Moving on

I have moved.

This month marks the two-year anniversary of this blog, which was my second one, began in May 2004. It has undergone lots of facelifts and changes, recorded many hilarious incidents, not-so-hilarious incidents, and much ranting and raving.

But the time has finally come to move on.

I was getting bored of this design anyway (which looked different in various browsers), and I definitely prefer the new one. I want to say my Dreamweaver tutorials have paid off and I've designed a completely new one with a proper domain but I shall not lie. That will probably be the ultimate goal, and we know happiness is the journey not the destination.

Nevertheless, it has been personally designed, although not with Dreamweaver, and I'm definitely getting there!

If you're a good friend, you will already know the new address to which I have settled my third and definitely-not-final site.

If you don't, you're either

1. not a good friend
2. a good friend but haven't been in touch recently
3. a voyeur who enjoys reading random blogs, or
4. all of the above.

I have decided not to link this blog to my new site, so do get in touch for the new one and do update all links and bookmarks!

Thank you for being such loyal readers, see you soon!

Something funny

So a week has come and gone, and my to-do list is still as long as ever, with the rare couple of items crossed off, and double the number taking its place.

Yet the sun was shining so bright and lovely today, all thoughts of work flew out of my restless mind the minute I was released from the boiling hot journo room into the sunny field, away from my currently quite highly strung coursemates.

L and I went to Borders to take advantage of the student discounts but we ended up talking, me having a raspberry frappaucino and subway sandwich while she filled me in on details about *** (the information has been deleted due to censorship from a good friend who's requested I don't slag someone who very much deserves to be slagged).

Anyway, our trip was futile - the books were too expensive, and the FHM magazine I wanted to buy (for research!) was all tatty and I refused to pay for a sub-standard copy of the already-sub-standard magazine (I speak for the respect of women).

We went to get tickets for the film Tony Takitani - based on a short story by Haruki Murakami (whose books I've been reading too much lately, causing me long spells of being spaced out) and V came to join us as we wandered from Soho to Leicester Sq.

We were walking down a road in Chinatown when out of nowhere, this guy on my right who we passed by, caught my eye and he raised his eyes in astonishment, so high it could have jumped out of his head, and darted looks quickly at both me and L before shouting the biggest Haaaarrr- lowwww! I've ever heard in my life.

I mean, I've often heard catcalls and received looks just for looking a little different in England - some nice, some not-so-nice, most of them lecherous, mainly - but this guy was different, a bit like a jack-in-the-box springing from some corner street. I actually couldn't stop myself by laughing out a 'hi', just because I felt it'd be rude not to respond to such vigour. Plus he looked hilarious. Sort of like a walking cartoon. Or maybe he was just happily drunk.

The next thing I knew, he burst into song.

And started singing the first line of Mamma mia!...

I mean, who on earth bursts into song???

Apparently, according to V, the guy carried on till he hit the line 'my my, how can i resist ya?'....which was his last line before he disappeared...

I rounded the corner as he faded into the busy crowd behind... and cracked up laughing so much I couldn't stop for ages. The whole musical-thing was quite original... L and V were also very amused.

I didn't know if it was just plain creepy and disgusting, or hilariously absurd, and I decided if something made me laugh that long on a hot sunny day in London, it can only be a good thing - however ludicrous.


***


Tony Takitani was a great film - in the middle of the film, I had a sudden urge to rush out and go shopping. (You'll need to see/read it to understand why) The soundtrack was brilliant - simple, just a piano arrangement, loads of dissonance, arpeggios and nostalgic melodies. The actress in it was very pretty and I ended up being very jealous of her shoes.

I love my job

I've had a very stressful day... but in the midst of it, I had a moment. It was a mere transitory, ephemeral emotion but before I get too disillusioned again, or scared, I just want to say...

I love my job!

Lucky me.

Productive me

I've done something I haven't done in a very, very long time - I stayed at home for two solid days (minus going out to college and buying groceries) and spent the most productive time writing, cleaning, organising...

... and there just seems no end to it.

After two days of general sorting-out stuff, this is a picture of one half of my L-shaped room... and I swear I have been cleaning it. If you look at the bottom right-hand corner of my room, behind where those magazines are in the foreground, was originally a stack of newspapers stacked at least 4 feet high.

I laboured through all of them - picking out those stories I needed for research... prisoners, gambling, casinos, ID cards, Rupert Murdoch interview, Opus Dei, ooh, and yes, a nice cut-out of a tasty-looking Brad Pitt... (although I must say, I'm starting to find him considerably less attractive ever since he left Anniston) Anyway, I've done that now and junked all the newspapers - at which my flatmates actually said you mean ALL THAT has been in your room all this time? Oh, the scorn.

I still have to pick particular spots on my floor in order to walk from my door to my table but I assure you this will be sorted soon... there's only so much one can do at once! I'm happy to announce that I actually got all my re-writing sorted and my course-work file, due this friday, is looking good. I'm actually ahead of deadlines... a rarity, only slightly short of a miracle for me, but let's not talk too much about it in case I jinx it.

After a week at PM, I was actually quite sad to leave. Everyone there was nice and friendly. We even went out for drinks on Thursday and got slightly pissed. The editor had a really charming face, not at all in a sleazy way, but more like the sort of feeling you get when you meet a friend's Dad and you can tell immediately he's a nice, decent, funny bloke.

I was also pleasantly surprised by my ability to bang out the average of 3/4 news stories a day, something I used to do with greater difficulty, but now I'm finding it actually quite enjoyable. And I've got another story to be published within a month. (yay)

Which leads me to conclude...

I think I have finally mastered the greatest skill (in writing) of all... RUTHLESSNESS.

Or at least part of it. It only comes with time and experience and boy did I use to struggle those lonely nights (and mornings, and afternoons) in front of my computer trying to include too much information, agonising over the words, re-structuring the paragraphs... It now finally seems easier for it to fall into place. Simply because I'm now more ruthless. Nothing is now too precious, and you tend to know what you should exclude immediately, whereas in my more amateur days, it was not quite as obvious to me.

I'm not being complacent. This is only one aspect of writing. There's too much still to go, but at least I feel some inner development. I mean, I would be wasting my time if I didn't. And I don't like to waste time. Believe what you will.

What pisses me off most is so many people think writing is a piece of piss. Writing is, actually. Good writing isn't. I guess it's much easier to write now, I agree, with the whole blogger/citizen journalism explosion thing going on. But too many underestimate the training required for this profession. It's not something you can just bang out and expect to be published. It's all a matter of writing for audiences, understanding the medium, or more broadly, the industry... so many dimensions I can't even begin to articulate, which is probably why I get half-annoyed, half-exasperated, half-smug-beyond-belief whenever my boyfriend says he could do my job anyday.

It's not just all about the writing. And even then, I promise you it is really harder than it looks!

Sigh... right, sorry about the rant. I shall now stop going on about my job. It's something I've resolved to live with, a cross I can't not bear.

I realised the other day in mute horror that I am now reluctant to write - on paper, that is. I have taken for granted that I now type faster than I can write, so when I'm not near a computer, but I'm dying to write something, the inertia to use a pen and paper is so great, I end up not writing anyway. By which time when I get to a computer, I've forgotten what I wanted to say. Oh the complexities of modern life!

Over and out...

One fleeting, terrifying thought

So I've started work at another magazine. This time at a trade publication, and it's really not too bad. They've just moved into a swanky new building so I've got a great workspace, with a really comfy seat, free stationery and a Mac - except that it's still operating on OS 9. sigh. I kept pressing the F9 key to toggle the screens but it was futile. It took me the whole day to accept it - I kept pressing it despite knowing it wouldn't work unless it was in OS 10.

Anyway, getting up this morning was seriously torturous. I dragged myself out of bed feeling like I'd rather kill myself, and when I got in the shower, I suddenly had this one fleeting, terrifying thought - that the emotion I was feeling, that immense dread from waking up in the early hours of the morning when my body was forced to emerge from another realm where it was comfortable, to one where it was massively reluctant to function in - that dread, was something that I was gonna have to face almost every single day of my life for at least the next 30 years when I inevitably have to forsake my student existence and fully embrace the life of a working professional.

I was so overwhelmed by an uncontrollable wave of melancholy.

I'm not exxagerating, and I'm not being a wuss about getting up early. I'm not sure if it was because I was starting work at a new place and didn't know what to expect, or whatever else it was that I feared. It took all my rational energy to resist the sudden strong urge to jump out, put on my clothes, get on a train to where J is and just fling my arms around him, burying my face forever in his chest and never letting go. Never having to experience that dread again.

Weirdly, it's not like I don't like working. I was fine the minute I got to work - I loved that I was actually being productive. I read so many newspapers (even the Irish Independent and The Scotsman), absorbing all the headlines, and making up for neglecting it the past couple of weeks. I roamed the streets of Farringdon on my own during lunch, soaking in the marvellous sunshine and taking in the buzz of the working London middle-class dining at street cafes. I even had another fleeting thought that the prospect of working full-time in London...contrary to what I previously thought, is not so bad. The places I've worked at, most of them leave at the latest, 6pm. Unlike the hours I'm used to slogging back home where I'm always on call, always busy and could never arrange a dinner appointment. And I was an intern then. What would working full-time there be like?

I know the answer. And maybe that's why I had that momentary dread.

It is the combination of being excited that my career is finally going to take off at last - and the dread that it is actually starting, in full gear. Not like the semi-working, semi-student life I'm leading now, where even though I'm still writing and working, I always have the option of having a few days in a row where I can get up at 10am and later.

I'm actually going to get a salary, probably a mortagage, and the full stress of adult life will finally descend mercilessly on me.

And I guess I'm afraid I will disappoint myself. It's a remote possibly I don't even want to think of, much less admit. And I don't think it will happen.

But once that life begins and I'm going to face maybe that same dread, or a fraction of it, each morning, there's no turning back.

So maybe I should just go to bed earlier tonight. And hope that feeling doesn't revisit me again tomorrow.

So now

I've been working at The Ecologist this week and everything there is organic, re-used and recycled.

For the first time in my life, I was actually worried when I bought a packet of peanut cookies for everyone and was afraid that the packaging was made entirely with plastic.

People turn the lights off when they exit the kitchen and there are green and red bins to tell you what sort of rubbish goes where to get recycled.

Suddenly I feel like I've been living like an irresponsible citizen all my life and my eyes have finally been opened to the holy grail of the conscience consumer.

So now, where do I begin?

Lots have exciting things have happened, including an amazing trip to Venice where it feels like you're living in a painting and everything is impressionistically surreal, surviving the worst bout of violent food poisoning ever in my life, getting paid for the first time by News International (a nice sum of 100 quid!) for my story, getting ** and having an amazing heavy weekend, and meeting lots of interesting people since...

I have a ridiculously long to-do list scribbled in all my random notebooks, scraps of paper, my mini-diary (which I keep taking along, meaning to buy a proper one for ages, only to realize a quarter of the year has already passed - how the fuck did that happen), emailed to myself and the list keeps getting longer and time keeps passing quicker and I remain, somehow, stationary in my own transient, make-believe time frame, while everything rolls along mercilessly.

My mind is so cluttered and the only solution, I can think of, is to learn the skills of teleportation. Then I can save travelling time (fuck that) and whenever I think of something I could compel myself to do it right there and then, instead of pushing it to the back of my mind with various excuses.

I wish people will stop writing in cliches - but I guess they are cliches for a reason huh.

I've recently learnt to write quicker, I think.

I have so much left to write.

my dream

I was restless and frustrated.
For some reason I was trying to convince some people about something. but my frustration stemmed from the fact that whenever the time came for me to prove that I needed, I couldn't. I didstinctly remember being in a room with two guys dressed in black. someone else was in between us and his back sat facing me. I recognised him - I think he was my brother - i approached him, but he fell backwards and lay with a thud on the floor, unmoving.

I screamed.

I'm not sure he was dead but more than the actual event, it was my emotion that frightened me. It was such an intense frustration, reaching the end but never reaching it. Near and yet so far. Like the ending of a chapter which, when you finally get to, abruptly ends and you're left unsatisfied, frustrated, and fuming that you've got to start another chapter. Sometimes you turn the page and it's there, but there is still no answer. Imagine that happening again and again, going through each chapter thinking there's an end to it, but just when you think you're getting there - you get transported away. by words. by actions. by no means any fault of yours. and you're totally helpless.

I scream again. I scream so hard all the air in my lungs are exhausted, and my throat is dry and hurts, but I still cannot stop. I scream with all the frustration and anger and sadness there could ever be in the universe. It is a scream so filled with horror and sadness that you recoil from it but are gripped by it. I double over in my tears, crying so hard, in a height of hysterics I never knew any human could achieve.


I am taken to a door and I open it. I get shoved inside and suddenly I'm in a train cabin,
with serene-looking passengers looking out at a serene passage.
I turn around instantly and grab the door I came from, but it isn't a door anymore. It's just a window. I keep getting pushed through doors, which, when I return to, isn't a door anymore. The portals transport me in a maze I can't even see, nor determine its boundaries, nor understand its complexities.

I realise I'm on a train to Turin. The scenery is unbelievably beautiful, the big blue clear sky reflects itself in the calm lakes, trees and greenery surround me, engulf me. I don't even know when I got off, but suddenly I'm wandering around on cobbled streets, strangely dated, yet so present, I suddenly feel so alone.

I see someone coming out of a door in a wall under an archway. It's a hotel, I discover. I go in and as if time was lurching and jumping forwards, there was no way to determine which direction it was going. It felt like I had stepped forward in time, and I was in a flat, high above ground level, looking at the prettiest view you could ever see. The moutains were in the distant and you could see its snowy-caps, promising some sort of fantasy, then the river flowing down through it and growing bigger till it was a body of calm right under your feet. The room, however, is entirely made of glass. My walls are crystal clear, transparent. All at the same time , I feel naked. I had an idea a hitman was perched somewhere high above and looking through my glass walls, ready to aim a laser beam at me to exterminate my existence.

I am also acutely aware I am on a quest. To Venice. To meet Him.
Something weighs down so heavily on my heart I almost have to lie down to relieve it. I know I must get to him, but I don't know how.

I wander down the cobbled streets and walk past a row of continental-style cafes. Elegantly-dressed ladies glance at me from behind their veneer of human friendliness. I get the feeling that I'm getting nowhere, and I reach the banks of the lake. I don't know where to go.

I need so much to be with him, but I don't know how to get there. All I could do was cry, and hope he will find me eventually. But I had a feeling, that like my previous frustration of never getting to the end of any chapter, without any result, our search for each other would never have an end.

And then I realized what I was screaming about - all that sadness in the world, rushing in a frenzy to collide at this one moment, was the horror of my realization that something that meant the most in the world to me, had been taken away from me.

I'm almost blinded by my own tears.
My body jolts and suddenly it's like I had gone through another portal.

I woke up lying in my own bed, and with a sense of urgency I reached out for my phone on my bedside - the hard, physical, reality of the object came within my reach, and I recovered for a moment from my disorientation.

He called, it said on my phone. The comfort of the familiarity almost flooded me senseless.

I didn't realise I was holding my breath, but I finally exhaled. If I hadn't known the immensity of grief before, I think I finally do now.

I saw it in my mum's eyes while she sat on the floor rocking us, her two babies when my father left her world. I don't blame her for wanting, then, to kill herself. But she didn't. I could only pray in my heart - I would almost throw away love, in exchange for immunity from grief - that it'd never come to that.