Hot Stuff

From time to time not forgetting is simply not good enough, one has to remember certain things, actively. Some rare days develop into bitterness, revealing nothing but the absence of joy, spreading slowly. On some days, quick moments pass by, leaving one behind breathless, sometimes beaten and bruised, sometimes gaping in awe. And then, there are the days that simply shine in their slowly unfolding beauty. Days belonging to the first kin tend to leave their obvious marks behind without any further assistance, while the memory of certain short moments always seem to surface when one least expects them. This is not about either of these two.
During the last few days, I've been quite busy - it was no depression, induced by the loss of my fellow companion, nor general disinterest in communicating what's going on around here. It was rather just myself being absorbed in a slightly unusal kind of work. Or rather an old love, which I finally discovered again. An affection for getting stuff done. For meddling with things until they work, for figuring out how to solve problems: let the sight of them vanishing before me, while the physical substance itself is slowly closing in on its final shape, put a smile on my face. Happily buzzing around from one place to another, as long as more difficulties are surfacing. Or maybe: more solutions waiting to be found?
Maybe these are the moments one has to savour, to nourish in ones memory – as strange as what one does may sound to other people. Sewing cloth together, putting the final stitches into an experimental setup that simply dwarfes whatever I've worked on in a lab so far. Just by being about a thousand times bigger than the typical Eppendorf tube. Standing next to a river und being told to stay clear of the water line "because there are crocodiles upstream". Not watching some recording, some reproduction – live. Life. Laughing with the other guys while finishing some detail work, watching ones sweat dropping slowly to the ground, hitting dry sand, splashing. Getting first results, just numbers – or is it really the ominous Data everybody seems to keep ranting on about? Proper scientific stuff, so to say? Worth of running statistical analysis on it?
For once I don't have to look at a gel, squeezing my eyes while trying to figure out the borders of some white spot on a gel. Instead I get worn socks, smelly, thrown at me, after asking for them. Switching regularly from digging holes to scientific meetings, from Powerpoint to lengthy discussion with local shopkeepers about the best way to create curtains from cloth, from borrowing a bike in the next office to transatlantic plane tickets: once again, everything starts falling into its place, filling my days almost effortlessly. A kind of busy energy sparkles - apparently it is one of these rare moments. "May you live in interesting times", the ancient, mighty malediction, suddenly loses its power. I can see it clearly: interesting times lie ahead – and I indulge in the sight. Even wearing womens nylon socks daily suddenly sounds like a reasonable proposition. Four months, which I considered a fair amount of time until a few hours ago, suddenly collapses onto itself, leaving just a moment, a short flash of time, filled with experiments – or rather plans of experiments, dreams and visitors. Four nights, six nights, ten nights, thirty-two nights, sixty nights, ten weeks, twenty-four days, four months? Just four months?