t was so incredibly awesome on so many levels that I spontaneously broke into tears when I unwrapped and saw the gift. Even my dirty-harry-hardfaced hubbylove teared up a bit (but don’t tell him I told you). And despite being still a little sick and exhausted from Christmas joy, I was too hyper to sleep until 5 AM because I was working on realizing the awesomeness of our present and the incredible generosity and kindness behind it.

I have wanted a “real” camera forever and ever. I more and more felt that my crappy point-and-shoot was not up to what I wanted to do, and I really wished for a DSLR.

Before we bought the house, my and hubby’s plans regarding this were more or less like “OK, if we save money, in one or two years, we’ll buy one”.

But then along came the house. As some of you might have followed a year ago, we were in a really stressful situation at home and had to move out. We jumped into the adventure of buying a house rather quickly, and all our monies went into it, and will go into the mortgage for, well… centuries.

So the plans of getting a DSLR went down the drain. Apart from the mortgage, this is an old house that needs repairs. Sudden surprises like mold in unexpected places eat up resources like nothing else, believe me.

Do you know when you wish for something really badly, but you know it’s just not possible, not ever will be possible? You push it so far away that it is almost nonexistant anymore.

But still, being a true friend, and doing quite our share of photography talk amongst us, the meerkitten knew all of this.

So Christmas Eve. The candles on the tree are burning, we have sung sufficiently many Christmas carols, read the Christmas Story, and now it’s time to unwrap the presents. We all are quite happy with everything: Books, some games, some trinkets, some more books. Then, my son brings to me a cute, unobtrusive box…

As the writing indicates, it comes from meerkat and is for “The Roos artists”. Heh. Cool.

So we unwrap. And then we’re speechless. I mean, totally and utterly.

This is what is in the box:

This is not just “a camera”. This is HIS camera. He actually gave us HIS camera, the one he used to do all of this!

When you want something for so long, really want it, and it is impossible to have it, and you push the hope for having it so far away, and then all of a sudden you get it as a gift, then all the wishing comes back. It’s like a backdraft of happiness. I started crying. And couldn’t stop for quite a while.

This picture was taken an hour or so later, I think, but you can still see how awed I am. And that I had been crying.

So what happened? What in all the worlds made him do such a thing as giving his beloved camera, his baby away?

Well, as this part is more his story to tell than mine, I shall make it short. He, too, felt he had outgrown his equipment, and to get to the next professional level, he needed something else. It was not easy, as he really did love this camera, but there it was. Of course, he could have sold this one and added the money to the savings for a new one. But he decided to do something else.

I cannot begin to say just how much this means to me. Seriously. This gift is awesome on so many levels.

Kittenz started explaining the functions to us right away.

And today, we went for a long walk into the forest, both with our new cameras. Yes, he actually brought his new camera, too, and yet another brave act was not to show it to me the whole week before Christmas, and just letting it sit in his suitcase without sharing, so that I might not guess his gift beforehand. Not that I WOULD have guessed, ever.

So hubby and I have a real camera now. Roarr. Be happy with us.

I remember how my husband and I toasted each other, praying: “May the next year be better than the last. May it finally be better.”

It never was, not really. And I came to the conclusion that this, probably, is life. That there is no such thing as unfettered love and happiness. Who am I to know? Perhaps it exists for some, but if it does, I doubt it does for me. I write this without bitterness or sorrow. My life just is not easy. It never was, and I become accustomed to it. I love too much, too passionately, I take my decisions from the depth of my heart, and when I leap, I never look back. It is what I am, and it makes my life one of tough choices and deep emotions. I don’t regret it, and why should I?

I just have to accept the fact that this simple, quiet happiness that some people are blessed to live is not for me. Nor for my family.

Still – may 2009 be a better year. The last year ended with some of those tough choices, but now, they are made. And I will watch them bear fruit in 2009. May God grant us the fruits will be sweet, at least some of them.

We will move house somewhen in March. It is thrilling and exiting, scary and wonderful all at once. We signed the contract some weeks ago, and I hope it will not ruin us financially. But we will be free, and it makes me happy. Throughout the whole affair, we were blessed by the support of dear friends. Friends. One of the few save havens, one of the few constants in my life. And apart from my child, the thing that makes me most grateful in this world.

Everything changes. Even love does. But as long as it guides us, we can breathe, and live, and carry on.

Happy New Year, my friends.

I am sorry that my Audio Autumn did not last longer. There is so much more music to share. But major changes occured in my life. I will let you in on all of them, comes time. Promised.

I’ll also dive into another project soon, in January. Chances are good that it will be photos again, the Worth photogs are preparing for another 30-days-challenge.

So stay tuned. Things will happen.

Try to be true to yourself. Love matters.

Xmas wishes 2008

This is pretty darn interesting.

If the world could vote.

Noticed how countries with non-democratic tendencies tend towards McCain? *g*

Well, no secret what I would vote, right? Although, on the other hand… McCain and Palin would probably make even better laughing stock than Mr. George W. Or almost.

Heh. Lovely, V1c. This has been one of my favorite topics of conversation for quite a while when I was still studying (history, btw.)

Yes, I do have a philosophy on history. And that is that all history repeats itself. Although we might grow and develop, we tend to make the same mistakes over and over. It was one of the reasons why I studied history at all. I believe that is we know history, and follow the events around us, we will to a certain degree be able to predict what will happen.

I found this to be true.

Being able to predict this isn’t going to help anyone, but I only found that out much later. At the time, I thought knowledge was power, and knowledge would enable me to change the world. Heh.

The use of history varies immensely from country to country. Having grown up in a country that lost two wars I know what common guilt feels like, what it feels like to lose any kind of national identity to the spinnings of history. Each people has their own way of dealing with history. I felt this very accurately when I was in France, where I was shocked how there could still be people openly admiring Napoleon, who overran Europe with war. And in Canada, where I found students having the Canadian flag hanging in their rooms. I was envious, because no German student I know would’ve placed the German flag anywhere in their proximity. Any sign of national pride was and is frowned upon here, because we had an overdose of it half a century ago. On the one hand, it’s a sad thing, it makes us lose some of our identity. On the other hand, I have seldom met such an accurate awareness of wanting to be tolerant, of fighting for minorities’ rights than here. So this coin has two sides.

And as for the last part of your question “Is there actually a true history?” – of course not. History is written by the winner. It has always been this way. Having specialized in medieval history, I can tell tales about the search for accurate sources. Of course, in the Middle Ages only the upper class and clergy were literate, so it was them who “made” history. We often did translations of many source, deciphered manuscripts, compared to paintings, crests, coins, scrolls… anything to puzzle the different hints together to make a puzzle coming closer to the truth. So history was, and still is a question of who has the power to disclose it.

As far as this is concerned, we live in an interesting age. Because even though the media and government hold much of the disclosing (or concealing, or interpreting, censoring, distorting) power in their hands, the possibilities of modern communication and personal documentation become huge and almost impossible to control. Which is interesting. We’ll see where the currents of history will take us yet.

Thank you, V1ctorya. These were interesting to talk about.

Stay tuned for some Top Five List questions by MasterGnu and Karmalilly!

I was visiting a friend yesterday, and she told me some stuff about her neighbors. They are both alcoholics and junkies, and they’re got 2 kids: A boy aged 2, and a little baby, 6 months old.

They do not care about the kids at all. Every second or so night, the guy demolates the whole flat, kicks in doors and such, and they both beat up each other. They use the baby buggy for transporting beer bottles rather than their baby. And by the middle of the month, they’re totally out of money (which is social welfare money anyways).

My friend called the youth care dep. twice, but they didn’t do anything, obviously. And she won’t call again: The guy is threatening her. Being a single mom, she has to protect her kids, she sais.

So I went to the police. There’s a department here caring for special children issues, and I went there. Told them about it. They really listened attentively, and (hopefully) will take care of that. I left my name. The officer told me they will not give away my name, but I do not care. He may. If the guy feels like searching me out and confronting me, he may. C’mon, give me a reason.

I am sick and tired of people abusing, beating, torturing their kids. I can’t stand these stories anymore, and I won’t suffer it anywhere in my vicinity anymore. AT FUCKIN’ ALL.

That’s it.

A friend of mine, an American Citizen from Rhode Island, wrote this article concerning the president’s opinion on war “casualties”.

“I stared at the newspaper headline for several long seconds. I could not believe what I was reading. The headline and the story that ran beneath it attempted to summarize President Bush’s address to the American people the night before. That address was aimed at winning more support for the ongoing U.S. military action in Iraq.

Three words from the headline gripped me by the throat: “Worth the Sacrifice…” Worth the sacrifice, huh? It was a strong statement, and so I gave it serious thought. This led me to wonder how someone who had NOT lost a close relative in the fighting could make such a bold determination. Shouldn’t this rather have been a determination rendered by the families of those who were lost in this conflict? By that I mean the mothers and fathers and wives and husbands and sons and daughters of our brave fallen soldiers.

Then I tried to put a more personal spin on the situation by asking myself a simple question. Would I as a parent be willing to trade the life of my son or daughter for the mere possibility of attaining democracy in Iraq? The answer was a profound NO! Okay. How about a guarantee of attaining democracy in Iraq? Again a profound NO!

I subsequently decided to take the Q & A session a bit further…much further, actually. Would I as a parent be willing to trade the life of my son or daughter even if it meant world peace for all of eternity? In other words, some divine being comes down from the heavens and makes an offer that would result in a devastating personal loss for me in exchange for an idyllic existence for everyone else on the planet. This may sound a bit selfish on my part, but the answer again would be a profound NO!

In each instance my answer came quickly and easily, and with good reason. For what are any of these supposedly great end-results worth in the absence of our most cherished prizes of all – our loved ones? To my way of thinking, not a whole lot. And, in the case of Iraq, we’re not exactly talking about sacrificing ONE person to satisfy our President’s seemingly blind ambition. At last count, America’s price tag for this endeavor had exceeded 2,000 of our finest young men and women. And what of the more than 100,000 estimated dead among Iraq’s women, children and other “casualties” of war?

The President is constantly mentioning how most Iraqi people are supportive of the actions he has undertaken in that country. This information may or may not be true (I’ve learned to be a little skeptical of the President’s “sources”). Be that as it may, I find myself wondering whether the families of those 100,000+ local innocents killed are truly looking forward to the possibility of attaining democracy in their country.
Do they care anymore? Have they ever cared? Should they care? How can they think kindly about this so-called democracy without also thinking long and hard about the price that has been paid in blood? Was it indeed “worth the sacrifice” to them as well?

This brings me to the subject of value. What sort of value should one place on a human life? How about 2,000 human lives? Or 100,000? Is there any outcome that makes sacrificing “X” amount of human lives acceptable…even if the mission that contributed to their deaths appears on the surface to be right and just by some?

Perhaps if I sat a throne and possessed the power to shape the world in accordance with my wishes I would be more understanding of those who proclaim such actions are “worth the sacrifice.” But I don’t sit a throne…and I have not lost a loved one in this conflict. I am but a proud citizen of this country, like so many Americans. I do not have the right to decide whether the end has justified the means in Iraq.

And neither does the President.”

“You have exactly seven minutes,” a suave, monotonic voice echoed my thoughts. “You are to ask questions about the movie only. No questions about maidenhood, plastic surgery or Mr. Timberlake. If any of those topics are broached, the interview will be ended immediately.”

I was ushered into the room, brushing my predecessor’s shoulders as he left. The concept of an assembly line came to my mind.

The room was lit by spotlights, the camera was already buzzing.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” I said. The perfectly rouged and illuminated girl switched on her smile, but said nothing. No time for niceties. I pushed the lights, the camera, the cinematographer, sound assistants, bodyguards and personal gofers from my mind.

“Miss Spears, your debut on the silver screen tells the charming story about an innocent young girl breaking away to seek adventure on the road. How much of the young Britney went into the role of Lucy Wagner?”

Yeah, charming story, sure. Her flick is incredibly boring crap, I thought while pretending to listen to the girl’s well-rehearsed and recited answer.

Afterwards, I did a nightshift. “We need the report ready for the morning news!”, the chief editor yelled into the phone. His sound intensity had little effect – he always yelled.

“You did an interview with BRITNEY SPEARS?” My little sister also yelled. “This is just SOOO cool! Did you bring me an autograph?”

“No, we weren’t allowed to.”

“And what did she wear? Was she nice?”

“She was about the stupidest, most artificial, most boring person I’ve ever met in my life. Just another sorry, remote-controlled celebrity puppet.”

“D’awww, c’mon, don’t be white-bread! You’ve just got the way-out phattest job in the world!”

She was right, of course. I earned tons of money, wore designer clothes and moved graciously through the glittering TV world. Most people went green with envy when they heard what I did for a living.

Upon finishing the report, I was too tired to sleep and so I went for a walk in the forest. When I had been a child, I’d called this place “The Woods of Wonder”. I had talked to the trees, listened to the singsong of the rivulets, played hide-and-seek with squirrels and fairies. My fantasy world had been so much more real than the real one. There were no divorces here, no hurts or betrayals.

I met my first fairy on that old beech tree when I was twelve. She just sat there, watching me. I now tend to believe that she may have been the mental delusion of a hyper-sensitive, pixilated adolescent mind; still, she was breathtaking. I’d not seen her since.

I climbed the old beech like my former, twelve-year-old self – and immediately paid the price: I bumped my knee on a branch. Wheezing, I pulled myself onto the same limb I used to sit upon so many years ago. Thank God it held my weight. I convinced myself that the tears in my eyes were caused by the swelling knee.

“It took you a long time to come back,” uttered a soft a voice beside me. I almost disgraced myself by tumbling to the ground. It was her.

“I came here almost once a week!” I protested.

“Oh, that wasn’t really you,” she dismissed my words with a kittenish wave of her hand. “And why are you crying?”

“I banged my knee.” Boy, that was lame. “OK. I am miserable and I don’t even know why. I mean, everyone keeps on telling me how great my job is.”

“But you do not think it’s great?”

“I dunno. I always wanted to tell stories, and now I do. So what’s wrong with me?”

She started laughing.

“And what is so funny?” I asked furiously.

“Nothing.” Her voice turned gentle. “It’s so easy. Can’t you see? You always wanted to tell stories. You are just not telling the right stories.”
With that, she was just gone.

To be honest, I don’t know if what happened that day truly happened. Most likely, my fairy had graduated to become the mental delusion of a hyper-sensitive, pixilated adult mind.

Regardless, I subsequently quit my job as a well paid TV journalist to become a real storyteller. I now impart fairytales, legends and myths to children. I have since re-claimed the “Woods of Wonder”, too. If you listen closely, you can feel their magic in my story.

———————————

This is a story I wrote for Worth1000 in an H2H. It won, too. And, what do you think: is it true or fictional?

As a first of probably several posts about this, I’d like to talk about Britney’s vagina. Well, not too much, as Chrome already did this quite efficiently: Chrome about Brit’s pussy

No, I do not want to rant about the “the seriously braindead [american] bigot front”, as my friend so eloquently calls it. At least not now – you know I usually love doing that.

Imho, the sculpture is quite ok – as an expression of a male phantasy concerning female birth-giving. Not as an expression of female birth-giving.

As I pointed out in Chrome’s Blog: No female in labour would chose exactly this position. It defys gravity, and gravity is the only friend you have when you deliver, believe me. OK, the midwife might be the exception. Of course, Britney would not know that, as she did not give birth naturally, but had a section.

Here is the core of my musings: How did it happen that women let themselves be told how they should deliver their babies? How – and when – did we give all of this out of our hands so completely that most first mums-to-be do not know how to handle themselves? When did we give this topic over to the docs?

Don’t get me wrong. I admire doctors. More than one woman I know would have died in childbed without them. More than one child I know would not be alive without them. I am glad that they’re there.

But still, giving birth is primarily a thing a woman should decide about.

As we started with birth in art, I ask you to join me on a little circuit through history.

A prehistoric painting. Look at her position…

And here: An Attic relief showing woman giving birth on birthing stool, with midwife and kinswomen in attendance. Birthing stools are older than Christianity, and yet, they disappeared from the hospitals completely. Only recently did some very modern hospitals start to think about this possibility again… And here, in Classic Athens, we see the most common position I found in old sculptures, paintings, carvings, whatever: Women are squatting. And usually, there are some other women to support them and hold them upright (remember: gravity!)

Who the heck told women that lying on their backs would be a good idea???

Ancient Egypt: Other time and place, similar position. A squatting woman giving birth, assisted by two goddesses (Hathor and Taweret),? from the Temple of Hathor at Dendera.

India, 15th century, a carving in a temple. And the identical position…

This lovely lady is an aztec goddess going by the unpronouncable name of Tlazolteotl, the goddess of earth, sex, childbirth and mothers. Guys, she KNEW what she was doing. And this is how the birthes the sun: squatting!

Yes, talking about goddesses: Kali, giving birth to the universe itself. And what position did she chose? Yes, you seem to get it.

A Costa Rican sculpture of a woman giving birth. She is kneeling, and she seems to pull the baby with both her hands, too.

Woman giving birth, Lotus Sutra (Chinese), 9th to 10th century

This is an image about a woman giving birth, assisted by her midwife and friends. Published in 1580. Oh, and? the title of the publication was? “Kunnst und Lehrbüchlein für die anfahenden Jungen. Daraus reissen und Malen zu lernen”. One of the very few pictures featuring men, btw: In the background. Looking at the stars.

Gustave Witkowski, Pioneer Birth Scene, 1877. And, interrestingly: The same position, again. So, as you see, even in the inhibited pioneer times, women weren’t prissy about birthing. That seemed to come only with the last half of the 20th century.

And as we are talking about art, here is an artwork about female birth-giving (not about an expression of a male phantasy concerning female birth-giving):

Just absorb it and think about it for a while.

There is a talk I had with a friend. It’s almost six months past now, but I can’t get it out of my head. They are a couple, good friends of ours, and they have an almost grown-up son. As they’re both quite intelligent people, I asked him if they think their son is going to study. What he answered was:

“The son of a locksmith and a saleswoman will not have the chance to study. It just doesn’t happen”.

This quote stays with me since then. Don’t get it wrong: These are open-minded, tolerant, intelligent, literate people, it’s not that he would not want his son to choose the career that he wants to. That’s what startled me so about this sentence. It just doesn’t happen in his universe.

My grandparents were craftsmen and farmers, I do not come from a bourgouis family. My mother was the first one to go to university, and the only girl from the area. My grandpa died in the war, when my mum was four years old, and my grandmother made every effort she could to make it possible. And it became real, and my mum became a teacher (and I got my greek name that way, she loved the Greek classes at university).

This story of my family made me believe that you can achieve everything if you just work hard enough for it.

But perhaps that is not right. Perhaps it was the time? Did it work only because our whole country was being rearranged? Germany had to be built up after the war, the cards were reshuffled, and so a craftman’s daughter could go and study at the university?

Could it be that this time is over, that class boundaries start to rearrange themselves? A new world had started, and now the unwritten laws of privileged and under-privileged solidify? Not as Marx and Lenin defined them, but as this new society defines them? Well, it’s true that I can tell the kids who watch TV the whole day from those who don’t – in my classes.

I do not believe in class boundaries, nor in any other society-given differences between people. I do believe that we really can be what we want to, that we just have to try hard enough.

But is that naive, after all?