5 AM. I think five o’clock rarely is a great time . But five o’clock on an ordinary February Monday morning with south- westerly gales blowing and rain is a category of its own. Silently the dog and I walk along. Today would have been my grandmother’s birthday. A cold fist is clutched around my heart. I wish she would be here. I need her advice so badly. “What should I do?”, I would ask her. I don’t know what she would say, but I know she would have an answer. At 6 AM the world doesn’t look much friendlier. But I have to hurry up. The cat wants food. The dog wants food. I eat a miserable pot of porridge and generously spill an awful lot of tea. I don’t get the idea of porridge. It tastes like concrete slightly warmed and refined a bit with milk. But the dog and the cat both are having it and the ol’ spinster I have obviously turned into has no time to sort out something else for herself. The clock is ticking and I run out of the house and run back, because I forgot to take the bins out. I ran faster to catch the bus, which brings me to the train. Then I pace up to catch the train that brings me into town. Sometimes I wonder if I have ever done something else then trying to catch something just to miss it in the last moment. Today I jump on the train and when I arrive in Dublin, the rain has arrived with me. For two hours I try to make my mind up about James Butler, 1st Duke of Ormond, who not unlike me always seemed to have missed the point. A group meeting. The group prepares for something that is labelled with “global leadership”. Nothing could be more wrong and I wonder if the embarrassment will ever leave me. Nothing could be more wrong to describe anything what I am trying to do. But obviously it’s a selling point. As usual for groups only one person is doing something. ( Guess who? ) But I have learnt a long while back not be sentimental about such things. At least they do not complain about what I did. ( This speaks for them, not for me. ) I read more and more and more. I have to decide between eating lunch and collecting books from the bookshop. I chose books and take with me: The trouble with sheep and goats . I listen to a lecture about female print culture in the seventeenth century and read after many years again: Donna Haraway’s “Cyborg Mainfesto.” I still find it rather disappointing, not only because its lapse to the obscure but for its radicalism that is rather a bluff, a jack-in-the-box. Maybe I am not made for radicalism and certainly I do owe Voltaire so much more than any Science Fiction author. ( I confess: I never read a line and no I never even felt the lightest bit tempted. ) The world was always closer to me than a galaxy and I am still unable to be interested in world-saving heros flying around on a broomstick or whatever they use.) The idea to solve the dilemma of binary systems through cyborgs just produces a new dilemma. But for a text written in the 1980s its optimism is astonishing: technology so she argues could become the new feminist science. Today you can hear the Silicon Valley roaring of laughter. Nevertheless I like the Monday evening reading group sessions. Their different voices and again: nothing is more boring than to repeat what one believes anyway.
Outside it’s dark again and the rain, the never ending rain is still pouring down the windows as if it were never to stop again. Then I have to run for the train and faster I run to catch the bus, which stops at the village twice a day. I walk along the silent road and search for the keys. The dog barks. „Hey furry beast“ I say and the dog brings the leash. The cat sleeps on the armchair and I switch on the light in the kitchen to not feel all alone. Then the dog and I walk out into the silence again. The iron fist is still there.