http://www.slowtravelberlin.com/2013/06/06/wednesday-12-june-2013-3/
Link to Literature Award Ceremony Listing in Slow Travel Berlin
Archive by Author
An Evening with Photographer Elke Günzler and Excursion to Theatre O-Tonart in Schoeneberg
4 Jun
By Rhea H. Boyden
Berlin winters, as most people know, can be long, cold and sometimes a little lonely. One thing that always makes winter here a little more bearable is that I know, as soon as spring and summer arrive, various friends and family from around the world will visit Berlin. It is always a surprise to see who shows up. This season, so far, has already been fabulous with reunions with dear friends and family visiting, some of whom I have not seen in years.
One interesting reunion I had in the past weeks was with a woman- a native Berliner- who only lives on the other side of the park from me. Her name is Elke Günzler and she is an old friend of my mother’s from the time she lived here. I first met Elke 20 years ago, but I had not seen her for about 6 years until she invited me over for dinner a few weeks ago. It was great to finally catch up.
During the day, Elke works as a medical technical assistant, but her true passion is portrait photography and she has travelled widely taking photographs of people. In particular she photographs people in drag. Decadent Berlin, of course, has its fair share of drag queens. ‘To focus my work on drag and transgender’ Elke says ‘ means to me the reflection of sensitivity and fragility in portraiture. I’m interested in the moment that shows a human being between gender or in opposite to gender definition through society or religion.’ And her photographs surely show her talent in capturing these moments. Her travels with her camera in hand have led her (among other places) to New York, Las Vegas and India. In Berlin, however, her main project of the past 13 years has been house photographer for a transgender theatre group in Berlin known as the ‘O Ton Piraten.’
After Elke served us a delicious dinner of pork filet with homemade pesto served with fresh pasta , we pored over her many photo albums, both of her travels and her subjects at the theatre. She then invited me to come to the current show that the group were performing at their cozy back yard theatre ‘O-Ton Art’ near Yorckstrasse in Schoeneberg which seats 74.
When we arrived, we had a drink in the bar and wandered around the very intimate and inviting theatre foyer. The entire foyer and bar are decorated with Elke’s wonderful black and white and colour photographs which she developed in her own bathroom at home.
I was a little skeptical about the performance before it began as it bore the title ‘Roman Five- The Sandal Show.’ I was pleasantly surprised, however, as it turned out to be a hugely entertaining and brilliantly choreographed performance. The group, dressed as Caesar, Cleopatra, Nero, galley slaves and then finally liberated slaves dancing in the garden of lust took us through the history of cinema in 100 minutes, every minute of which was thoroughly enjoyable. It was a delightful way to spend a Sunday evening in May at yet another of Berlin’s many small theatres and cabarets. We are so blessed to have such an abundance of culture in this fine capital city. And even though I have lived here for 13 years, which is the same length of time that Elke has been theatre photographer for this group, I still sometimes feel that I have barely scratched the surface of Berlin theatre culture.
Link
100 Favourite Places Berlin Guidebook
1 Jun
100 Favourite Places Berlin Guidebook
Here is the lovely new Berlin guidebook that I co-authored. To reserve copies follow the link.
On Narcissism
12 MayBy Rhea H. Boyden
‘We have become fatally entangled in the cocoon coils of our conceit’ -D.H. Lawrence
I was recently sitting in a café with two friends and they were arguing over which was the more narcissistic: Twitter or Facebook? One of the friends had quit Facebook because she had had a bad experience with it and was claiming how much she hated the self-centred, show off aspect of it. ‘Twitter is way worse’ my other friend contradicted. ‘It is the ultimate self-promotion tool.’ I am the one who had somehow provoked this argument by telling them that I had now joined Twitter as a method of promoting myself more as a writer, but that I was concerned about precisely that: self-promotion. ‘I certainly don’t want to be retweeting everything on to Facebook,’ I told them. ‘I post enough stuff on there as it is with all my articles, essays and poems. I don’t want to overwhelm my friends with even more of it’.
The whole reason this was a subject of discussion at all was because I had, earlier that very day announced on Facebook to my friends that they could now follow me on Twitter and within two minutes a friend of mine commented on my post and said: ‘So you are a proper twat now, aren’t you?’ He is a good friend and we respect each other greatly, and I know he was only joking, but still I took it as a warning. ‘Yes’ I admitted, ‘I am a twittering, tweetering twat!’
I would be inclined to say that online dating is a tad more narcissistic than either Twitter or Facebook because here we bring the sensitive issues of dating and sex to the fore, and of course we want to make a good impression, go on dates, be admired, loved and so forth. Last year I went on one date with a man, and I knew after our first date that I was not interested in him. I had gotten completely the wrong impression from his profile. There was no chemistry, that was that. We had some mutual friends, however, and somehow we remained friends on Facebook even though I had declined his offer to go on a second date. Over the months, despite my rejecting him, he continued to click like on many of my articles until one day we got into a chat and he then attacked me for being completely self-centred, narcissistic and continually talking about myself in my articles. I was hurt, to say the least, so I went on the defensive. ‘I write autobiography and memoir.’ I told him. ‘That is what I do. I take my life as a starting point, then I do some research and weave the research and statistics through my personal stories and essays, and, I might add, I also reveal many of my weaknesses and flaws in the hopes that people might relate to it.’ My pride was hurt. ‘Well’ he said snidely, ‘I prefer fiction’. ‘Oh really?’ I retorted, now getting a bit nasty with him ‘You say you prefer fiction, but you read my posts anyway?’ This pissed him off and we ended up throwing a good few poisoned daggers back and forth. I told him that I honestly thought he was attacking my writing because I had declined to go on a second date with him. ‘I have been rejected time and time again by men I am interested in’ I told him, ‘That’s the way it works and I am sorry if you are hurt. Your criticism of my writing is not constructive, but if you have something constructive to say about it I will gladly listen to it’. He did not have anything helpful to say, so I did what I had to do: I defriended him. I had only met him once for coffee. End of communication with him.
I have, nonetheless, taken this little episode slightly to heart. ‘So, am I really narcissistic and self-centred? Is what I write and post on Facebook incredibly conceited and all about me, all the time? Do I irritate my friends with my posts? Surely if someone does not want to read my articles they can just ignore me, or heck they can block me or defriend me if they like! I certainly know that there is no universal audience and some people probably hate what I write and post here. I cannot change that. I am not, and probably never will be a fiction writer. I write about what I experience in the world and I put it on my blog and on Facebook and I am not about to stop. I enjoy it, it is my hobby, it gets me published and it gives me something to do on a Sunday afternoon when I have again failed to secure any kind of date within the confines of the online dating world. Of course I love getting likes and feedback on my articles, and I love getting published. It’s a kick and it fulfills me. I have some harsh critics who bring me to my knees on style and syntax. I have one critic who recently asked me who on earth my audience was for this topic, as he could not understand at all who would want to read it or find it the least bit interesting. That made me pout too, but it made me think about the importance of a target audience.
The successful autobiographer and memoir writer David Sedaris says that his partner Hugh has also accused him of narcissism and being extremely self-centred in his writing. He takes it to heart but he keeps on writing one successful and hilarious story after the next. I would imagine as long as one keeps the stories of oneself self-deprecating and is willing to expose oneself, then one can hold an audience’s attention and avoid somehow being accused of being completely arrogant and conceited. Writing about oneself is a way of connecting with the world as far as I can see. See here, I am holed up here at home on my own, in front of my computer trying desperately to connect to you, the listener, reader, friend etc. out there. I am so very small in the grand scheme of things and I know it. Do I suppose I have a very unique and above average destiny/life that is worth reading/pondering/writing about at all? Well, how can I answer that? Doesn’t everyone have a story to tell? In his short story ‘Mister Squishy’ David Foster Wallace depicts his very important character who holds a high position in a company, as sitting in his office ‘sketching his own face’s outlines as he talked on the phone or waited for programs to run’. The character is indeed so self-absorbed, that his sexual fantasies do not involve fantasising about someone else but rather he fantasises about himself.
There is a wonderful painting by the Italian Baroque painter Caravaggio that depicts Narcissus staring into his reflection in the lake. He has been doomed to this fate by Nemesis for rejecting Echo’s love. His reflection cannot reciprocate his love and he eventually dies staring at himself. The narcissus, which is a beautiful flower related to the daffodil is the symbol of vanity in the Western world. Narcissism has become such a buzzword in our me-centred world, but my gut feeling is that it is deeply tied to loneliness and alienation, and that most people mean well and do not want to only think of themselves but are rather struggling to connect to the world. It may seem a naïve assumption and I may seem to be wallowing in self, but writing this essay and expressing these thoughts have made my solitary Sunday afternoon a more joyful and fulfilling one, and I don’t feel as lonely or lost in my own world and self-absorbed neuroses (which I surely have in abundance) as I write.
Validation
5 MayBy Rhea H. Boyden
Validation came in the end. Why did she search for it where it did not lie? He spoke the truth from over the mountain, behind the mist. The veils of fear were lifted. The rainbow is a bridge to validation, far, far from the land of rainbows. One must walk it before it fades. Seize the moment, for that is all we have. It was Gilgamesh who first saw the colours, who sang the song after the raven never returned. Do they hear the music? Do they know the difference between philosophy and naivete? Between corruption and caring? Do they care? No, they do not. One can only listen to the poet, for he is the one who will listen to you, brew your tea exactly as you like it. Making it sweetly, sweet, with sugar, but not sugar coating it. The truth of love and validation has no sugar coating, but sings its own sweet song.
The above poem is a response to my friend and fellow poet S.D. Clifford’s poem ‘For the Poets will Love You’ recorded here with piano accompaniment: http://soundcloud.com/cis-minor/for-the-poets-will-love-you-1
Hike up to Twin Peaks San Francisco
28 Apr
By Rhea H. Boyden
A couple of years ago, after a trip to San Francisco, my younger sister tagged me in a photo. I was standing on the Golden Gate Bridge and she labeled the photo ‘Twin Peaks’. ‘Hey, that is the bridge not the hill!’ I protested. ‘I was referring to you and your nickname’ my sister joked. I laughed. What else could I do? I was not exactly flat chested at school, earning me the lovely nickname. A couple weeks ago, I was in San Francisco and the sky was beautifully clear, being it slightly before the foggy season. I had the afternoon to myself and I thought a hike up to my namesake would be wonderful as the view of the Bay Area afforded from the top is stunning on a clear day.
I was standing on Valencia Street in the Mission district, having just had a snack in the fabulous ‘Rhea’s Deli’ which has award winning sandwiches. I always smile to see that the deli bearing my real name is still there over the years. I got on the bus number 33 that wends its way up the hill and dumps you at the foot of Twin Peaks before carrying on to Haight-Ashbury. One of the wonderfully comforting things about San Francisco for me, is that an incredible number of its streets bear the first or last names of close friends and family members of mine. It always makes me smile. As I hiked up the windy road to Twin Peaks past big wild rosemary bushes, lilies, bright yellow California poppies, which are the state flower of California, the street names took on a more rural feeling. They now bore names such as ‘Raccoon’, ‘Mountain Spring’ and even ‘Beaver’. As I continued to climb under sycamore and eucalyptus trees I eventually reached the last stretch of the bare mountain road winding to the top.
The view was stunning and well worth the hike. It was so clear you could see off into the Berkeley Hills past the Oakland Bay Bridge and well into Marin County north of the Golden Gate Bridge. I could see a Gay Pride flag flying in the Castro District below me and look straight down the wide Market Street which leads to the Port of San Francisco. I sat at the top for about half an hour and then headed slowly back down the mountain. Some of San Francisco’s most affluent have houses on Twin Peaks whose front wall is pure glass. More than a few houses had binoculars and telescopes seemingly permanently set up on a tripod to admire the multi-million dollar view. I walked back to the bus and took it back down the hill past all the streets bearing the names of my friends and family in time to meet an old family friend for dinner in one of the many fabulous restaurants on Valencia Street. The street at the heart of the Mission District is a hopping place to spend a day shopping in its funky shops followed by a night out on the town. A perfect afternoon and evening in San Francisco.
Fruity Pebbles Forever
27 Apr
By Rhea H. Boyden
Yesterday, as I was teaching my very beginning German students the English words for the colours of the rainbow, I was reminded of that multi-coloured cereal that was made so popular in the U.S. in the 80’s by the Flintstones cartoon. When I was a young child living in Ireland, we had an abundance of rainbows but no Fruity Pebbles were to be had in the shops. This was a good thing, because, despite their claim in huge letters that they are gluten free, they have little nutritional value. My dad made us eat heart-healthy porridge, which I hated.
When I was about 10, my brother and I were visiting my grandparents in Massachusetts and we were in a large supermarket stocking up on supplies for a sailing trip with them. I was standing in the canyon of a cereal aisle gazing up at the multitude of colourful cereals. My grandfather had given me the joyous task of choosing a cereal for our trip. ‘I want that one’ I said, pointing up to the box of Fruity Pebbles. ‘Are you sure?’ my grandfather asked, knowing very well that I was choosing about the unhealthiest item in the store. ‘Oh, yes!’ I said with big eyes. He must have seen the joy and delight in my eyes and not had the heart to contradict me.
‘Why did you pick out this disgusting cereal?’ my brother demanded of me the next morning as we were breakfasting on the bow of the boat. The Fruity Pebbles tasted awful. My brother and I spent a lot of time holding up bits of bread and other tasty morsels for the seagulls to eat right out of our hands as they flew by. We tried feeding the Fruity Pebbles to the seagulls, but they turned up their beaks in contempt.
There are some things, that once you have committed them in your childhood, your family never, ever let you forget about them. This story is one of mine. (I have way worse stories, but I won’t divulge them here). My grandfather has brought this story up dozens of times over the years and for some reason it has become a family joke. Last summer we had a family reunion in Massachusetts and my grandfather came back from the store and presented me with a big box of Fruity Pebbles. I laughed heartily and so did everyone else. They were put in the living room on display for everyone to admire. A few months later, my aunt took the accompanying photo and tagged me and my brother in it and posted in on Facebook. I asked her if she was going to finally eat them or let them fossilize. ‘They are for the family time capsule’ she said. ‘They have enough preservatives in them to last that long!’ Well, I have no idea how long my blog will endure in cyberspace, but as long as it does, the Fruity Pebbles story can have its nook there too.
rheaboyden
Rhea Boyden 