cracked and devoured.

a final visit

on the dock by the swan

feet dangle over frigid river currents

an island adrift

amid smokestacks and umbrellas

darkens under skeletal branches

as the sun nears the ground

rusted memories are sunk here

and covered in a thin layer of fog

waiting for a day of revival

that will never arrive

across the water

lovers stroll

colors matching their breakfasts

and childhoods

and the church stands silent

its bells poised for the hour

when another passing

brings music to my ears

and silence to the air

four shoes with soiled laces

crossed

waiting for the wind

swing on the hinge

and stretch over the Spree

submerged in cold

soon to step in another place

carried by the wheels of clouds

leaving only a reflection in the ripples

of a Saturday afternoon

anti anti

This past weekend, a group of students from Köln (Cologne) visited us. We stayed in their city a month ago and the combined trips are part of a program to initiate a dialogue between these German students and us, the Americans. I wasn't able to participate in most of the weekend's activities, but on the final day I attended a lecture on anti-Americanism alongside these Köln University peers.

Our speaker was Ruth Hatlapa, who was introduced by one of our faculty and first spoke about a program she is currently involved with that combats anti-Semitism today in the Berlin neighborhood of Kreuzberg (where I live). She told us that today Jews are still attacked on the street or in the metro often with bystanders doing nothing to intervene. She spoke about Germany as a country of migrants--despite the fact that many Germans do NOT see their country this way--and described the obvious differences of a migrant to the holocaust versus a German. Apparently "Jew" is the most common curse word in the school system here, and accordingly, her program has been working with school children, especially of a migrant background, through education and activity based programming for seven years to help combat anti-Semitism.

At the conclusion of her brief talk about her current community work, she was met with fierce defensiveness and outright disagreement from the German students among us. They claimed that they had never heard of anti-Semitism in Germany today and asked if it was then only a problem in Berlin. They had not seen this information in the newspapers or on the TV and quickly dissolved her argument by claiming that German's were also discriminated against because German cars were burned in the streets. American students responded by calling everyone's attention to the fact that whether we are aware of these horrible acts of violence or hate, they do exist, as Hatlapa had just spent 20 minutes describing them to us. Some NYU students shared their own experiences such as being accused of being Jewish and laughed at on the subway in Belrin, despite having a Catholic-Hispanic background. I myself brought up becoming a target as a homosexual in Berlin on one occasion. I think nothing of this because I know that people who target me (whether in Berlin, Alabama, or New York) are nothing more than ignorant, uneducated people who are unfortunate to not have people opening their eyes to the importance of recognizing anything outside of themselves. I also questioned the ability of some of these German students to do the same thing.

While this became a topic of debate, our speaker went on to give her presentation on anti-Americanism. This is her dissertation--a work still in progress--and as she is German herself, I did not particularly feel that there was any justifiable bias for or against America, only a recognition of a particular phenomenon and what effect it is having on world relations.

Hatlapa recognizes that America is not homogenous, but she defines "Anti-Americanism" as against what America "is" (as opposed to "criticism" which is against what America does). Because of the over exaggeration of criticisms, often times Europeans (particularly Germans in her study) associate American public acts with the American people. They see war as an expression of American imperialistic habits. Thus they see our country and her people as "Barbaric" and "inauthentic." We are the most dangerous nation against the promotion of world peace. Americanism is becoming "The European language" the speaking of which is more and more considered "progressive."

A large shift has occurred with the changing of leadership in America as well. George W. Bush had a 12% approval rating in Germany and when he appeared to speak in Berlin in 2002, he was met with 20,000 protestors. Obama's German approval rating is 92% and he was cheered on by over 200,000 supporters when he spoke in Berlin in 2008. Many European's associate Obama's positive traits--more secular politics and progressivity for example--as European and therefor see him more as a European than as an American. They see his America as declining and weaker and would sooner invite him into their dining room than most of "those Americans."

As we politely applauded Hatlapa's lecture--which was full of more information, figures, and humor--not surprisingly, the first comment came from a German student and went something like this:

"That's all very interesting, but I'm sorry I don't agree with you. I think that's all just wrong."

Immediately the tension returned to the room and a fierce dialogue commenced in which German students wanted to know which newspapers and online sources she used for her facts and American students provided examples of their own anti-American experiences during this or past trips to Europe.

We all know that America is not homogenous, but until many Europeans meet an educated American and have a real conversation with them, they are quick to point many of the fingers Hatlapa described; often, even after this crucial conversation, they will consider you "different from Americans." I know, I've had this conversation more than once with people from more than one country. But then, I'm guilty of being anti-American as well. I admit that. I often roll my eyes at our Wal-Mart culture, democracy obsession, and football mania. I cite repeatedly that there is New York and then there is America. And in some regards, this is absolutely true. But I can't disqualify my country and contribute to this Anti-Americanism that only lessens our chances of connecting to anyone different from ourselves.

I think it is disappointing and ignorant of the German students--who we got to be friends with over our two weekends together--to react so violently to what they apparently considered an attack, but what was really just a prompt for discussion and self assessment. I'm provoked by the ideas of anti-Americanism and the often tense dynamics of American-European relations, especially in young people, but instead of denying what is obviously in the air, I have taken this opportunity to examine the way I think, have more critical conversations with the people in this city, and--most importantly--to learn more.

from the records, I miss him

17 Oktober 2009

Matthew has been here for almost five days now. He gets it and makes me get that I get it. He has been surprised by how romantic this city is and helped me realize how well I am doing here. The first day he was here, we laid on my bed together and smiled more than either of us knew we could. I poured my heart out in a poem like I've never had to do and he told me he wouldn't be able to stop looking at me. I assured him this was ok.

After doing the regulars--Turkish Markt, Alexanderplatz, Unter den Linden to the Tör, and the Holocaust memorial we tried some new things together. Namely Tiergarten which was spectacularly romantic and colorful. We let our hearts pull us and were blown away by the beautiful park.

Matthew loves biking, and Doner. We checked out the Hamburger Bahnhof, but it closed quickly: I WILL be going back. I was so glad Matthew could come to Weimar. I had no idea we were going to a concentration camp (ironically), but the frigid rainy afternoon left us both very "cold." Between this and both of our experiences with the other children here we thought about alot and I think only realized more how lucky we are: individually AND together. We haven't slept much, and when we got back from Weimar, we left three hours later at 2am for our 14 hour journey to Amsterdam. Obviously this is a place I want to visit, but that we are going here does have something do to with Matthew's IKEA print of an Amsterdam canal with a red bicycle.

Now I'm sitting on a train in the Netherlands, over eleven hours into our journey (first of many) together across Europe, looking into the eyes of the one I love and exchanging smiles--still a bit in disbelief of the amazing experience we are sharing. I don't understand the language here, so now I get to take a backseat--or at least share the passenger seat as we zoom across blue skied, sunny Netherlands toward our 19 hour visit to the city of canals and hashish.

survivor

Joseph Koplewicz

94 years

survivor of Warsaw Ghetto and 9 concentration camps as an engineer

twirling thumbs

lip quivering with age

changing numbers from long ago

caught in disbelief

before a time of terror and today

mind removed and handed an arm

the simple truth is survival

the only painful pause

from a loss of love

in years supposedly safe from pain

quickly resolving in laughter

with a wide eyed song

of dreams fulfilled

under unbelievable blue skies

on Paris

It's been a week since I got back from Paris, and I'm finally coming to terms with my experience there. I am so glad I was able to just be while I was in the city. I didn't get caught up in the romanticism or really anything at all. Being away has made me realize how beautiful it is. The people are so confident and no nonsense. They are not overly romantic as we expect them to be because they haven't been fed the institution that is love and romance that Hallmark and stereotypical French characters have given to me. They say what is needed and let their eyes do the rest of the communicating. Sometimes laughing makes me insecure but I realize that to them, it is an expression of happiness. Nothing ironic there.

In fact irony is not something I experienced with French people unless they were making fun of or imitating Americans and their culture. There is something so earnest about the way they interact--with only what is necessary, very little embellishment. But then, Paris is absolutely overrun with tourists. As with any city I suppose, its sometimes difficult to know what is the city of tourists and what is the city of the people. In NY I took many a vacation to midtown but it wasn't until I moved into Union Square that I saw the tip of the iceberg of what is NYC. Luckily for me I had my amazing friends to lead me through this city (or at least for the past 3-4 months).

That didn't always mean that I new what I was ordering at a restaurant. I managed to get kidney two times. I really tried, but it just didn't quite meet my mouth's needs. Riding Velib' bikes up and down the hills of Paris by day and by night was truly fantastic and a great way to feel like you belong on the narrow streets and broad roundabouts. It is so nice to stumble on a courtyard or a fountain or an artists loft or a gallery in a historical space and be one of the only people around.

The Parisians have parks under control. They are the most beautiful combination of public space and coiffed elegance. Standing in a park in Paris I was in awe of the design and degree of control of nature but also of how comfortable people felt there. Just as in their home, they are invited to rearrange furniture and stroll down a corridor [of trees]. Just stay off the grass.

I most enjoyed walking down the older smaller streets of Paris, especially in Montmartre and the Fifth Arrondissement. But these are the areas that most tourists seek out in Paris as the "real city." They are prescribed by all the guidebooks as secret must see spots and as such have lost some sense of their charm and originality. But then I guess they still charmed me. I'm apt to resist acting like a tourist or really being one at all. I know that when I visit a city, that is my official title, but I seek something more authentic. I don't like to rush to the museums or most famous monuments, and I didn't do that here. I spent most of my time taking the heartbeat of the city and encountering a culture very different from my own--and just as valid.

Standing on the top of Montmartre, I realized how large Paris is. It would take me at least six months living there to really begin to understand it, and I don't claim to much at all from my short (though extended) five day stay.

What I do know is that Paris left a delicious aftertaste in my mouth...something like Cotes du Rhone. And I want to take that bottle in the bathtub with her and a cigarette and soak in everything she has to offer. Even if only for a short time.

feet rest under green metalic chairs

weary with the labors of discovery

of a city set in hills

doors opened and stairs unwound

in corners hidden from any map

we discovered a new path

with no trace remaining

but in negatives and our slippery memory

music swells all around

but I hear Paris

only in voices

her speaker is blown

never to be replaced

and only her people sing her song

it sounds of ambivalence

that only a child can see

from behind round spectacles.

It was only heard once or twice

and broadcast to the world

in a tongue too hard to shape.

Of love, I find no keys

only black and white

in majors and minors

struggling to strike a chord

but barely unlocking doors going backwards or downstairs

I face a wall

and a ticket

a meager end to an unplanned excursion

the most beautiful song

Two Doves

courtesy Dirty Projectors

Geranium kisser
Skin like silk and face like glass
Don't confront me with my failures
Kiss me with your mouth open
For your love, better than wine
For your cologne is really fragrant
Call on me, call on me, call on me

Your hair is like an eagle
Your two eyes are like two doves
But our bed is like a failure
All day up in the family
At the waning of the light
To the chamber that conceived me
Call on me, call on me, call on me

Geranium killer
Throat of soil and mind like stone
Please don't defend a silver lining
Around the halo of what is already shining
When all the planets are aligning
For an afternoon that's never ending
Call on me, call on me, call on me

youtube please

paris friday

Luckily drenched in sun

leaves still fall

while voices explore reflections

on the trim trees

between leaves and water

countless pieces

in a puzzle for the sky

cling to massive arms

like memories

The only music

erupts in shadows

from a time of blossoms

and the familiar smells of love

Glowing faces

lounge quietly

and soak in the confident air

too timid to fly

and rooted by a strong attraction

to familiar soil

Wrapped women move past

as we sit on the edge of the day

with little recollection

of the dark that daily consumes

Just as a breath catches

vulnerable strokes from branches above

and a young boy leans over railings

for a closer view

I am swept away

and a fleeting curiosity

consumes my senses

by Medici fountain

meeting family

7.11.2009

(14:00)

train to Aachen

clouds clear as I make another short stop

ready for my rendezvous

I occupy my mind with distractions

forcing calm where I feel there should be worry

I am blind

with nothing but a blurry postcard and a forgotten slideshow

holy time- a few short hours

to fill in the blanks of this curious connection.

the most beautiful tree

catches the light of the forgotten sun

and I recall where my calm comes from

a deep assurance that clouds do clear

mistakes live in the spaces of opportunity

discovering beauty is only as difficult as the next breath

silence is among the most precious of moments.

with these laws engrained in my complex thoughts

I roll over foreign tracks toward unfamiliar comfort

hoping for growth in the slightest degree

an eager ebb of the most pure and earnest interest.

dressed in their Sunday best

I would arrive with a bouquet of hope

for an afternoon topped with cream

and washed down by an evening's satiated adieu.

(19:30)

A family waits

posing for a picture by an unknown photographer

unsure on arrival and unclear at the meet,

our story begins with hello

immediate rain opens an umbrella for three

arms clung, we cross familiar streets with unfamiliar faces

minds may meet but I find myself less serious

sipping the largest glass with the lightest plate

laced in chocolate and a sweet commence

becoming flowers with an unexplained ride

I presently arrive at my past

simply the turn of the knob

puts relative distance before my eyes

soft and frail, confined only by life

three strangers with only a quarter hour

to fall in love

leaning in, struggling to hear what some call silence

a calm comes over the beginning of a bond

smiles replacing fearful furrowed brows and faces

gasps and sighs at what is and what was, knowing

only tomorrow knows what will be

suddenly the man in the bed utters

go?

and I slip through the door

only ajar and only a taste of what stays

my heart tells my eyes that it has seen what it needs

and my eyes beat with the familiar swelling of my heart.

my host thinks only on me

and fills each desire four times

quickly sharing all and snapping away from all sides

trying to capture a feeling I cannot define

an image of shining eyes and open hands

tiptoeing to the song of another

over rocky streets

by windows filled with kindness

in a place containing someone else's story

total darkness engulfs a final stop

windows covered, fresh white paint

reflects little moonlight

and a loving childhood memory

becomes my only torch

wandering as a child again

I try to discover its secrets

becoming a king in a foreign land of covered windows

to say goodbye comes on track

elevated by platforms

and the stakes of a simple evening

afraid the whole perfect gift is forgotten

memories slip onto pages

like the chocolate on the sugary treats I carry back with me

alone is not a word I know in Aachen.

zwanzigten Jahre des Mauerfall

20 years ago, the Berlin wall came crashing down and East Berlin was for the first time open to the West. A country divided since their humiliating and horrifying defeat in the second World War was faced with the opportunity to become a unified land with the hope of becoming a modern nation.

Last night, Berlin celebrated this monumental event with a huge gathering at the Brandenburger Tör. It was a cold, rainy, typical Berlin November evening, and people turned out in droves to the once abandoned area that has become so symbolic as a meeting of East and West Germany and Berlin. The plaza and its surrounding streets in both directions--leading into the sprawling parks of the Tiergarten and the historical and monumental Unter den Linden--were closed and prepared days in advance for the evening of remembrance and celebration. I turned up with a friend around 18:00 with no umbrella and insufficient footware. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by the police presence or by the tight security, but this celebration seemed to be an ironic presentation of the symbol and ideals it stood for. I passed through more than one gate to get to my unimpressive spot to the side of the main presentation area. Not only was I not able to see the grounds in front of the gate, I was positioned behind a giant screen that eventually would show images of what was happening only a few hundred feet away.

After a couple hours in the rain with anxious and eager Germans and many, many tourists, I decided to go home to strip off my socks and watch from my own screen in my living room--albeit smaller than the screen offered at the Brandenburg Gate.

In German class we talked about November 9. In Germany, not only is this day remembered for its significance in 1989, but for its first appearance in the history of the country: 1938. Known as Kristallnacht, or "the night of broken glass," this was a huge night of violation against German Jews under National Socialism. 99 Jews were killed, at least 25,000 were arrested and taken to concentration camps, and Jewish homes, businesses, and synagogues were ransacked and destroyed. The earlier recognition of this date obviously does not stand for the ideals upheld by most Germans of today, but these problems do still exist. The tension between Germans and the much smaller Jewish population of the unified Germany of today exists in massive doses, and I have been witness to the confrontation, avoidance, and even bitterness of this strained relationship on more than one occasion.

How was it that the country managed to produce an event 51 years after such an evening that today almost covers up this catastrophe completely? If this country is so determined to focus their efforts on their coming together as a people and breaking down barriers, how can they hide the fact that 71 years ago their government made an official effort to destroy an entire people--within their own border?

Watching the Mauerfall ("wall-fall") celebration from my television, I noticed something peculiar about the positioning of the spectator. Almost the entire plaza was left empty so that government leaders (including German Chancellor Angela Murkel, French President Nicolas Sarkozy, Russian President Dmitry Medvedev, and US Representative Hillary Clinton) could speak from the middle of a sprawling landscape filled with moving colored lights in front of the Brandenburg Gate. Immediately surrounding them were other government officials. Behind them were the people lucky (or rich) enough to have third row seats to the show packed with speeches and fireworks. The people of Berlin--those who chose to turn out--were stuck behind metal gates to the sides and back of the "performance space." They came to celebrate their walls coming down and found themselves where? Behind walls.

The whole ceremony was impressive, but it resembled little of the images or emotion expressed in photos or footage of the events that passed on November 9, 1989. Then a repressed people yearning for freedom were ecstatic to face the coming of a new age. Today, some Germans and many tourists came together to watch their leaders speak on a screen.

I don't know what the general consensus is about the events that occurred last night, but I know that the country still has a lot to do to come together, and I'm not so sure that the majority of the people living in this city really care about a celebration of event that has less and less to do with them.

Maybe Germans need a new reason to recognize November 9th as a historical day. It seemed a bit sugar coated to me.

london

the only lonely lover in London

I listen to leaves

crushed loudly by loving couples

with cameras

other lovers relax by the river

lamenting their lives

together

arms around one another

obviously oblivious to the sensual splendor they experience

time tells them to traipse on

having no hurry but boundless bliss

departing leaving desolate the place they once danced

playing without pause the practically perfect life

not wondering when or where it will cease

only honoring the only other

each within reach

reaching without resistance

their rarely lonely lover

carnforth

Spent three lovely days in the country side of UK with my best friend Beth. Pumpkin carving, pumpkin pie, pumpkin soup, also many other cooked deliciousnesses. Slept three wonderfully sleep-filled nights with their springer spaniel Murphy. Right in the middle of the visit, we went to the lake district in the north:

Sticklebarn Tavern

laughter slips

through the crack in the white framed glass

to a wet world of stone and wood

rain drizzled

the mountain stands strong and green.

walled but free, wanderers step within its bounds

lofty brush struggles to reach the top,

where no man stands as tall

another wall far below leads to unwanted fields

no cattle, no sheep here

only trees--

some ready for the coming of the cold

a narrow road leading to this house of ale and pie

two plates under an awning

devoured by hungry travelers and hound.

clouds move in over lonely summer tables

reaching down to brush the hilltops

as they blow by on their way back to sea,

leaving only more wet, more moss--green and slick

growing in a valley

untouched by most

undevoured by man and his machines

mighty among the few brave and lucky enough

to discover its greatness.

down the way, a world stands by

ready to conquer another day

unaware of a small tavern

with the delicious meals it has to offer

for the mouth and the eyes.

suddenly, atop a rock

halfway up

i am confronted

with the true power of this landscape

greater than of any painters

the hills stand like towers

stronger than any brush stroke

the stream is louder than its own water

man can tame these rolling grounds

with his walls and his gates

but even the bravest hound

cannot place his off in its hidden secrets

too great are they to ever be found

only seen from a distance

and imagined

a promised land of unmoved earth

persistent in its attempt

to remain alien

to remain unknown.

I found my sheep

when I found my girl

feet slipped into rubber boots

and a smile to wide to explain

water rushes by like a tube ride

but this belongs to nature

man must know this

he is not here unless he ventures for a visit

only attempting to take with him what he has seen

the sheep themselves do not believe

though they continue to graze

their mission in a world they can never understand

that I can never understand

only marvel at

and stand for a few short breaths

smelling the sweet view

delighting in its seductive power

sunday afternoon in BERLIN with christopher

Matilda

a magical girl behind a counter

eyes welcoming with the biggest smile

twin disks spin a small bug's song.

no one in the back,

thirsty visitors gather

at small square wooden tables

with fresh light pink blossoms

3 sprigs stuck in to bridge the seasons

that smile, those eyes

the way her hair falls in strands over her soft face

from across the room my gaze

finds nothing and no one but her

like my mother she serves champagne to a young mother

her two friends looking on

made old by their friend's possession

two lovers, under the lamplight of the corner

retire from their plates

to love the literature they kiss over

a secret to sacred to skip

shared; then another bite

just in; bearded, leather

soft voice-making Matilda smile-

for him, a coffee, cookie first

by the window, a girl with a pencil fills in the blanks

reading carefully, signs her name and folds her life in threes

now, a neighbor

a newspaper in another tongue

he and Matilda share a short love letter aloud

and she kisses her sister once on each cheek

as if the sun rose twice today

once for the world

and once for Matilda

a sliver of sky

near trees

still green with spring

white balconies project

littered with nature

placed with care on the edge

mimicking the green

they stand by

over a white umbrella

despite the clouds

by boards, chalky

with offers and with price

but the street comes without price

a free special to strollers

on a Sunday afternoon

buying young vegetables

in bike baskets

and showing their

freed hounds the crisp day

on Dieffenbachstraße

I understand my father more now. Partly from Freud, though I have no desire to kill, eat, and replace him with myself-but mostly from my lone travels. Like his adventures and disappearances, I find myself learning most alone. Content to watch a duck exploring his water as ambulance sirens pass and runners' feet jog by on the moist earth. On a Serra-like jetty over the Spree lies before me a bullet ravaged monument: three men in struggle, forcing themselves into each other, pyramidal over the deep waters and the passing barge. Behind them lies Berlin, in her glory-tall, proud, under construction. Someday I will tell these stories-unbelievable-to an eager ear. Listeners curious of another place-another time even. I will be back, but these are the true discoveries. Like my father, on his bike-searching for the quiet and the noise. Finding both-in utmost perfection-before peddling back to the world given to me by helping hands. Unprotected now, I log my journey in hopes of crystallizing it into my own forgotten history. To share this with him would be an honor.

-

Treptower Park

East Berlin's Disneyland

crumbled with the wall

overgrown and underused

children's voices still squealing from fun

now a fence runs its edge

a wall destroyed-a wall empoloyed

only earth and stone paths

provide a glimpse into the wonder

a fantastical world made dark

by the dawning of a new era

a giant wheel with no motor

train tracks buried by leaves and branch

dinosaurs toppled and games switched off

A fossil, long forgotten by most.

but a tell tale sign of what was

and what wasn't

behind a wall.

drugs and stereotypes

Depression in 3rd world countries: does it exist? What about in aboriginal cultures? Forest tribes of Africa who wear loincloths? Do they chemically alter their mentally "weaker/challenged/different" members? If so, is it natural?

Assuming that these people do not have the same relation or understanding of mental illness, is mental illness and its accompanying drug/pharmaceutical industry a creation of capitalism? I don't watch that much German television, but when I do I see NO commercials for anti-anxiety, depression, or even birth control. Drugs are not on TV. Even prescription. I haven't needed to buy any medication since I've been here, but have heard that at APOTHEKEs (pharmacies) all of the available medicines are herbal. I had my mother and matthew bring me Sudafed, Benadryl, and Claritin, perhaps because of my belief that it is necessary to put these things into my body immediately when I feel any symptom of in-normality. My Literature teacher here, Esther Dischereit, who is a premier feminist and German-Jewish writer in Germany, has a new fix for our illness every week: a boiled potato or onion to the ear, fresh boiled ginger tea, eating an entire lemon, etc.

Have we been tricked by our consumerist societal values into accepting that chemical alteration or quick pharmaceutical remedies are not only the easiest way to get better, but absolutely necessary?

New York and Berlin don't seem that far apart. They are both in developed countries with global awareness and supply a life that depends on the global economy, import/export, and communication with multiple cultures, but there is something about New York that limits its ability to give people their own voice. Perhaps by giving its citizens "freedoms" American people have forgotten about how to explore everything that is available to them and instead seek only comfort and contentment. We are obsessed with finding love, with material wealth, and with creating the perfect beautiful living environment. Even if these are not ideals that we incorporate into our everyday practice and goals, they are part of our existence. They are ideals that we respect, admire, and--whether actively or not--strive for.

Berliners (though so far limited in my exposure to them) find Americans disgustingly commercial. They are terrified and nauseous at the thought of Wal-Mart as Christmas time: the very idea that American capitalism feeds on. To the people of Berlin, stereotype is a word that is often at the forefront of conversation. "Are there stereotypes of Germans?" they might ask. This question, I believe is actually combatting the numerous stereotypes held by most Germans--and almost entirely rightly so--against the American clichés that they have come to know so well. America consists of East and West: the middle is a land of conservatism, lack of culture, and religious rule. American's don't know their own politics. Americans take ten day trips to see the entirety of Europe. Americans still live in a land of segregation in which black and white people have their own individual proms.

...Looking at this list, I can't really meet any of those stereotypes with a strong case to defend the land of the free and the brave. Makes us seem pretty trapped and cowardly actually.

Here's some stereotypes of Germans. These aren't mine; they were in the handbook given to us by NYU in Berlin:

Germans are stiff and formal and hard to make friends with.

Germans are always neat, well-organized, and on time.

Germans lack humor and don't know how to enjoy themselves.

Germans are gruff, constantly nagging know-it-alls.

Stereotypes are strong. They have reason to exist. They also cover up our ability to reach each other. So do chemically altering drugs.

I didn't mean to go on a huge rant about the differences between my culture and the one in which I'm living, but I actually can't think of anything better to do right now.

Our own limitations, whether a cultural predisposition to something different or a drug that defines the spectrum of our emotions to a restricted and socially acceptable range, hold us back from reaching one another. In response we must build bridges to the opposite banks from which we stand. Whether this means crossing the Atlantic, having coffee with someone who we struggle to communicate with, listening to an earnest politician for the first time, deciding to find alternate means of happiness and fulfillment, seeing a piece or collection of art that challenges our conventional tastes, allowing ourselves to fully feel and express an extreme emotion, or simply learning one new fact a day, everyone has the opportunity in front of them to take control of their own lives--expanding themselves personally, in their community, and as a citizen of the world.

We can overcome the need for chemical alteration and the existence of stereotype by rising above what is considered the standard. Who wants to be a standard? In high school, isn't standard a "C?" We should all take our mother's advice and strive for an "A", no matter if we work in an office in Milwaukee, direct a theater company in New York, play a drum in a rural African tribe, or develop technology in Japan (all of which are considered stereotypes).

contemporary art with german placards

Hamburger Bahnhof (trainstation) was built and first used as a terminal in the mid 1800s. It went out of train service by the beginning of the twentieth century, survived the war, and opened as the Nationalgalerie's institution for contemporary art in 1996.

Thursday afternoons and evenings happen to be free art time in Berlin. Last week I only made it in for about twenty minutes before they closed at 18:00, but this time I left myself a good hour and a half and had ample time to wander the hallways and let my brain get lost in the hallways and pieces and installations.

Entering the grounds of the Hamburger Bahnhof, I am immediately struck by the bright yellow and red flags flying atop the two towers above the doorway. "Die Kunst ist Super!" ("The art is super!), they boast. This colorful, fluttering beckoning along with Dan Flavin's usual neon/fluorescent installation on one side of the courtyard is sure to ward off anyone who thinks they are about to see Kirchner or Schiele (or any German artist whose work dates prior to the radical artistic revolutions beginning in the 1960s). This is delightful for me.

Walking through the large wooden doors, before me stands what was once the main train platform area. Completely gutted, no trains run here now, but the architectural elements of a grand German train station are still elegantly accentuated in this main hall. Large metal trellised beams, high vaulted arches, and beautiful sectioned skylights and windows make this cavernous space a stark but inviting first major work to view in the museum and as a taste of what lies behind the walls of the impressive heart of this museum. With white walls, open space, Helvetica fonts, and names like Jeff Koons, Andy Warhol, Sol Le Witt, and Robert Smithson, I was immediately reminded of my favorite art museum--the DIA: Beacon art institute in Beacon, NY, about an hour and a half north of the city.

I must admit I'm on a visual hunt for all things ZOLA. That is to say, I'm looking for inspiration everywhere for my next theatrical directing venture, Emile Zola's naturalistic thriller Therese Raquin. For me, the Hamburger Bahnhof left only a small bit of disappointment in visual and emotional stimulation. This mostly derived from my own difficulty finding a comfortable way to take the museum in. It wasn't until I reached my third hall of perhaps five that I got into a groove and started being drawn into the work. Part of this is surely my own issue, but it is also definitely the primary responsibility of the museum to curate their work in a way that is as inclusive, critical, and thought provoking as possible. Something was missing in the curatorial continuity here.

Here's a few notables from my trip through Hamburger Bahnhof:

DANIEL SPOERRI's table setting turned on its side and mounted on the wall- a ghostly remnant/preserved moment of a communal experience that has been stolen from its proper place in time

PAUL PFEIFFER's half constructed football stadium combined with a 90 degree reflective/translucent wall provides a full 360 degree view of a scale model of a gigantic sports palace; his next room is completely empty but for the enormous soundscape of the inside of a football stadium coming from approximately 10-15 speakers placed around the room in juxtaposition to a small 5cmx5cm screen playing footage of a major football game at the far end of the space- an interesting and awe inspiring comment on the feeling that is created when thousands of people come together to celebrate a competitive sport versus the small taste received through digital/visual means

ABSALON's Ceullule II installation- an abode all in white, created only of pure cubic geometric shapes (cubes, rectangles, cylinders, etc) that is perfectly proportioned to accommodate one person; viewing the prototype from the inside is claustrophobically frustrating as is his video installation: a self videoportrait of himself screaming repetitively from the inside one of his creations. Absalon died from AIDS at 28 in 1993 before fulfilling his vision of installing prototypes of his personal living space in at least five cities

OTTO ZITKO's line and symbol painting on all four sides of an intermittent room provides color to an otherwise empty wall-canvas and through chaos creates an incredibly effective and simple continuity of space

DIETER/BJÖRN/ODDUR ROTH's gardensculpture started as a decomposable head bust of bird seeds and has grown through generations into a piece over 40m long- its rustic ladders, windows, and various pieces of junk created a treehouse without the tree and in the middle of a warehouse space (the claim of containing live bunnies proved untrue...)

RODNEY GRAHAM's two video installations--one of a typewriter being slowly covered in snow and one of a slowly turning chandelier--demonstrated how much I adore an old, loud, complicated 16mm projection machine

RICHARD ARTSCHAGER's "No Exit" hallway stretched the entire length of the museum's main wing with overhead light globes reading a simple red EXIT the entire length of the corridor

PIPILOTTI RIST's video installation didn't do much for me but his oversized red nylon couch and armchair gave me a laugh as I watched people watching his work--I was reminded of the power of proportion

ROBERT KUSMIROWSKI's Transition corridor mimicked the modern underground Berlin train station with some simple tape lines and eggshell paint (almost trump l'oeil)

MATTHEW BARNEY's video installation of the first part of his five section film The Cremaster Cycle reminded me that I need more of him in my life: So do you

A question formed in my mind as I views work after work entitled Ohne namen (untitled) that are so common in contemporary art museums. Someone important to me recently suggested a theory that music is only pure when it has no title and no words. Otherwise, I presume we are introducing implied or imposed meanings on something that otherwise exists in some uninfluenced--though still human developed--form. These pure works are supposed to be representations of emotional states--those of the artists turmoil or overwhelming love or whatever else. If this is the case for music, could one argue that it is necessary for visual art as well? In that case what about theater? Are we even looking for a pure form in theater? Without words and titles wouldn't theater be dance? So what's the difference?

I could go on.

Ultimately, my thoughts and experience here today reinforced the fact that DIA: Beacon is my favorite museum in the world. I wish I could go there today. Right now. If you are one of my long lost loves in NYC right now, please put down what you are doing, buy your MTA Metro North daycation pass to Beacon (including museum admission) and run--don't walk--to the most amazing day in a museum you will ever have. Seriously though, if you have a Saturday or Sunday free, NOW is the time to visit this unbelievably beautiful town on the Hudson with a contemporary art museum and collection that will absolutely blow your mind.

A very important teacher begged me to go here once, and since I did 1 year ago, now I'm begging you. It's actually a no brainer.

For now, I will fulfill my contemporary art yearnings by visiting this delightful museum with its own impressive collection of thought provoking works.

TR: FRÜLINGS ERWACHEN

Frülings Erwachen

Wedekind’s masterful play, written ca. 1889, comes jaunting to the stage at the Berliner Ensemble with a cast of talented Shauspieler and a simple and poigniant design that pleases both the senses and the intellect at every turn.

My familiarity with Frank Wedekind’s Spring Awakening began with the Broadway production of the same name that came to the into the NYC spotlight after an impressive run at the off-Broadway Atlantic Theater Company. When I first saw this production—with music by pop star Duncan Sheik and book (adaptation) by Stephen Sater—it was an impressive new genre of musical for commercial theater with a cast of energetic, sexy, potential superstar young actors with voices that took Sheik’s music to the next level. All this changed when the producers realized how much money they could make by simplifying and “Disney-fying” this revolutionary new musical. The resulting production—which I also witnessed—lost not only its charm and depth, but it’s integrity.

The story of this handful of ill-informed German school students and their stifling Puritanical elders is all to familiar to every American theater-goer and twelve year old girl, but this is truly a story—a piece of literature—that everyone who hits puberty should read.

Wendla Bergmann is just turning thirteen and resists her mother’s attempt to put her in a longer, blacker, more conservative (ie “grownup”) dress. To her mother’s dismay, she is allowed to keep her kurz, weiß (short, white) dress for another spring season—a decision that will ultimately lead the play to its tragic turn. Melchior Gabor obviously has an infatuation with Wendla—this does not go unnoticed by the young girl and her giggling friends—although mingling of boys and girls is frowned upon at this dangerous age. Despite the fact that the children once played together, the awakening of their “urges” makes contact taboo. Melchior has an amusing scene as he helps his troubled friend Moritz Stiefel understand the joys of self pleasure and tries to explain that it is normal to have “phantoms” of the fairer sex. As Mortiz’s thoughts distract him from school and he is kicked out of the academy, Melchior and Wendla’s romance intensifies as they begin to meet behind their parents disapproving backs. Wendla’s mother has a hilarious time trying to explain where babies come from to her curious daughter—ultimately landing with “a man and a woman must love each other very much.” With this answer in mind, Wendla thinks nothing of Melchior’s rape because he vows that he does not love her. Meanwhile, Moritz decides it is better to take his own life. His childhood friend Ilsa catches him in the act and tries to persuade him otherwise by sharing about her newfound personal and sexual freedom. But the constraints of his society get the best of him, and he ends his life as we end act one. His funeral is a decisive moment for the audience in seeing the dynamic between young person and authority, but provides no real resolve for the characters: the surviving boys stand confused and alone while their elders mock the death of their strange friend and leave with a cackling, sickening laugh. Melchior has his own trouble when his teachers discover his “anatomical” drawings, and he is sent to a reformatory school in Britain. Wendla comes down with stomach pains and her mother painfully confronts her with the truth of the situation: “You have a child!” The play comes to a close as Melchior discovers Wendla’s grave in the cemetery. Then the play takes a strange turn. Mortiz, along with the philosophical person of (perhaps) Wedekind himself appear to Melchior in the graveyard and take the momentum out of what is otherwise an intensely tragic and climactic ending.

The Berliner Ensemble’s production of the original play retains every bit of integrity that Wedekind’s play begs its staging to uphold. The children are played by young actors with real chops for their art and a depth of understanding for their characters that goes beyond the pop star attitude of their musical counterparts. Particularly touching performances here include Hanschen’s late night love affair with a post card of Desdemona, Thea’s hilarious and flawless depiction of a young girl yearning to dawn pink from head to toe, and Moritz Stiefel’s troubled—and troubling—version of a boy who is misunderstood and loses hope.

Most of the adults are played in a style that presents them as goofy, antiquated, and clown-like aliens. They appear much less frequently than their children, but it is quite evident that the stifling of knowledge to youngsters produces correspondingly stifled adults. All stars from the old folk include Ms. Gabor’s tedious but emotional four-page letter to Moritz that ends with a simple sigh and the Headmaster’s challenged assistant—overworked and underdressed (his vest popped open as he sauntered around the stage opening and closing windows)—who almost feels remorse when Melchior is caught trying to “artistically” understand his own physiology.

The design for this struggle between the generations generally stays out of the crossfire here. Sounds were limited to wind, rain, thunder, and birds—essential sound to any spring. No music was even needed to accentuate the incredible noise made by the depth of the ensemble’s characters. The costumes—all in black and white until Ilsa’s entrance in prostitute pink—emphasized the children’s physical development by showing their stretching seams and shortening sleeves. The set was brilliantly simple and effective. It consisted almost exclusively of four electronic rotating flats—white on one side and black on the other—that became a character in and of themselves—whether twisting wildly in the spring wind or turning slowly and dauntingly just before Moritz’s suicide scene—until they grandly fell to the floor to create the uneven landscape of the cemetery. Lighting was as simple and as blunt as Wedekind’s language. Blue-white tints and light rose hints bounced off the bright white surfaces of the set and gaunt pale faces of the actors.

Ultimately my reaction to this piece was similar to that of my reaction to the musical version in the states. I left invigorated by the compelling story and inspired (if not a bit jealous) by the energetic performances of young actors who are obviously doing what they love on the stage while also sharing a story of love, misunderstanding, tragedy, loss, and—mostly, of growing up.