As you might have realized by now (if you aren’t a feed reader, that is), Terhech.de has been updated in a significant way. First and foremost the site presents itself in a new design. Not only the layout, but also the logo, claim and colorset recieved bold changes. My personal understanding is that this site vaguely reprents my personal image online. Not in a CV or Biography type of way, but rather the type of image one would recieve if being friends with me. This can easily be set into context when reading the various topics I adress on here. Thus, just as I mature and olden, this site needs to change respectingly. During the past two years I internalized a broad accumulation of experiences, each being interconnected in the one or other way with my study and insofar highly valuable. This means that my pace of change has been seriously accelerated and today I differ perceptibly from who I was just two years ago. The old terhech.de claimed to be ‘on fire’; a description far from true today, I settled and rather than being enthusiastic, on fire or jumpy I’d describe me as thoughtfull today; taking time, rethinking decisions.
Read the rest of this entry »

As you can see, I just got my iPhone today. Software version is, due to Carrier-Reasons still at 1.0.2, and I plan to keep it that way for some time.
First impression is: Awesome. Absolutely awesome and amazing.
Although it lacks some of the features which I would take for granted in modern Mobile Phones, it shines on many other feature-comparisons.
I’ll write more soon.

Read the rest of this entry »

Vor nicht allzu langer Zeit, beim Besuch eines Familienfestes im engeren Kreise, geschah es, dass das Gespräch sich hin zum nostalgischen wendete. Nostalgie ist eine Leidenschaft, fehlende Perspektive und reich verteilte reaktionäre Züge machen Gegenwart und Zukunft zum Ungewissen dem man sich nur vorsichtig nähert, die Vergangenheit dagegen hat ihre Maske des unbekannten schon verloren, selektive Wahrnehmung hat auch nur ihre besseren Ereignisse im Langzeitgedächtnis aufbewahrt und damit wird sie zum gutherzigen Freund, dem man sich mit einem Lächeln nähert. So tauchte das Gespräch also ab in die notorischen Gefilde humanistischer Vergangenheitsbewältigung durch Repetierung des ewiggleichen: Ziel der Odysee war diesmal Gerd, Bruder meines Großvaters, als Knecht auf dem Bauernhof großgeworden und, Zwangs fehlender Maid, auch altgeworden bis er vor nicht all langer Zeit starb.

Gerd war ein Genußraucher, d.h. er rauchte selten eine Zigarre, aber wenn so genoß er jeden Zug. Jemand erinnerte sich wie Gerd selbst den letzten Stummel einer Zigarre auf ein Streichholz propfte um auch diesen Rest nicht zu vergeuden, und der minimale Rest der dann letztlich noch übrigblieb wurde als Pfeifentabak verwendet – um die Verschwendung möglichst gering zu halten. Das war aus damaliger Sicht natürlich eine nachvollziehbare Verhaltensweise:
Das Nachkriegsdeutschland war zerstört, heruntergewirtschaftet, im Elend. Wenige hätten vermutlich damals geahnt dass die Zukunft – sicherlich vor allem dank des Marshall-Plans – dem Land einen solchen wirtschaftlichen und sozialen Aufstieg vergönnen würde, denn die Vorraussetzungen waren alles andere als Vorteilhaft; wenig Nahrung, wenig Geld, wenig Arbeit, wenig Mut, und genau daher genoß Gerd auch seinen Zigarrenstummel: Er wußte nicht wann er die nächste Zigarre genießen würde können.

Zu diesem Zeitpunkt schaute ich mich im Raum um. Wir saßen mit etwa 10 Personen um einen reichhaltig gefüllten Tisch. Da sammelten sich mehrere halbvolle Chipstüten, ein erweitertes Repertoire an unterschiedlich leeren Bierflaschen, verschiedenste Alkoholdrinks und ein Sammelsorium an benutzten Gläsern (genauer gesagt: Die Anzahl der benutzten Gläser für n Teilnehmer ist immer n+n/log(n)). Beim überblicken dieses Eindrucks einer gesunden Party kam mir das gegenteilige Verhalten Gerd’s mit seiner Zigarre in den Kopf:
Die Masse der übriggebliebenen Nahrungsreste einer Veranstaltung ist ein direkter Indikator für das Verschwendungsverhalten/Wohlbefinden einer Gruppe/Gesellschaft.

Dieser Kausale Zusammenhang sollte relativ klar sein: Ein hungriger Tourist wird am Fuße des Nanga Parbat gierig die gerade gekaufte Pizza verspeisen und vermutlich das kleinste bisschen Rand mit-essen, während selbiger Tourist nach einem gedehnten Pasta-Mahl eine Pizza verschmähen würde: Er fühlt sich ja schon wohl. Eigentlich würde er gar keine bestellen, er ist ja schon satt, aber würde er, noch im Hunger, 4 Stück bestellen so könnten wir Schlussfolgern dass er unter Verschwendungssucht leidet (oder ein gestörtes Realitätsempfinden besitzt).

Wenn das Verschwendungsverhalten einer Gesellschaft uns Ausschluss über ihr Wohlbefinden gibt, welche weiteren Werte können wir dann hier vielleicht noch ablesen? Könnte es sein dass die Partyreste für uns ein Indikator der Motivation/Produktivität einer Gruppe sind? Gerd’s Generation war unglaublich motiviert, nur so konnten Sie das Wirtschaftswunder auf die Beine stellen und den Staat errichten dessen Nutznießer wir noch heute sind. Um diese Frage zu beantworten müssen wir schauen welche Aussagen wir aus den bisherigen Erkenntnissen ableiten können:

Wohlbefinden impliziert einen Zustand der Gleichgültigkeit da keine weitere Mühe aufgebracht werden muss um Wohlbefinden zu erreichen,  man hat es ja schon erreicht. Das erreichen des Zieles negiert selbiges auch gleich, und führt uns in einen Zustand der Orientierrungslosigkeit.

Verschwendungsverhalten ist Anzeichen eines Überflußes, wobei dieser nicht materieller Natur sein muss sondern von uns auf die Materielle Welt projeziert werden kann um innere Überflüsse auszugleichen: ein Zuviel an Langeweile führt zu einem Überfluß an Konsumverhalten – auch wenn der Geldbeutel dem nicht nachkommen kann.

Also sind Partyreste ein Hinweis darauf dass die verantwortliche Gruppe an Überfluß leidet, Gleichgültig ist, Wohlbefinden verspürt und orientierungslos ist.

Ein wesentlicher Faktor für erfolgsorientierte Eigenmotivation ist das vorhandensein realistischer Ziele. Erfolgreiche Menschen planen ihr Leben in einer vielzahl von Zielen, vom kleinen Ziel – morgens rechtzeitig zur Arbeit erscheinen -, über das Jahresziel – Befördert werden -, bis zum Lebensziel – ein Haus an der amerikanischen Westküste, so gibt es immer einen neuen Schritt für den man wieder Motivation benötigt. Orientierungslosigkeit ist hier wie Gift für die Motivation; das Fehlen von Zielen sorgt dafür, dass man sich nicht motivieren kann, und die Gleichgültigkeit sorgt dafür, dass man sich keine neuen Ziele setzt.

Produktivität wiederum ist ein Zustand der aus dem Begehren geweckt wird. Der Bauer ist produktiv da er eine große Ernte begehrt, der Designer ist Produktiv da er einen großen Auftrag begehrt, und der Büroangestellte ist produktiv da er Urlaub begehrt. Befindet man aber nun, wenn auch nur mental/psychisch, in einem Gefühl des Überflusses schwebt, so kann Begehren nicht in gleichem Maße aufgebracht werden, und damit sinkt die Produktivität.

Unter anbetracht der obig dargestellten Zusammenhänge könnte man also nun eine kausale Interaktion von Partyresten und Motivation/Produktivität vermuten. Dies würde bedeuten dass man Anhand des Pro/Kopf generierten Biomülls ermitteln könnte wie motiviert oder produktiv eine Volkswirtschaft ist. Auch innerhalb von mittelgroßen Firmen mit Kantine oder auf Lokal/Kommunal-Ebene ließe sich so die Motivation der beteiligten Personen messen. Natürlich muss man, um realistische Werte zu haben, die Zahlen in Verbindung mit dem Pro/Kopf einkommen und dem sog. volkswirtschaftlichen Warenkorb/Index sehen, doch noch ist diese Behauptung wertlos, denn ohne statistische oder experimentelle Werte/Rückhalt läßt sich diese Behauptung lediglich postulieren. Interessant wäre zu schauen wie sich die Relation von verursachtem Biomüll zu Bruttosozialprodukt einer Kommune verhält oder wie die Pro/Kopf Müllproduktion, im Rahmen des verfügbaren Lebensmittelangebots, 1940 und 1990 aussah. Auch viele weitere Statistiken könnten hier von interesse sein.

Dennoch läßt sich festhalten daß, wenn man das nächste mal, nach einer wirklich wilden Hausparty, beim aufräumen feststellt dass man von den Resten 30 Tage überleben könnte, man sich lächelnde Gedanken über fehldende Motivation und Produktivität der Teilnehmer machen kann – um letztlich vermutlich komplett falsch zu liegen.

I wanted to write about this earlier, but .. well you know limited time and stuff, useless to write about it again.

I was kindly asked from Metamac.de to write an article about “Tagging under Mac OS X” – and so I did. So in the current issue of the Metamac magazine
(the new one will come out tomorrow, so I’m a bit late with this
newspost), there’s an article by me describing the various ways of
applying tags and using them (and the benefits of this for your
workflow) under Mac OS X.  I might release this article on this
blog (or Stylemac.com) somepoint in the future.

I’ve finally been to the cinema in order to watch Hitch Hikers Guide To
The Galaxy on Tuesday. I went (as usual) with Ambro, as we both enjoy
watching them non-dubbed in original language (and as it’s always fun
with him). Good movie, I  liked it. I’ve read some not-so-good
reviews, but I actually really liked it. I’m already looking forward to
the DVD (something I hardly have after watching a movie). After I had
watched that movie some good memories came back:

I’ve been a huge Douglas Adams fan since I first read his book entitled
‘Hitch Hikers Guide To The Galaxy’ back in 1992 when I was about 13
years old. Back then there happened to be a german Computer Game
Magazine called ‘Play Time’ (the name alone was worth buying the
magazine ). I bought it every month as I was deep into playing
Videogames, but there was another gem in each months release: The
reader’s letter section. The guy responding to the reader’s letters was
clearly insane. His name was ‘Rainer Rosshirt’ (another name justifying
buying the mag.) and he had a great sense of humor. In fact his column
was so funny that I laughed tears from time to time. Ah, jolly good
memories. However, someday one of the readers asked if Rainer would
happen to be a fan of ‘Douglas Adams’ literature as his humor seemed to
be pretty close. Rainer answered with yes, explained that he loved that
mysterious (to me) Douglas Adams, and I went and ordered ‘Hitch Hikers
Guide To The Galaxy’ on the very same day.
Now, when I ordered that book I knew nothing about it. Nothing about
the story, nothing about Douglas Adams. I hadn’t heard about it before,
and Internet didn’t exist at that time (at least where I lived ).
So my expectations were high. So the book arrived, and here comes the whole point
of this post:
I looked at the cover and wondered about it’s meaning (and thus about
the book). And after I had (with much joy) finished the book, I still
wondered about the cover’s meaning. The cover had in no way any
resemblance with the book. Nada. So, if you’ve read the book or watched
the movie you should know about the story, so compare: Here’s a pic of
the book I bought in 1992 (note how worn out it is)

Amazing, isn’t it
I wonder how this cover made it onto the book (warning spoiler time).
Did someone say to the art guy “hey, it’s a book about someone with a
computer going through space”? In fact the only connection between this
cover and the content seems to be space and the computer. However,
since the HitchHiker Device in the book is clearly described as
something quite different from a computer it’s not a real connection.

After I had finished that book I bought the other parts of the series.
Some of them had covers which were even worse; one of them has a cover
which is clearly stolen from Issac Assimovs Robot Universe
(Positron-Brain stuff). I’ll post those covers later on

How could those things happen? Ideas?

 (this is part 2, part one is here)

The door opened.
Decisions are hard to undertake, especially if either side of the decision would result in a drama for one.
A minimal feeling of cold  could be sensed coming from inside,
approaching the boy like a slow tiger, resulting in an exaggeration of
goosebumps on his arms. Even without looking, one could actually “feel”
that a dark hallway lay behind the now open door. Small spots of light
fought their way through layers of dust in the air so they could play
their little patterns on the floor. Several dead and stuffed animals
would serve no other reason but to additionaly decorate the corridor.

The boy hesitated to turn around. Hesitation can be a very
time-consuming process, because it directly relates to the
above-mentioned decisions; causing disturbances in human logic-fields,
questioning values, inducing confusion, lowering self-esteem. And thus
the boy not only determined what to do next, but above all he had to
conclude IF there was a next. And at the moment it seemed that his
brain cloaked, abandoned, those thoughts. It started with little
details fighting their way through, until they greased into his
attention, filling his little metaphysical reaction-veins like stale
motor oil. The veranda’s color was suddenly more than interesting, the
structures on the floor seemed to become increasingly addictive to him,
little gnats, previously seemingly lightyears away, were just
commencing an admirable performance right before his eye, forming
delightful compositions in the air.
Driven by extraordinary fear, the boy slowly lost contact to the
momentous thoughts breeding that very fear, followed a neverending
stairway deeper and deeper allowing the tenacious oil to defile every
feasible corner of his mind, – until all at once, appearing out of the
darkness with the rapidity of a snake attack, a voice appeared and
broke the tension – more like a brutal bloody butcher and less like a
cautious butler.

“What ya want boy”
Its sound was comparable to dark and dry wood, it left no room for
higher frequencies, squeezing every possible frequency of the lower
spectrum through another lowpass filter and multiplying the final
result with the outcome of a very resonant sawtooth wave. The voice
seemed to not incline to any sort of emotion, something people loathe
as it hampers to reveal details about the person behind the voice. You
wouldn’t even want to reveal details about the person behind this
particular voice – the boy knew that very well.

He turned his head so he could spot the man. With every bit of his
heads movement his fingers shivered in exasperation. His heart gaining
speed, his lips seemingly loosing control over the situation as they
started to twich more and more. A warm feeling arose in his body,
ascending from the area around his genitals through his waist up into
his chest. It didn’t feel good, started to choke his breath, made it
impossible to move his feet, increased the anxiety. His brain began to
flicker, reminiscenting moments from the past – but walking through
this past even alloyed his condition as his past had been many a thing
- but livable. It had been a continuous struggle, several scars around
his body could narrate more than one horrific story.

Everything reverted back to now. Like a video playing backward he
suddenly jumped back into the situation around him, oil left his
veins,  thoughts left his brain, his body stopped moving.
Propelled by surroundings anger moved in, ascending into every area of
him and empowering him with unnatural feelings and supersonic audacity.
He stood face-to-face in front of a man, watching him lurk in the
houses shadows like a moraine. The man wore an yellowed white shirt
that seemed to have little spots of blood on it’s upper parts, little
holes and fissures enlarged the impression that discipline or
orderliness were strange to him. A black jeans could only be surmised
as the shadows cloaked most of this area, where a faint smell of old
grease seemed to linger in the air. He  had a light beard, black
hears and the word gross came to mind when one saw him for the first
time. He held a half-full bottle of whisky in his left hand.
“What ya want ya lil’ pice o shit, I ain’t buyen a frickin’ fuck from
that retard whoever ya fuckin work for. and now bugger off!..damnit”
Silence elevated slowly as the boy just stood there, looking at the
man, and seemingly compiling all of his energy into what was coming up.
The man winced with his arm, moving it up and down, probably in a
decision process whether he should take another sip of whisky or not. A
light wind strode over the scene, twisting the boys hair, swirling the
gnats, dehumifying the sweat on the man’s skin. Every nerve in the boys
body stood to attention, collected feelings, transformed them,
extracted energy and send that energy directly into his left
brain-area, where it all summed up, filled his psychical chambers,
increased his energy, courage, boldness and suddenly, with the feeling
of a flash, exploded into words, fizzing out of his mouth.
“I wanna speak my mommy. I want you to give me my mommy back”
The words burst like bullets out of a russian Kalashnikow, cut the air,
broke the paralyzed field between the two humans. They reached the man,
hit him and continued their way into the dark hallways of the house,
reverberated from walls, pictures, stuffed animals and blotched tout le
monde with a tensed form of electricity.
Even before the man could react a scream came from behind, dull paces
appeared in the environmental soundscape, gasping noises accentuated
the setting. “Brian! No! Leave! find safety!” Just as the man,
eventually overwhelmed with the current situation, turned around, yet
hesitating in his actions, a woman entered the hallway, wearing a torn
dress, whose flower-like blood-stained texture made one SEE her pain. A
black eye accompanied the dress, partly hidden behind smudgy, greasy,
blonde hair. As she saw her son, she stumbled, stopped, started to shed
tears.
“Brian…”
“Momy…”
The boy shook. His young mind wasn’t proficient and cruel enough to recklessly handle such situations.
“Mommy..”
The devastated appearance of his mum felt like a nausea taking over his body.
Wavering, the man walked for the woman, who appeared to dwindle closer
to the floor every second. Apart from that she didn’t move or evade at
all – life had long since killed any seditious or survival instinct in
her.
As he had almost arrived he strode out, came closer, and hit her
stomach with his fist.
“You be silent darn bitch. Another fuckin word from ya and I swear I be
kickin you damn worthless piece o’ meat to death” he slightly slobbered
out of his mouth.

The woman didn’t scream, or shout, she not even muttered. With an
anxious impression of pain, she sank to the ground, curling up and
pressing her lips together. The man paused, light from an upper window
fell onto his neck, and thus one could see a small tatoo which had been
inked there, it read ‘HATE’. He took a sip from his whisky, held it for
a second in his mouth and then spit it into the woman’s face.
“Bloody bitch, I’ll teach ya mither me”
He took another sip of the whisky.

“Mister”
The feeling that even more violence could fill up his day grew in him.
There’re humans who condone their miserable situation through insulting
or injuring other people. He could have been one of their leaders. He
tightened his grip around the Whisky bottle and decided that it would
be a worthfull alternation to throw it at that boys head, especially as
the boys mom was watching.

While he was turning around something alarmingly awoke in him. He
wasn’t sure as how to react to it so he searched the near environment.
He noticed the dust in the air, he observed the light, coming in from
the open door, he saw the green gras in the garden, and then he
observed that the ground had kinda changed. About 4 feet from the boy
lay that little bag the boy had been carrying. The bag was empty. The
man steadily looked up, unwanted cogitations didn’t even dare to shine
until he saw it.
The boy hadn’t really moved. His eyes were filled with tears, but still
he could aim. His feet shook in gloom, but still he could aim. His
hands shivered, but still he could aim. Impelled by angst he aimed at
the man – with a .45 Magnum Desert Eagle Stainless. His logic, ethics
were long gone, and moral had been crowded away by that man slapping
his mom in the stomach. Now he was a dangerously chased angst-filled
recklesness 9 year old boy whose current state of mind was tatooted on
the man’s neck.
“ya lil’ fucker, ain’t scarin me with toy guns” said the man and walked towards him.
His mom looked up.
“Brian..”
Brian pulled the trigger.

Mom has a room. It’s her room. It has not always been her room, several
years ago it was my parents room. Mom and Dad used to sleep there, keep
their clothings there, refresh their boundaries there. If you share
space with someone it’s common to part; organize belongings so they
mostly don’t interfere – there’re always interleaves, mind you, there’s
always at first glance the impression of an unified entity, but if you
look closer, look behind the curtain, sort the individual parts, you’ll
see some sort of pattern-like structure.
Everything in life is based on structures, that’s what most mathematicians like about life.
Now, when my Dad suddenly died, some years ago, the structure broke.
The organization broke. Mom would still keep his belongings during the
first months, as death alone doesn’t mark the end of everything the
deceased person has been. But his belongings didn’t evolve anymore,
they just stayed and deceased themselves. The patterns between moms
stuff and dads stuff crippled away, over time mom’s stuff took over,
just like algae slowly absorb clean beaches. The process itself is even
invisible to the human eye; one could inspect the room each day,
without notifiying a significant change – and suddenly, after weeks,
the whole room looks different.

Now mom’s stuff took over, mom took over. The space, previously a
symbol of the shared existence between my parents love, wasn’t a symbol
anymore. Filled with memories and deceasing stuff, hosting more sorrow
than ever before, the room evolved, transformed, into moms very own
space.
There’s still the old bed in the middle of the room, dominating the
functional aspect, shaping the rooms value by sheer existence. This bed
already existed when I wasn’t born, and considering its very important
role in the process of my creation adds a special feeling  to it -
add least from my point of view.
On the left side one finds a brown/black chest of chambers which, much
like the bed, expresses the school of english colonial style quite
well. Much like a cherry Tree in summer, the chest is saturated with an
astounding amount of all these little odds and ends a women collects
over the years. Ranging from earrings over golden watches to bangles,
passing rings, purses, makeup, multiple variants of lipstick and the
innevitable capsule of glitter, the chest clearly looked like a giant
mess, while still preserving the actual feeling of a deep and
sophisticated structure behind it. And observing mom as she dresses up,
the chest seems to expose a tool-like functionality, enabling her to
grip a ring here, fetch a bangle there, nick some makeup from over here
and everything so fast that a comparison with really fast typewriters
comes to mind.

Above the chest a big mirror is mounted to the wall. Gross golden
borders exaggerate it’s value, misplacing it in the context of the
actual room as even Snow White’s evil grandmother wouldn’t want to own
it, considering it’s decadent look. The mirror  hosts  many a
kind picture now, lovely nostalgic  debris from those events in
space time that had once fulfilled mom’s life. Debris from things we
look back to if we experience one of our little moments. Terry
Pratchett declared hope as mankind’s greatest treasure, and these
pictures are all about it. Hope doesn’t stop in your dreams or
imagination, hope doesn’t need a reason, hope doesn’t even work in a
pragmatic way. Even though someone is dead  – the hope of reunion
still comes up everytime we think about him, still fills our heart with
these warm and fuzzy feelings that are to invoke tears.

So as I watch mom in this area, with all these nostalgic additions and
see her using the room much like a tool, I can’t but wonder whether we
dominate space or whether space dominates us. Do all these nostalgic
belongings and small tools define our behaviour, relate to our
decisions, or are these expressions result of our behaviour and
decisions. Or is it a dualistic process, morphing from state one to
state two over the years, like someone who owns a pet and doesn’t
realize that he automatically rearranges his schedule so it fits with
the pets walk & food schedules.
Just like the transformation from my parents room to moms room and just
like mom grew older over time, passing those events which are now
nothing but a mere black-white-picture on the mirror, this process too
can’t be defined but still happens.

I think that this is a dualistic process that starts in a state where
we dominate the environment, while it ends in a state where our
environment totally dominates us.
Starting from this point I’ll soon try to interrogate basic human
behaviour, and find reasons for those behaviours which can’t be
described by social interaction alone.

Hesitating, looking back repeatedly, the boy strolled through a small
alley which was surrounded by old big fences and even older mostly
dirty cottages. Having a slight jitter in his eye he tried to focus on
things surrounding him as if there was to be an option, a redemption,
something which would occupy his thoughts so he could continue to not
think about what was coming up.
His eyes found a small raven to glance upon, whose black feathers shone
in the merciless rays of the 1pm sun that seemed to reach for new heat
records. The raven peered back, as if deciding whether to pick his eyes
or better just stay as is, enjoying the little waves of cool air that
were streaming through from time to time.
The boy passed the raven, and as his eyes were about to find something
new for banning unwanted thoughts upon, it dawned on him that he had
already reached the end of the little alley, breaching for a scruffy
meadow enclosing a wooden chalet whose best years had probably been a
long time ago – if ever. Shoutings could be heard from inside and the
red sign on the grass reading ‘do not trespass, our dog eats your for
diner’  was probably just as worse.
The boy swallowed, entagled his little bag even more, took another last
glance back, and finally, with shivering feet, managed to head for the
front door.
The wood was even wreckier than it seemed at first sight, and there
were enormous scratches marking the floor which had totally fullfilled
their reason if their reason was to scare nine-year old boys to death.
The positioned himself in front of the door and aimed at the door bell,
only to realise that he already shivered too much to hit it the first
time.
His heart accelearted it’s beat, he tried again.
“Booong”. The Doorbell rang. It was one of these old-fashioned
non-digital doorbells which used a real bell and a small electric
circuit to conduct a steady hammering onto the bell.
There’re moments in life which seem to last forever, situations in
which only seconds feel as heavy as days. Imagine the first phone-call
to the beautifull girl (or boy) you just met on the train; every
phone-beep feels like a guillotine splitting your brain. Imagine worse.
Just as the boy was about to turn around, releasing anxiouty, fleeing from the situation, the door opened.
(to be continued)