My mother was a person full of warmth, with an open ear for every concern. She also liked wearing her own heart on her sleeve. So I got used to it early on that she liked to tell neighbors in detail about her daughter, while I stood there between shame and being a daughter. She always said: You have to talk to people. Then the world opens up to you. Of course, that sometimes took forms that I didn’t like. Finally we drove in a regional bus in the Heidelberg area and after buying the ticket my mother told the bus driver that I had just arrived from Berlin and that her son lived in Paris and so on. At that point she was already very ill, and I loved my mother more than anything and would never have reprimanded her because: Through her, I actually learned that it can be very special to open your heart to others. Admittedly, it hasn’t gotten any easier lately.
I learned from my father, who is a lawyer by profession: There is an essential difference between private and personal. As an author, I am always concerned with this when I make the decision to what extent I embed experiences in a story, also with an “I” as the narrator, in order to be close to this character in particular. The fascinating thing about writing always happens as soon as the story takes on a life of its own and acquires something universally valid, which a newspaper likes to call “relevant”. But to what extent is it of general interest for a 50-year-old to report on the data? To then, for example, pick up on a comment like: “If she has problems with getting older, only one thing helps – die early or grow up.” Unfortunately, even such a harsh tone, a hurtful one, has become part of dating. Anyway, the internet. Has the screen created a new distance between us, dependent on the algorithm, in which one can no longer morally decide for oneself whether this is now “appropriate” or not? Not to talk about ghosting and hate messages, etc., simply: Can we still really put ourselves in the shoes of others and then formulate our questions and answers?
When the need for bonding arises from a night of adventure
Maybe I can’t do it myself anymore. I recently fell in love. A night of adventure was not intended to create a need for bonding. But then the butterflies were already fluttering and I was also happy that the other also had his roots in the theater.
I have to elaborate on why it can be special to live a love of theater. You don’t just learn to improvise well.
There’s an exercise at drama school called “Zug um Zug”. Two people, aspiring actors, stand opposite each other, as neutral as possible, their shoulders slowly sag towards the ground, they look at each other. A good distance between them. As if by magic, something – a situation – arises between them just by looking; maybe because one shoulder was raised a few inches toward the ear again in the silence. This looking at the other person, which Stanislavski calls it “observing, assessing, reacting”, is something that fascinated me in the improvisation seminar.
One word leads to the next, one mood encourages another
And then someone says a first sentence.
Can be completely banal, “nice weather” for example. Possibly because it’s too hot and dusty on stage. If things go well, the other responds with a spontaneously stage-ready sentence that announces a conflict, something like: “Yesterday was better.” Whereupon the one tenses both shoulders and hangs his head with one: Oh, your whining today, terrible, me go then The other: No, please stay.
The whole thing can of course shoot in any direction, slide, develop, one word leads to the next, one mood encourages another, a thought cranks towards the unexpected; it’s a sensation. When things go well. After all, as a future actor you have to know what not only seems authentic, but also interesting for others, or even better: relevant.
Does not responding to applications trigger depression in applicants?
The tricky thing is that you have to deal with the imagination of the other. That means the expectations, disappointments, on both sides. What one always gladly accepts on the boards of the game, on those of reality … Which brings us back to private and personal.
If I hadn’t experienced this formative year with the actors, I would certainly have reacted differently on the platforms of life today, less astonished, certainly hurt more quickly.
Psychologists even claim to have established that not responding to applications of all kinds can trigger long-term depression in the applicant. On the other hand, it would be easy and feasible in terms of time to send out friendly worded refusals to the world of those waiting. Incidentally, in what is probably the most famous play about this phenomenon, “Waiting for Godot”, the last sentence is: “So let’s continue.” Unfortunately, when it comes to finding a relationship, this is no longer so clearly psychologically legible. For example, when I tell my girlfriend about a new acquaintance, her first reaction is immediate. Do not write! make him wait Men want to conquer. Still. She has the pressure to point this out to me, after I’ve often been at odds with fidgeting and, in retrospect, wrote back too early, even more: sent a grin-faced friend afterwards.
When does “ghosting” start?
Why is this so complicated? On stage you can leave a statement in the dark room, you can illuminate it with a spotlight or not, you think and feel beforehand and weigh up to what extent you can charge a big sentence like “I love you” one-to-one or with one smashes at the feet of the other, spouting bile with a pretty Brechtian alienation effect. Whereupon he catches or throws the message like a ball, forming a drama or a comedy. Everything is possible there and everything is beautiful. Because: alive.
I’m now typing this into my real laptop, which is waiting for a concrete answer to my question as to whether we’ll see each other. When does “ghosting” start? From how many minutes does the nervousness kick in that it could no longer just be due to work or stress or a sick relative or an accident? All understandable factors, I’m anxious to count when it seems easy enough to just ask.
Another friend who works as a couples therapist recently suggested that it’s best to send I-messages. So: I would like to see you. I think it would be great if we went out to eat today. Going out on your own in order to present your own wishes to the other person as clearly as possible, but also without coercion. Talk about your feelings instead of expecting emotions. Listen, don’t immediately explain why he doesn’t promptly type back. Oh yeah, let’s get married!
I have more crushes on every photo, no matter how mundane
Of course I can’t wait and I’ll write again: No stress, the summer night was just worth repeating. In fact, we write each other. Send photos. Always in the corner of your eye so that the colorful information bubbles do not predominate on one side. My I-message to myself: I’m more in love with every photo, no matter how mundane. It goes like this for a few weeks, then radio silence. I take it as a twist of fate to think away of Buddhist breathing and going to exhibitions and dancing and whatever, but now I’d really like to know what’s going on. Three days later, I innocently follow up and get a message that he’s read my article about dating younger men and that he doesn’t like the way I “skim” people.
Unfortunately we don’t get to talk about it in private, at least on the phone. He doesn’t like it, period. Don’t talk about something that happens in private. Now he doesn’t text me anymore.
Who owns the stories if no one tells them? Honestly, the word “skim” is far from me. If at some point someone, with whom I have not previously agreed, feels committed by me writing in this way, please contact me. I reply that it’s always about thinking out loud, no matter how and about whom, with respect and yes, also with convinced empathy. You can skim off a soup. My mother, meanwhile, cooked the best. For example, whenever someone is not feeling well; her comment then: She is so good, she wakes Doode uff.
Maybe it is feelings that make people out of us as soon as they become independent. To give them a language, to wear it on their tongues, so that others can understand us a little better and we might as well… Thanks to my mother. I think if I had the chance to be on the bus with her again, I would notice the smile that the Heidelberg bus driver had in the corner of his mouth.