When I Can't Write, I Read

"To-day the sun is brilliantly shining; it is quite mild and warm. I go out for my last morning walk, without an overcoat or hat. The sun shines, and Hitler is the master of this city. The sun shines, and dozens of my friends - my pupils at the Workers' School, the men and women I met at the I.A.H. - are in prison, possibly dead. But it isn't of them that I am thinking - the clear-headed ones, the purposeful, the heroic; they recognized and accepted the risks. I am thinking of poor Rudi, in his absurd Russian blouse. Rudi's make-believe, story-book game has become earnest; the Nazis will play it with him. The Nazis won't laugh at him; they'll take him on trust for what he pretended to be. Perhaps at this very moment Rudi is being tortured to death.

I catch sight of my face in the mirror of a shop, and am shocked to see that I am smiling. You can't help smiling, in such beautiful weather. The trams are going up and down the Kleiststrasse, just as usual. They, and the people on the pavement, and the teacosy dome of the Nollendorfplatz station have an air of curious familiarity, of striking resemblance to something one remembers as normal and pleasant in the past - like a very good photograph.

No. Even now I can't altogether believe that any of this has really happened..."

Christopher Isherwood, early 1933

The Secretest of Santas 2008

My worst day yet at work was totally transformed by a sweet sweet Top 5 Secret Santa, complete with dance-offs and inadvertent gopher impressions from Juliette. Cleanup of the carnage tomorrow morning :)

The Magical Season

A pristine Christmas scene with the traditional dead body in the background.

Memories!

The Berlin Stories

A joy. I've only gone through one of the two stories so far (The Last of Mr. Norris - Goodbye to Berlin is still to come) but already I'm going to perch out on this limb and say that Christopher Isherwood is maybe the most masterful character developer I've ever read. Funny and sad and depressing and delightful, an even and open-eyed portrayal of the Communists and the Nazis, a sweet taste of the Berlin of the 1930s delivered on the silver spoon of the lovable hatable Mr. Arthur Norris.

We'll be there by 9.

Four turtles reunited to summit another mountain.




Winter things.

Pre-ski flat preparation, all done by Mike.

The prize.

FM portrait misexecuted :(

Stealth picture of that guy with a sandwich.





The door that would not open.

Mike reveling in the luxury of the Sands.

First tree.

Good Old Pater

Texted to Dad, 11:45am: The moon is waxing gibbous
Texted to me, 11:47am: Thank goodness ;-)

Cela que j'ai fait aujourd'hui.

Today was one of those "They're lucky I'm even here" days. So:

Ellie snagged me a packet of M&M's, so rather than chomp them down straight I decided to burn some calories digesting the stats:

16 Blues
11 Greens
5 Oranges
11 Reds
6 Browns
6 Yellows

Trying to dredge up standard deviations and likelihood of getting that many blues will be fodder for the treadmill tomorrow. Mindless math is the only thing that pulls me through my runs. I was pleased by the overabundance of blues, but what happened to yellow? Little disappointed. If I had my way, orange would be out.

Ate the Cal colors today and saved the harvest festival for tomorrow. All in all, thanks Ellie!

I also did this:

A Photoshop Romp feat. Nevan Krogan and a Ribosome.

I haven't posted in a while because 1) I was on post #108, which is a key number in LOST around which half the plot revolves, so I thought I should stick on it and see what happened (nothing), 2) I didn't mind having S.C. Moore stare me in the face as my most recent post, and 3) there has been nothing blog-appropriate to write recently. My book is sluggish at best and is sapping my energy in good and bad ways I think. My journal has seen a lot of action this week. It seems to be busiest when I am not.

Things:

I'm saying goodbye tonight to a handful of people that I never expect to see again. Our paths could easily cross, but it wouldn't be unusual if they didn't. I don't have much nostalgia left for this place; I've stayed a semester too long and everyone is worn down to the stubs of their being. I'm surprised at the one person who made me a little choked up, though. After a year-plus relationship of good, strong sarcasm and mutual schadenfreude, it took an unexpectedly sincere goodbye to show me what a good friend I'd made. With him I will keep in touch.

James Dean in East of Eden was pretty terrible. Go on, bring on the hate.

Regular, original Oreos are such a major disappointment now. Anything less than Triple Stuf requires removal of the top cookie at this point to get the ratio anywhere near palatable. Mint Stuf and Chocolate Stuf are treason.

The combination of table my dad made, lamp my mum found, and teapot my gran gifted is making the east side of the comfy purple couch one of my favorite places in San Francisco. Also, I like to see how long I can stand not turning on my space heater in the flat by pretending I'm in Bastogne. Related Note: Band of Brothers Is So Good. Even though I'm sure I can borrow it indefinitely from Ben, I think I might buy it myself, a rarity for me, because I love it so much. I am tempted to do an epically long Band of Brothers post, but I know there is absolutely no way to do justice to such a worthy showcase of such worthy subjects. If you are even a smidge interested WWII and are not too squeamish about the atrocities contained therein, please invest ten hours of your life in Band of Brothers. There.

My hair is now long enough to warm my ears again. Just in time for the year's first real cold snap, and it's about bloody time, because it's December 7.

Still no rain. SF disappoints on that front.

I hope there is some cake in my future, or some warm tea. I want to get a couple of little egg cups so I can have soft-boiled eggs and toast for breakfast. I guess I will need some bread too. Apparently egg cups are not a standard thing here? Fellow Americans, confirm or deny.

Sleepily sleepily churning on, missing deadline for the last time.