Dancing in a Nest of Sticks? In Which Ernestine Confuses Her Flatmates

 17 April 2020

1:34 am

I do believe that I have confused the fuck out of my housemates.

Preamble #1: There is no doubt that these Germans I have had the good fortune to end up in lockdown with are not some of the best humans our species has to offer. Upon my arrival and more-or-less immediately unemployed state, with sex work out of the question during a pandemic, they did not for a moment hesitate to pay for my share of the groceries until I can work again. Not a question; not a complicated thought process; to them, it seemed the obvious thing to do. So much so that it seemed to bewilder them when I burst into tears over it. ("We'll totally pay for your food, but do you have to have so many feelings about it?")

Preamble #2: I don’t know if you know any Germans, but they are a little bit like the British and a little bit like New Englanders in temperament, particularly regarding matters of the heart. For example: The first time I saw one of them get really loudly emotional about something was a board game. When asked how they were doing with the corona situation during our weekly house meeting, they spent their check-in turns mulling over what effects the general slowing down of life would have upon human behavior and politics. They are educated, brilliant, and deeply compassionate once you scratch the surface.

Enter me. The Mediterranean. The Sicilian. The force-of-nature, whirlwind artist. The gal who laughs like a hyena at things that others find only vaguely amusing. 

I believe it's been an *adjustment.*

Add: Said Mediterranean prostitute starts a dancing-from-my-bedroom project and decides that any and all objects in the household are fair game for choreography, because I have no studio and only two suitcases worth of my own stuff.

Week One: Ernestine finds a small ladder and dances on it. A video is dispersed on the household groupchat and elicits a single response: “It’s amazing to see what you can do with your body.”

Week Two: Ernestine finds a bigger ladder and, in a state of wild excitement and inspiration, manages to get it through the windy corridor, into her room, and back again. During film shoots, I depart the dance space (i.e., bedroom) rarely, but when I do, I am usually in full stage makeup and a see-through bra, sweating profusely and clearly in an altered mental state (the only proper headspace for deep reflective introspective dancing). Also, when wearing pointe shoes, I walk like a duck, mostly on my heels. And they're loud.

Week Three: Ernestine is sighted bringing up a bag of kindling (sticks) from the basement. (Five floors! Five! Accidental cross-training!!!) Why do I need kindling? Because, much to my delight, this apartment is heated exclusively with “hovens,” one in each room. These things are from—well, they are super old, and I believe that “oven” is not actually the right translation—I think they are closer to the pellet stoves that are all the rage in Vermont and every American’s ski cabin.

Back to the sticks:

When picturing me doing this chore of the sticks up the five flights of stairs, please picture an orange mesh bag approximately half my height and twice my girth, slung over my shoulder, panting heavily (me, not the sticks). And then I run into a flatmate.

Flatmate: “What are you planning to do with all those sticks?” 

Me: "I ran out of sticks for my oven.”

A hilarious conversation ensues, in which it becomes apparent that she had assumed that, naturally, they were to be my next hare-brained choreography prop. Because, knowing me, that is the only possible explanation.

Good gracious, what kind of impression have I made on these Germans.

I have totally done choreography with sticks before. However, these were long, elegant, forest sticks, not commercial wood-burning sticks. (A very cool site-specific work in a forest involving witches.) However, kindling is not the most romantic thing, per se (not like decades-old aluminum ladders). It did not occur to me to use a pile of wood as a prop; nor did it appeal, because splinters, ow. However, the comment lit up my mind with an image of a sort of nest built out of said sticks. Nice image; nest of sticks; not practical; and yet, in the eyes of the housemate, This human is totally weird enough to dance in a pile of sticks in her bedroom.

It is hard to tell if they have accepted this co-living scenario with an American with pidgin German with gusto, and whether or not they find me a nice, enjoyable (or at least tolerable) presence in the household; given our house-bound state and frequent interactions, I try to not get stuck in the mental spiral of “Do they like me? Do they think I’m crazy? Can they not wait for June? Or do they—very quietly and mostly unnoticeably--subtly—find me to be a rather kindred human (barring the language barrier with them speaking English to me in a way that is clearly fatiguing to them, bless their hearts and I’m studying my ass of each morning to improve my German)?

“No, I did not plan to dance with the sticks. My room is just cold.”

“Ah.” 

>>End of conversation--no opinion expressed--although tiniest of smiles was detected.<<

Having always been an individual who enjoys being shocking (I love casually dropping the sex worker bomb on unassuming girlfriends of ex-boyfriends), I find the fact that she thought I was going to dance with sticks highly flattering.  

Hm.

Fondly,

Ernestine

P.s.

Of course, I am now thinking, Make there will be a stick video. Maybe I will dedicate it to her. Inspiration comes through curious channels.