So I’m learning Mozart’s Das Veilchen for singing lessons, and it turns out the lyrics are a poem written by Goethe – Sturm und Drang, romantic, tempestuous, pride-and-joy-of-Frankfurt Goethe. The poem is about a pretty little violet longing for the love and attention of a cute shepherd girl, and it ends in battered-person tragedy like this:

Ach, aber ach! Das Mädchen kam
und nicht in acht das Veilchen nahm,
ertrat das arme Veilchen.
Es sank und starb, und freut’ sich noch:
und sterb’ ich denn, so sterb’ ich doch
durch sie, durch sie,
zu ihren Füßen doch!

But, cruel fate! The maiden came,
without a glance or care for him,
she trampled down the violet.
He sank and died, but happily:
and so I die then let me die
for her, for her,
beneath her darling feet.

Which is funny because just a couple of days ago we were watching Black Mirror, Season 1 Episode 2, and this song, and Jessica Brown Findlay’s hauntingly plaintive rasp have been stuck in my head ever since:

You can blame me
Try to shame me
And still I’ll care for you
You can run around
Even put me down
Still I’ll be there for you
The world
May think I’m foolish
They can’t see you
Like I can
Oh but anyone
Who knows what love is
Will understand

I don’t condone the mindset in these songs of course, but I derive so much joy when life springs little surprises in the form of motifs like these.


Odd moment when the bus stops in the middle of its route and rumbles to a halt and the conversations and the video playing out loud and the whoosh of passing traffic and the sun’s heat on your face are thrown into sharp relief and wow, this – this is why you live alone – to revel in quotidian moments like these where routines unexpectedly veer off track while you gaze unseeingly out of the bus window expecting to go from point A to B and nothing more; moments that mean nothing to the world or stock prices or headlines and are concealed in your memories not because you can’t reveal them, but because you have absolutely no need to share them and no one is interested, and are therefore purely private and your own. And if memories maketh the person, if you are the sum of your memories, these are the times you feel like a whole person, a person that is not part of an organisation or an ethnicity or a community or a world people make out to be so disappointing, a person not subject to the whims of an environment so beyond control, but a person just being.


“Vlasta is opposed to all forms of extravagance. For her, sitting out in the garden at night just because you feel like it is an extravagance.” – The Joke, Milan Kundera

 “It is always easier to find your sense of value by demeaning another’s value. It is easier to define yourself as ‘not that,’ rather than do an actual accounting of your own qualities and put them on the scale.”  – from here.

I’m not dead set against the movement or anything at the moment…don’t know enough to claim my judgment is fair – but there are a couple of things that feel wrong with the daily encounters I’ve had with feminists and feminism.

One is that it doesn’t feel very right to be claiming to be a female role model when you are born into relative privilege, have had all the scholarships you ever needed, where you look good by mainstream standards, when you have an inch-thick layer of makeup on  your face. Nothing wrong with celebrating your strengths and your fortune but that’s the thing – it’s fortune. Some people’s stars are aligned and yours happened to be. Not everyone’s so lucky.

Ok, so you’ve worked hard, but so have millions of other women, who probably also didn’t get anywhere because of their circumstances. Why should you carry the brand? Why should I celebrate you rather than the next woman who’ve struggled, who still struggles harder than you? Why do your efforts look like it’s about you and drawing attention to you? What does holding a conference to talk about yourself do for other people? Are you seriously that inspiring taking into account your circumstances? What are you trying to prove, to whom ( men?!)? What’s that I smell, self-victimisation?

It’s almost a hijack  – stealing thunder from women who actually need it, Ivanka Trump style. Oh look at me I’m a working woman I’m a feminist mmmmm check out the 10000-dollar gown I so deserve because I WORK. It’s also giving yourself extra credit and significance – yes you are a successful person, you worked hard, you achieved lots…that’s great and you deserve to indulge yourself for that, but that doesn’t make you worthy of becoming a symbol for the struggles of millions unnamed women who face rape or abuse or oppression or can’t get loans because they don’t have ID cards or because their husbands don’t like the idea of them stepping out of the house without a man in charge.

I’ve also encountered a few men who associate women who do well and are aggressive with feminists. Oh, a woman does well at work and life, she doesn’t appear to be emotionally vulnerable or need your validation or please you, she doesn’t giggle or flirt or simper, she must be a man-hater, one of those feminist types. The fact that these sort of men are incredibly annoying aside, I think this is a sign that the movement has been counterproductive and self-defeating – when feminism becomes oh ha ha just a woman trying to be one of the boys. Women who are successful can be successful without having to be a feminist – labelling them one makes the fight about men when honestly, I don’t think all of us care.

So I don’t particularly understand this whole I’m-a-feminist-hear-me-roar mentality. I mean, if you think about a rural woman, less educated than her husband, unable to go to a bank because she doesn’t know how to use the services, or being able to be divorced by the husband but unable to initiate divorce herself…does she really fit in this idea of feminism?? How does all that posturing help her?? The more hashtags you apply, the more badges you wear, the more high-power suits you wear in your feminism-related social media posts – the more it oversimplifies the issue and conceals the numerous contexts behind the issue of women and gender and discrimination, the more people associate feminism with a certain fixed stereotype of beautiful successful well-groomed women, the more shrill you appear, basically – the more you lean in, the more you exclude everyone else without exclusive invites to the party.

Someone tell me there’s a larger reason or underlying benefit to all this!

A parade of feathered treetops
Surging past the low moon
Whiter than usual, brighter than usual
Larger than life in a silky mint sky

A prolonged morning past
Costing me thirty euros
The price of an hour on Rue des Martyrs
Small trouble for some solitude

A moment of planned spontaneity
Stepping into the night in pyjamas
Feeling big and brave and funny
Amidst a sad and failing reality

This afternoon, I took a long walk along my usual jogging route. The route runs along a stream and through the patches of farmland that hide a mere ten minutes away from the main road and my flat. It is a surprisingly large and tranquil place, and is simultaneously overlooked by the Taunus mountains and the Frankfurt skyline – a spot of cosy contradiction. I hadn’t visited since September, which essentially means since the 5km run I was jogging in preparation for.

The landscape was a lot more green, less brown than I had expected it to look in the winter. But despite the 2-degree temperature and sun-warmed footpaths slick with rainwater, the ponds were still frozen – bright white anomalies amidst the muted tones, trapping twigs and leaves on their surfaces. And lots of people were still  running, which put me to shame a little for allowing the weather to be an excuse for giving up on my newly-acquired determination to exercise more, which had been going so well by my usual standards.

But a slow walk can be much more absorbing. You are acutely aware of the people around you, more so than when you run. Your mind is a lot less preoccupied, and you really see faces  rather than a succession of figures. Enough time lapses between each passerby such that you can anticipate the possibility of making eye contact. It happened multiple times today, of course – a flicker of the eyes sideways to see if the person coming in the opposite direction was doing the same, if so, should I hold the eye contact, and if so, should I smile, or dare I even think it – say “Hallo”. This is always a slightly awkward process because sometimes a smile is returned with a blank stare; and I realise I was happiest after I found a spot on a bench by one of the ponds, where I had a view of the snow-capped Taunus and was completely alone.

This is one of the things I assumed I would grow out of as I got older. Yet here I am, with a reasonable amount of years in age and experience, still occasionally feeling like an awkward child, cringing at the feeling of rejection from an unreciprocated smile. I suppose the trouble with constantly thinking about who or what or how you want to be is that you keep on building on that prototype in your head, and you grow convinced that at some point you would achieve a “stable state” of sorts where you have it all figured out, you’re confident and comfortable and no social situation in daily life would seem insurmountable to you, ever.

Life however doesn’t seem to work like that…it’s bumpy and unpredictable. Sometimes you’re your best self, sometimes you wake up with a throbbing neck ache, the coffee doesn’t taste right and you fail miserably at small talk on an 8.30am work call. Sometimes people smile back and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes you spend years with someone you realise wasn’t right for you, and sometimes you find a kindred spirit but time is short. And that’s okay. Because it has to be.






Minute after minute, and no stillness in between.

April 2017
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