August 3, 2009

An Ode to Susanne: Angels Have German Accents, I Guess (03.08.2009)

(Note: this was written on the cuff and was not edited for publication. Admittedly, I sound like a maniac in this post. But she just has that affect on me. Bless you, Susanne.)

I got a foot cramp just as we met Susanne for our tour of Hümboldt. It was one of those acute guys that pulls your toes under and rips your fascia to pieces. And so, lo and behold, my first words to the woman I love were: “Eff my life!”

Susanne wasn’t just a tour guide showing us some old, dead men named Gustav and Dieter and Wilhelm. She was an angel, sent from Above, to show us Gustav and Dieter and Wilhelm. And she did it with grace unspeakable.

Did you notice the way she pointed to the statue of Theodor Mommsen? Adorable. Or how she was polite enough to not mention the small square of tomato skin pasted to my front tooth until the end of the tour? There is a reason the sun rises every morning, and it is Susanne.

A solemn tear collects in my eye as Susanne and I part ways. Is it really so soon, my nectar, that we must say our farewells? I will never forget how funny she is. When I asked if she had a boyfriend when we stood next to Marx’s quote in the atrium, she pretended like she didn’t hear me. What a crack-up! Oh, there I go again. It seems like every time I feel sad she lifts me up once more. For too long I’ve yearned for the warm touch of love to grace my heart. And, yea, there she goes.

But did she just look back in my direction? It was a faint motion, but her intentions are crystal clear to me. (We have that sort of tacit connection.) Susanne, my Susanne, could you please elucidate the meaning of the marble friezes just once more? Oh, what was it you said about the rear staircase and of the ascension towards knowledge?

An institution of Hümboldt’s storied brilliance could learn something yet from you and I, Susanne—for 29 Nobel winners could never explicate the stories they’ll write for us, nor assay the chemistry that burns red between us. I could read you the treatises of Alexander von Hümboldt under the shadow of faceless Nike's statue; for our love is the embodiment of victory in this cold, cruel world.

Fare thee well, Susanne. You are my being, as the great German philosopher Schopenhauer may have once penned, for it is to you that I entreat all my soul…