11am and on, out in the green: Discussions of relevance with the birds. Watching the trails of a 747 heading for Hong-Kong, remembering past future visions that just too often were about crossing long distances. A good way, at least, to keep some thoughts off limits.(Wondering about ones own authenticity vs taking oneself way too serious...)
10am. Clouds fled. A day made room for the sun, mind's still not completely up to that change. Breathing spring. Trying to be content with the moment.
Close to 4pm. Long days, short days, spiderwebs in dark corners, devices covered by thin layers of dust that only become visible again in hours of more intense light. (Light and weather becoming predominant topics to wrap around ones mind, maybe also an expression of professional deformation and the difficulties to switch focus to other aspects of being for a prolonged period of time. Or maybe just a temporary issue to go with a filled dense week that wears exhaustion and tiredness like a coat.)
Und dann hebt man Tisch und Stuhl wieder dorthin zwischen Laube und Büsche, wo es die Sonne bis auf den Boden schafft. Wischt Staub und Dreck und Winter vom alten Holz. Legt Kissen und Decke aus. Und für kurz fühlt man sich wieder genau dort, wo man im Herbst die Pforte geschlossen habt. (Spatzen im Feuerdorn, Bienen in den Krokussen, der Fuchs auf der Kamera. Und schon die ersten grünen Spitzen am Flieder. Tage werden länger.)
3pm and on. Small eyes, spinning head, blinking in a sudden warm light. Wondering why this particular window was left uncleaned, again, yet not feeling any particular motivation to change that right now. Sipping on lukewarm coffee, cautiously filing the ends to remain loose for now. Shaky fingers turning pages.
10am and on: The sun, the sun. Once in a while, an overwhelming gush of bright yellow light flooding a somewhat bare office-room, making even the most worn-down carpet shine again. (Also: Switching calls and contexts, on the fly, wondering what happens to all the tiny bits of information that don't make it to the written minutes. Pondering the concept of sawdust in completely unrelated crafts. Maybe not too far off.)
Close to 10am, too much sun low above the buildings, and the sound of distant loud horns blown over here by an icy wind. Also: Digging into old bugs again. Incrementing the amount of fixes that have been tried but didn't actually work. Maybe most of what people consider "experience" actually is knowing which tools are the wrong ones for a particular situation, and maybe that's better than nothing to begin with.
Mittag unter hellen blauen Himmeln. Dem Wind lauschend, der an den Schiefern reißt, in den Sonnenblenden der Kneipe klappert und durch Regenrinnen heult. Zerzauste Elstern gegenüber auf dem First, reglos inmitten von Schornsteinen und Antennen. Unten schimpfen Radfahrer über einen Hausmeister, der unbeirrt von allen Widrigkeiten die Mülltonnen an den Rand der Kreuzung rollt. Hier: Alte Geräte am Netz, alte Daten auf dunklen kleinen Displays, Suchen nach vergessenen Dingen von ehemaliger Relevanz im digitalen Gestern. Manche Spur findet sich noch. (Dann wandern Schatten über die Fensterbank, zeichnen weiche Muster, erzählen vom Fluß der Dinge. Haken setzen: Halb durch den Tag.)