Royal Opera House

Went to the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden for the first time ever and when I got in there, I wondered why I haven't been taking advantage of the fact that I live in London to visit these amazing places as much as I can.

It was so grand and pretty, it was a shame I didn't have my camera with me. But no flash photography was allowed anyway. I did, however, manage to sneak a [poor-quality] picture with my mobile.

It was Bartok's Duke Bluebeard's Castle and Schoenberg's Erwartung and my, it was gripping opera. The stage was so beautifully crafted and I was in constant awe at the power of the human voices. On a slightly different tangent, an old friend once told me that good singers were fat because you had to be of a certain size to be able to reach a certain volume. I never really believed him, but when I was thinking about it tonight, I don't think I've ever seen a skinny opera singer.

So I haven't seen an opera in ages, and just being there brought back so many memories of the days we used to go to classical concerts in our school uniforms [because I studied O and A level Music] and sit restlessly for hours listening to orchestras. I did enjoy it, but I do vaguely remember being told off once for dozing off because I had been sailing in the day earlier and was absolutely exhausted. I was mortified and embarrassed. But not as much as when I got a coughing fit in the middle of the second opera performance tonight. I felt like I was gonna die, I had to cough so desperately but everything was dead silent and I was getting dagger looks, it really took me every effort to try and calm my cough. I never want to go through that again, honestly.

*

It amazes me how the look and feel and sound of the orchestra always stays the same in my mind, there's something inexplicably soothing, refined, calm and cultured about being near that many instruments.

I loved every minute of it and I've resolved that I'm going to watch as many concerts as I can in the next few months before I leave.

I would write more but I'm so exhausted and my work still looms over my every living second.

Teething

So I've finally [virtually] moved. To my third home after two years at the last one.

It feels nice. Like having a clean slate.

There's a prison slang for this, but it just slips my mind right now. Am working on producing a magazine recently for prisoners and ex-offenders, and as you can tell it's pretty grim but we're trying to make it as fun as possible. What could be more challenging than five middle-class girls writing for a generally uneducated, working class audience whose average person is a 40-year-old robber?
At least we know we've got a captive audience.

I have a few more things to do before this website is finished. I'm still tempted by the idea of buying a domain but I know it'll take me ages to get anything done if it isn't as simple to blog as it is now on blogger.

So anyway, I will press on. Have lots to write recently as deadlines are looming. It's strange that my tendency and desire to blog generally increases when the amount of actual work/writing due increases phenomenally. It's like ironic procrastination. Let's just hope I get it over and done with it soon so my time is finally mine again...

explodium

I know there isn't such a word. But I've just invented it to describe the state of mind I am now in which is halfway between wanting to explode, and implode. There's just too many things on my mind, demanding my attention, too many forces exerting its pressure on my currently-too-miniscule-to-manage-everything brain that I want to collapse internally, and explode externally into a million pieces.

If I were Stevie Gerrard's wife... I'd worship him everynight and shower him with kisses for being such a football god. Then again, if I really were his wife, I'd probably be pissed off that he's seldom at home because he spends so much time on the pitch. And hello, with all that money, and good looks, and pure footballing genius, there'd be so many sluts out there wanting a piece of him, I'm unsure if I'd want to deal with all that stress.

So instead, [like I had a choice] I'm sitting here dealing with a different kind of stress.

When Arsenal was 1-0 up, I honestly half-wished Barca would score a goal just so the game could get pumping with the same sort of nail-biting excitement I've gotten used to (due to Gerrard's goodness), but I didn't really wish that for real. But they did score anyway. And it should have gone into half time, and Arsenal should have won. But it was a very weird game. And the trophy eluded the team whom I genuinely wanted to win, by quite a rubbish goal, making it 2-1. On the whole, I felt so sorry for Arsenal. But that's just life, you can't plan everything, can you. I wish I could, but I can't. That's only one of my root causes of stress. At the end of the day, the moral of the story is, last year's final was much better. :)

So I'm working on this story now as well. It started off as undercover reporting... but then I blew my cover last night when I revealed to the people involved I was going to write the story. I thought that would be a better way in because I could then honestly ask them questions... but now the more I think about it, the more I think I was such a idiot to have done that because now I have burnt my bridges. Whereas I could have stuck it out and perhaps got more information. I feel like hitting myself.

On the other hand, I'm writing it down now so I don't ever forget it. And we all learn from doing it - the next time I go undercover, I'm going to plan a modus operandi before plunging into it and making stupid mistakes.

On the other other hand, I've realised I'm really bad at lying. Or just at not being myself. I might have many other dimensions that are kept secret but pretending to be someone I'm not is definitely not one of them. I don't even know why I feel guilty - it's not like anyone is getting hurt and my mission is only to seek and uncover the truth. So why then, do I feel so uncomfortable and feel like everyone is regarding me suspiciously, when maybe they could just be weighing me up inside their head just like everyone else does to everybody at some point when they first meet a person?

I want to write ground-breaking stuff and the one frustration I can truly say which is the demise and curse of being a student journalist is that you are not guaranteed to be published. It's both fortunate and unfortunate, depending on how you want to look at it. You might get more information if people know they are safe from being in the public information domain. Sometimes, people don't give you the time of the day if they don't think they're going to get anything out of it. For me, I want to have the option of being published. And I guess I do have the option. But it's such a hassle... especially with the prospect of possibly incurring the contempt of some very up-their-own-arse commissioning editors.

My weekends have become this moral and personal dilemma. To go, or not to go, that is the question. I'm left having to choose between my work and my sanity. Being nice, and not giving a fuck. Getting my priorities right... but how do I know which one I should put on top, which one to go below... and that reminds me of a card I once gave to someone which said:

Sometimes the HEART should FOLLOW the MIND
Sometimes the Heart should tell the MIND to STAY AT HOME and
STOP INTERFERING

And that's exactly what I feel right now.

And I haven't even gone on about the magazine we are producing now. Everything's just so... in the air. I don't even know if that's the right phrase. But I've been trying to get my story for such a long time... and now that things are FINALLY beginning to see some light, and I'm actually getting a breakthrough on my stuff, one of my mates suggest that she takes a story off my hands because 'it'd look weird if I have two bylines' - well, I agreed at the time. But actually, what's so weird with my having two bylines if I've worked on BOTH the stories anyway? I struggled with myself long and hard today during my shower [not in that way, mind you - struggled! not scrubbed!] and I think I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to tell her that I actually do want to do both stories and hope she'll be okay with it.

Urgh. More stress.

Don't get me started on Britain. I don't know if I'm getting sick of being in London, or Britain in general. But I never thought I'd feel this way. It's just that I see so much around me which I don't... like. The excessive drinking, the smoking, the puking, the fighting, the racism, the debt, the gambling, the crime, the unhappiness. I almost forget the things I love... the countryside, the rolling hills, the seasons [although I hate winter], the fun, the independence, the arts, the journalism... I just wish there was some middle-ground. But hey - every country has their own set of problems. It's a matter of which set of problems you choose to live with.

I just wish I didn't get so angry sometimes, but I guess I come from a privileged position where I know better, possibly because I've been educated, and I've been taught values that I personally uphold which not necessarily everyone adheres to. I have ventured far out of my comfort zone, living where I have been in the past seven months... and it has been even more of an education.

But I feel so sad. I wish I could make the world a better place. Unfortunately, it only exists as a cliche. I guess what matters is that I don't give up trying.

Create

Again, procrastination strikes and once more I am indulging in the silliest of tasks and redesigning my website - when my To-Do list is burgeoning and my stories, due very soon, is still left in its virgin state on another window lost in the depths of my desktop.

I've been designing a banner in Photoshop but I can't get the background dots to coincide when I publish it on here. I have many ideas but am unsure which is the best. Sigh.

My eyes are going funny now. Everything's starting to look fuzzy...