Blindentaubenwerkannmirhelfengasse

A story. Again. A gain. A loss. At a loss?
A man was walking down the street and he saw somebody's past go past that he thought was his own. He walked into a cage, stuck. People like to look at freaks in cages, but they didn't afford him a glance. He danced, nothing. He tried shouting, nothing. A flower floated and landed by his cage. He looked at it. It said “hello” and flew off. Was never meant to stay.
There was a small kid drawing on a wall in the background. The man saw him and opened the cage door. He went home. Home was a dark hole in a wall not dissimilar to the one the kid was drawing on. It was dull. He sat in there instead and nobody saw him. Just sat laying out a stick every hour with his egg timer, to count down the days. He started to wonder when these days would go without him. Whether he could start something new, or do something he knew, or drink lots and dance and get noticed like he didn't in the cage and thought of all the things he'd love to do but never really could because he didn't believe that it would make a blind bit of difference, when he thought about it.
Not a blind bit of difference

Bye m'love, miss you

Goodbye my sweetheart, you will be so missed.
Your heart, though small, was bigger than most.
I loved your sweet attention, your comfort in sadness,
your peculiar ways, your memory shan't be lost.

You always said so much without ever a word,
I could rely on you to make me smile without fail.
My little white angel, you will stay in my mind,
to sit on my lap and make my day.

Now you're gone to a prettier place, and can feel no pain,
I just want to let you know, you'll always be my little Gem.
It'll always be your corner, your garden, your bed.
Memories are what we have, and I'll always love to think of them.

Bye Bye my love, will miss you x
"and I can't help but love you so"

A little (big) something, that is a little (a lot) ooh

In the murky shadows of a planet called Splott, there lurked a sinister looking cat called Tilda Swinton. She often stalked the streets of the Sacred Capital Of Splott like a red headed tube of sea kelp. One day she was at work, in her dating salon, which wasn't called The Show. There were people waiting in a line with tickets. Most people she turned down, as she didn't care much for them and preferred hanging around the kitchen in her underwear, or sometimes even acting like a lady. One man came up though on Tuesday the twenty eighth day of Junaury in the year 10,862,619 AVW (After Virginia Woolf), and his name was...
“...Popty Garth, at your presence,” as he so correctly announced upon acquaintance with the ugly old bint. She thought he said “Pop to your hearth” and reckoned he came from the north, but didn't judge him. She fancied him.
“Your eyes! They tell me how you want me!” exclaimed Popty, picking up the message. Cats can't talk like us, they only speak an old and generally extinct language (in civilised lands) called French. But Splott wasn't civilised as it still widely and wildly used the language of French to communicate between different species of vermin. Tilda stood on her back legs.
“Sauter! Pour mon amour!” she snarled, sinister as a bitter little feline. Which she did every day, as bitter and as feline as she was. Popty asked a passing rat what that meant (as he didn't speak French), did so, and she was impressed. He jumped so high his feet left the floor. It must have been the static from the floor below. “Vous faites-moi maintenant une tarte!” she shrieked wildly. The rat translated.
“A tart?” said Popty, getting a little excited. The rat corrected his translation to “pie”. “Making you a pie must be as easy as love!” He whipped out his rather large and knobbly Magic Wand, said “Mucus Pukus” and zapped her into a pie. She gave him the details of an Iron Maiden concert on Friday, and he said he would go, as he had previously felt like mould, but wanted something else to eat now instead. He left, tripping over a bag of dirt left rather erratically by the doorway.
Friday came, and Tilda hadn't seen the newspaper reports about a crazed Bakehouse Killer preying on Splottian Crazy Cats. But even if she had, she needed a squeeze a day, instead of her negligée, so she was going to go. But while she was on the way, she passed the legendary Splott pool, which borders with the made up land of Pooland. Now normally lakes flow downhill to the sea, but this one was going the other way. She had learnt Pinglish specially for the date.
“Water's running in the wrong direction! I've got a feeling it's a mixed up sign,” she said. So she didn't go. She didn't bother letting Popty know either.
But Popty, being a cunning little swine, had followed her in her own shadow. She could hear music, maybe she could hear a bassline jumping in a backstreet light, but presumed it to be a bad stomach. She turned the corner, and there stood Popty in her dressing gown and her shoes.
“It doesn't mean you'll go as fast I do!” said Tilda in fright. But before she knew it, she was in freight instead, in the form of a lorry with Popty Garth written loud and shamefully on the side. “Think before you bite me!” she said with one last gasp.
“Let's go, Eskimo,” he snapped, and threw her in a bread machine normally reserved for making Vienna Rols and checking essays for plagiarism. After she was flatter than a doormat, he said “I can't mistake her biology”. Which was true, he could have made a anatomical poster from her.
He thought quickly what the neighbours would say, but he'd already done them in so it didn't matter.
Suddenly!!!!!!!! The doors to his Bakehouse were smashed open, and in ran Ray Davies from the Kinks. He threw a bag of flour in the general direction of Popty, because he was short sighted and wanted a free Vienna Roll. But by mere chance of location, the flour whacked Popty smack on the elbow and knocked him dead to the floor. About five seconds after he jumped up and fell back down, as even in death he was affected by the static from the floor below. “You really got me,” he might have said, were he not dead.
Ray Davies was annoyed, so he left and drank Coca Cola, C O L A – cola.
And so it was, that Tilda Swinton got flattened and Popty Garth got killed by his own raw materials.

Walls

Rohan went walking in the city and it was dark and polluted, despite there being no cars and all the factories being derelict. He was heading to his world at the end of the road. There were ballerinas and rubber tyres dotted around. Somebody behind a mirror shot a rabbit, who made the noise of a cow. Rohan saw a shelf on a wall that had remained standing when its adjoining counterparts had long given up the fight. He thought it was nice, and looked at it, smiled and stuff. Then another wall came, and knocked Rohan flat on his face, chest, stomach and leg.
“Stone me!” he said. But the wall was made of brick, which is technically different to stone. He was hurt. The shelf remained.
Some other walls fell over, but not to get Rohan. He wasn't that important. In fact the wall that fell on him only did by chance, the wall hadn't actually noticed him. The shelf seemed to have seen him, but didn't look entirely sure about it. It wasn't really too bothered either, that much was clear. It had a new wall to look at now. Broken walls are much more interesting than broken hearts, or at least much more desirable. A few ballerinas danced past, didn't really see him. One asked him for the time. A rubber tyre started burning. Rohan thought he might burn with it, but it didn't come anywhere near him. He was left where nobody could see him, to lie down and just wait. But nobody could see him before, so what he was waiting for God only knows.
After 83 years, an Elven wind came and Rohan became the wall.

macht nix

Äöüßä
ich fühle mich schon wieder schlecht. Ich habe Angst davor, zurück zu gehen. Wien ist natürlich nicht perfekt aber hier passiert etwas. In der Hölle geht nix los. Ich fühle mich eigentlich jetzt wie ich früher da fühlte. In Herr der Ringe Pippin sagt „Es ist immer schrecklich bei einem Krieg zu sein, aber darauf zu warten, wenn ein Krieg kommt, den man nicht anders machen kann, ist noch schlimmer.“ So ist es. Ich hasse es. Meine Stadt hat mein Leben zerstört, da bleibe ich immer noch zu Hause, und langweile mich, und denke - „Worum geht’s?“. Ich kann nix machen. Gleich hier. Was mache ich? Bleibe zu Hause und langweile mich. Ich habe keine Interessen, keine Leidenschaft, kein Sinn. Ich esse nicht viel, weil ich krank fühle, aber deswegen fühle ich krank, weil ich nicht esse. So ist es mit alles. Ich mache nix, ich bin langweilt, und deshalb habe ich kein Energie. Aber was will ich machen, um dieses Gefühl weg zu schicken? Was kann ich? Eigentlich nichts. Ich bin die gleiche Person. Kann nicht nur allein ausgehen und mit irgendjemandem sprechen. Und Leute kommen nicht zu mir. So ich kann nichts. Fast niemand in England hat sich bemerkt, dass ich weggegangen bin. Ich kenne zwei Engländer, die nett sind und den ich nicht weh tun will. Außerhalb diese gibt’s niemand. Und es gibt keine Hoffnung, dass es verändern wird. Ich fühle mich ganz leer und ohne irgendetwas. Ich kann nicht lieben, ich kann nicht mit irgendetwas bleiben. Ich gebe immer auf, weil ich kein Ergebnis bekomme.
Ich gebe wieder auf.
Macht nix

Jippity Jop the Cow went Bop, with pretty blades all in his tow

I like chocolate. I like fruity cakes. I like playing music for people. I like playing music for myself. I like hearing music. I like nice people. I like that feeling of “what if” when I meet someone new. I like red. I like sausage. I like sleeping. I like the park. I like scooting. I like peace and quiet. I like rock and roll inclusively and exclusively. I like talking. I like talking in cafés. I like fish and chips. I like doodling. I like Beethoven and Liszt and Rachmaninov. I like Dalí. I like swimming once I'm there. I like lying down with my eyes closed. I like you. I like Am Himmel. I like girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. I like to believe in romance. I like reading stuff I don't understand. I like understanding stuff I don't read. I like sentiment. I like liking things.

Je ne bloge pas francais

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
..

Longism about Linguism

Language is a funny beast, like a platypus. Particularly German. German language, not German platypuses (platypii?).
“There are three tenses.” No there aren't! We have Past Perfect, Past Imperfect, Past Plus Perfect, Present, Future (written often as Present), Passive, Subjunctive (two of these), Imperative. I know some of those probably aren't tenses, but they are good as.
Present tense. This one says what we are doing now, or what we do regularly. There is no way of knowing between the two, other than context. It can also be used as Future, when you're talking about the near Future. But then there is in fact Future Tense for this job, which can be used for near or far Future. And the verb you use to signify it is Future, is “to become”. Which is all very logical, until you wish to use the verb “to become” in Present Tense.
The Past Tense is much easier. No! You have Perfect, Imperfect, and Plus Perfect. You can use Perfect for Imperfect too, which is nice, but not for Plus Perfect, which isn't nice. The auxiliary verb is also variable. Anything that involves movement from A to B should use “to be”, or also strangely the verbs “to remain”, “to be” and "to become". Also, if you say “I have travelled” instead of “I am travelled”, it means that you did the travelling yourself, as in you drove the car/bus/train. The Plus Perfect is just a pleasing combination of Imperfect and Perfect. You use Imperfect for stuff you did once. I like that one, it can reasonably claim to be a practical marriage of function and ease of usage.
The Passive is just some crazy ass thing.
Subjunctive has two lovely variations. The second is strangely the more common, used to show some kind of condition. You just whack the two little dots over the first vowel of the Imperfect, or use Subjunctive of "become" (würde) plus the infinitive. If you use it well enough you can blur the difference between “hatte” and “hätte” when you've not done something, as it changes the meaning from “I had done it” to “I would have done it”. The First Subjunctive only exists about once a month when I read a newspaper, and it covers reported speech. For this you just use the wrong form of the verb.
You can use the Imperative politely or familiarly. So when you tell a stranger to sod off, you can say it politely, by using the infinitive followed by the unfamiliar form of “you”. Otherwise you just shorten the 2nd person form and whack an exclamation mark on the end.
Next week I'll talk about the extremely (un)useful Case and Gender System! Great!