In the blue sky

I forgot to mention the game on Sunday. It was the league championship, we were in a position to move up to the premier league, we were tied 2-2 at half time and these pictures were taken about 10 minutes from the final whistle. And I'm number 6, as always.

Technically they're out of order, they should be seen bottom to top. I'm just sayin'.
*grin*



Just got the shot off...
Does this goalie look out of position to you?

now I'm big and important; one angry dwarf

I was awoken this morning by the sound of knocking at my door followed by the jingling of keys. I officially snapped out of groggy when the two workmen entered my room and I fell out of bed in an attempt to snatch my comforter off the floor to cover me in my sports bra and granny panties. They were here to fix the window. I gathered myself, kicked a path through my laundry and showed them to my window (which for some reason I suppose I thought they couldn't find on their own). So once again it is possible to both open and close my window. And I am sleeping in sweats from here on out.

I've now just returned from a chamber choir rehearsal where we focused on the Russian folk music rather than the liturgical stuff. Our conductor, a highly energetic and large Russian woman spits the text at you joyously and you are expected to spit them just as joyously back. We got through the pronunciation of one of the last pieces this afternoon and she says to us "Good! Now you are peasants! Now you leave!" Rehearsal was over.
There's something about the guttural sound of the Russian language that just puts me into a kind of meditative stupor, especially when the alto line calls for these rich sustained whole notes that only float around scale degrees 1-2-1-5-1-2-1-5 and so on. The Russian choral tradition is very different from the western choirs of Italy and France and such, that is to say that these and sustained notes and melodic lines do not breathe themselves, do not surge and deflate with the music but are stagnant throughout it. I can't explain why the music demands it- personally I think all choral music must move, much of today's rehearsal was spent with our conductor attempting to instill in us the importance of consistency between notes. I don't know. I don't think I like it. It means one has to detach your instincts from the movement of the music, and engage your head. Plus it...kind of put me to sleep. This is why I prefer Bach- not simply because I happen to believe his music is "better", if you will, but because it sings you.

Now I'm back in the room, going to read for a little while before soccer, after which a bunch of the girls are heading over to the student pub for drinks. I am tired and I ache in ways I can't really find words for. So I think soccer is just what I need.

to better counteract this charm attack

Antonio and I made sushi a few nights ago. I know sushi-making is one of those skills that is revered as a kind of art form within the Japanese culture, and needless to say we struggled valiantly. We managed to make what can only be described as abortion sushi; we're talkin' sushi rolls that, when sliced, were roughly three inches in diameter with a smallish off-center pupil of fish. Christ- this fish to rice ratio that was laughable! Tasty, but laughable.
I have also now been introduced to such remarkable British TV shows such as Extras, Spaced, and Peepshow.

I've had the urge all morning to pick a random double-decker, get on it and go. See what happens. See where I end up. I mean, they can't get that far out of central London, can they? Heh, maybe I'll just go to the Tate Britain. When I was last there they had both the Blake and the Turner collections. Now the Black collection is back but they've combined it with a Fuseli collection and called called it Gothic Nightmares: the Romantic Imagination. I love it. It's the kind of thing that I'm almost afraid to form either opinions or expectations about before seeing it. Before my first encounter with the Blake drawing I had only read pieces from his Songs of Innocence, so imagine how surprised I was to see the darkly grotesque monsters he'd sketched. Anyhow, that's a possibility for today...or tomorrow...

Must run up to the International Student Office for a brief meeting with Joe Lewis, then back to the flat for some rearranging, and then most likely down to Canary Wharf with a new Book, Rachel Cusk's "The Country Life" which Mum sent about a week ago.

Ohh...so much to do.

2:48 am

I feel so much Spring

On my way back from Walthamstow Central on the Victoria line I sat down across from an extremely inebriated middle-aged gentleman who was busy informing the mostly empty train carriage in a heavy Irish accent that he was celebrating Rugby Day (he pronounced it "Rug-a-bee"). He changed his seat to sit next to me and, over the crattle-crattle of the moving train, introduced himself as Mickey (he had fingers as thick as turnips), proceeded to tell me about his job (a scaffolder), the reason he's not married (what kind of a man would he be if he worked a dangerous job like that with a family relying on him) and would I like to join him for a pint at The Green Man (a pub at Oxford Circus). Without waiting for an answer he then launched into the history of the scaffolding profession, and finally when that had come to an end, he reiterated his invitation for a pint. It was only then that he asked my name. I replied that my name was Angela, I had just been up at my fiancee's flat who ran a company that tested trampolines for quality, and that I had an unexplainable fear of scaffolding that tended to trigger nausea so could he kindly refrain from talking about it.

I did a tremendous amount of walking today, surprisingly enough, I did so mostly without my ipod. I hadn't realized before how the music, the constant sound, the flush of chord progressions, the lyrics, all limited my thinking just a little. Not in the sense of actually impeding my view of the world around me or my interactions with it, but just keeping things at bay that otherwise might get attention.
A good day for walking. A good day for udon, for another white sky, for Ben Folds Five, for Trockadero dancers with questionable Adams apples, for singing alone.


Wake up, without a care. Your head's not heavy, conscience clear
Sins are all forgiven here, yours and mine
Fear has gone without a trace
It's the perfect time, it's the perfect place
Nothing hurting nothing sore. No one suffers anymore,
The doctor's found a simple cure
Just in time

[Chorus]
All these things if I were King would all appear around me
The world will sing when I am King
The world will sing when I am King

-Great Big Sea

I smell the onions, I look around for you

It is so remarkably cold here. Or maybe it's unremarkably cold, meaning no snow, no sleet, no ice, nothing really worth remarking over other than the fact that the wind is butt-clenchingly cold and no one can really believe it. Everyone walks down the street wide-eyed at the chill; women bury their children in their armpits, bow their heads and hurry to their destinations, guys in suits (my god there are a lot of guys in suits in London) tighten colorful scarves around their necks, ignoring the bits of prawn and mayonnaise sandwich they've dropped on themselves, and the street vendors abandon their posts altogether and go have coffee somewhere. Empty carts. Quiet streets filled with cold bustling people.

This time in London is such a different experience from my first one. Freshman year I was in Regent's Park in the heart of the city, the poshest of the posh districts, a grand park with a rose garden and fields and swing sets and Baker street within spitting distance with its tourist shops galore. New Cross is very very different. The community is far less well-to-do, isn't primarily Caucasian, on the whole the neighborhood is grungy, dark, no grand architecture or boutiques or swing sets here. In fact, just yesterday one of the professors was telling us about an incident of a girl being found chopped to pieces in a bag not two blocks from the college. About a month ago. Charming, no? Strange thing is, although it's just in south London and has it's own tube stop and everything, most people in central London have never heard of New Cross. I suppose it's really not much other than the college itself; it's mostly internet cafes and (Emma, you'll love this) Fried Chicken Shops. Really. It's the London that nobody has ever put on a post card. Since coming here there have been times when I've wondered if perhaps I should have traveled somewhere else, somewhere I hadn't explored before, somewhere without memories yet. When I really think about it though, this area of London is so drastically different from Regents Park that it allows it to be the very different adventure I need it to be.

Right now I'm listening to the Garrison Keillor episode broadcasted on January 7th. It reminds me, as always, of cooking dinner with Michelle at Dad's on Saturday night.

I have no idea what the plans for tonight are. When asked, I tend to use the soccer games on Sunday as an excuse for being low-key, not going out, not partying and not drinking. I think I'm generally recognized as lame because of it. Meh. I need to find a Scrabble tournament.

In the jingle-jangle morning I'll come following you

My phone won't work. It'll receive calls and text messages just fine but won't dial out- I've been trying to call both Mum and Dad for about twenty minutes now. And my toes are cold. And I'm too caffeinated for my own good.




*growl*

I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans, I'll be gone 500 miles when the day is done

I discovered Canary Wharf today. Usually I get on the Jubilee line headed west into central London, but today I went east. Mostly because the Starbucks website told me I could find a latte there. In truth, there are three Starbucks at Canary Wharf. I didn't even get above ground from the tube until about an hour and a half after I'd actually gotten off the train. You step off the tube, swipe your pass, and immediately you're ushered into this extensive maze of an underground mall with unnaturally low ceilings. I arrived around 12 and the hallways were jammed with bushiness men in snappy suits with their modern retry-gelled and spiky haircuts, all standing in line to get cash from the HSBC, standing in line at various food stands, or milling about in front of the small art gallery pretending to browse but really sneaking glances at the video game stores on either side. Amusing to watch. Nerds in suits.

I also sat in Starbucks for awhile and opened the packages I received from Mum and Dad. Mum's had pictures of everyone. Ted biting me, Peter mid-sandwich, the wedding party and a few others. They are now up on the wall above my bed. Dad's package had THE funniest children's book I've ever read. Ever. It's called The Boy Who Looked like Lincoln, but to describe it to would be absolutely useless (useless, I tell you!) without the illustrations. In reading it I laughed out loud so hard all the way through it that I basically peed the couch on which I was sitting. The Starbucks employees weren't thrilled. Quite honestly though, that book was the high point of my day. Anyone who comes within a five mile radius of a decent book store must pop in and do a quick scan for this book. It's wonderful.

After Canary Wharf I returned to campus, had choir rehearsal, read some of The Eyre Affair back in the flat, played a crappy practice soccer match with the team (the high point of which was when Jess who is very posh and very British called someone "dude"...clearly I'm rubbing off on them *smile*) and then returned for the flat for a shower and what was supposed to be a night of laundry but has quickly deteriorated into a night of poking around online. Well done, Molliegirl. But I've managed to drink six cups (count 'em, six) of green tea and take out the trash.

'cause damn it feels good to be a gangster

Ohhhh ho ho I ache from that game yesterday. I hobbled around all of today until my joints loosened up and then I simply hobbled upright, mostly around the side streets that surround Bond Street. Great little cafe's, over-priced shops, beautiful apartment buildings. I only window-shopped, spending a whopping 1.75 pounds on coffee. I've since finished the Jane Austen Book Club and have moved on to a book Josh (LA Josh) sent me called the Eyre Affair. The front cover boasts that it "combines elements of Monty Python, Harry Potter, Stephen Hawking and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's odd reading fantastical fiction. I've always had a hard time with fantasy and sci-fi. My willingness for bended rules doesn't extend into literature, I've found, and although I'm enjoying this I'm really working hard to keep track of what's "allowed", if you will, in the world of the book.

I was thinking today about how my tendency towards being a loner has evolved. Or if in fact it has. I think I've always been one, to some degree. I can remember eating lunch in Mrs. Althouse's room in the second grade, preferring her company or none at all to that of my classmates outside on the playground. I remember vividly squatting in the forrest of bamboo outside Mum's house, hiding silently from anyone passing by- mailman or strolling neighbor alike. I know I would spend long afternoons upstairs in my room at Mom's house, engrossed in some art project, the instructions for which I usually neglected to follow because tape involved less waiting than glue, and because where was an 8 year old to find papier mache? I remember once at Dad's house I emptied the decanters that held olive oil and vinegar, filled them up with cranberry juice, raided the bread basket, and held communion for my stuffed animals, prayers of intercession and all. This is not to say that I was a lonely kid per se, but just that my clearest memories were of spending time alone. Or if not alone, then with adults or my family. I remember afternoons with Annie in which I would beg her to make chocolate chip cookies with me, pretending we were on a cooking show, pre-measuring ingredients, bantering with each other, throwing back witty remarks and winks to the camera, wherever it was. Part of the experience of making cookies with a 10 year old like me, however, is that you did it my way. My way meant tossing aside the instructions, and simply adding all ingredients all at once. And usually leaving Annie to clean up. Man, I was bratty. Resourceful, imaginative, cooperative (mostly), but bratty. I...don't even remember where all of those 'I remember's were leading me...I think they were just to say that the tendency to be by myself simply because it's "easier", whatever that means, has always been there. I wonder how much of that is me being a loner, and how much is me being elitist. See, these are the kinds of thoughts that Kate's so helpful with. *smile*

Now I've had dinner and am gathering my gi and ipod for the short walk up to the gym for karate at 7:30.

Really can't figure out why I'm so sleepy lately; I'm getting to bed at a reasonable hour (1ish), sleep till 8:30 or 9, not being terribly lazy throughout the day.

Ed had names for all his toes

The single email in my junk mail folder has the subject "Improve Your Sperm Integrity!"
All I can say is it's about time. Finally! A product that forces your sperm to adhere to a strict moral and ethical code!

Excellent soccer today. Excellent. We played Royal Halloway two leagues above us, and got absolutely shelled. But we played some of the best soccer I've ever seen these girls play. Really shut the team down. Really frustrated them. These girls I play with...I love their willingness, their effort, their intensity, how hard they try despite the lack of an even match, and overall the lack of ego on the field. That's just about the biggest thing that separates British women's soccer from American women's soccer. There's virtually no ego on the field, and it completely changes the game. They understand that nothing is personal within the confines of the game so it deteriorates the ugly and malicious spin that fowling in the states often has on it. Maybe though what I love about them so much is how responsive they are to my shouting (and encouragement - I encourage too!) Anyhow, I'm really pleased with the game despite the defeat, and I'm walking like an old man. My knees are oh so pretty right now.

This achy girl's got to get in the shower before the hot water runs out in the flat.

Peter receives beer for Christmas

Dad sent this picture to me a few days ago. It's just my favorite thing. Love them.

So I wrote a long letter to a government man; told him I was born in the Summer of Sam

Jubilee Line to Green Park and one stop south to Victoria station and STA travel. This is where I spent about an hour yesterday making arrangements to piggyback on the arrangements already made by the group with whom I was asked to travel during reading week. Heeeeere's the plan:

Tuesday February 14th- 5:34am departure from Waterloo to Paris via Eurostar. (must arrive 40 minutes before departure. I need to check that the tube is even running that early). Accommodation is the Perfect Hotel, 39 Rue Rodier. It's the same price as a hostel but luckily as the people I'm traveling with had already reserved rooms I don't have to get my own room, but can crash on the floor for freee!

Friday February 17th - Bus from Paris to Brussels. We'll be staying at the Centre Van Gogh Hostel (their advertisements reads "We Have Bathrooms!" Really.)

Monday February 20th - Return to Waterloo on the Eurostar. My train leaves an hour earlier than the rest of the group's does, but I've got a feeling that after a week of mandatory socialization I'll be grateful for the time to be quiet and hermit-like in my ipod.

So that's the trip we've mapped out. Now I need to do is research the things I MUST see in Brussels.

Yesterday felt great because I had errands to run, because I was out and about in the city walking with direction and non-touristy destinations, because I got to feel like a citizen and be frustrated with the train and bus schedules and slow-walking people and make demands of the city that weren't limited to snappy restaurants and classic architecture. I got to ask directions to a locksmith rather than to Marble Arch, and direct someone to the London Bridge train station right across from Southwark Cathedral and if you hit the Pret A Manger with the big Jaffa Cakes display you've gone too far.
In the evening Antonio and I went to this fantastic Dim Sum place in Soho- I think it was called Ping Pong. This was unlike your average Chinatown dim sum in that it wasn't a hole in the wall and was far more expensive, but did have quite a line out the door. It was the kind of place where, if it had been in New York, it would have been featured in an episode of Sex and the City. They had cocktails with cracked pepper in them! The menu offered all the traditional dishes, the pork baos and steamy shrimpy dumplingy things (shrimp here is called prawn, a word I find oddly off-putting, so I'm stickin' to shrimp), but they had some vegetarian selections, like a steamed mushroom and spinach dumpling with ginger that we had to order three separate times (only three per order) that were killer!

Odd incident on the way home...the tube had stopped running on the Victoria line so the only other options were busses which can get ohmygod complicated. Luckily I only had one transfer ahead of me. I got on one mostly empty bus and a young black woman came on after me with her six year old daughter. She was yelling angrily - the woman, not the daughter- at no one in particular. "He said he'd fucking wake me and now we've come back around to fucking Tottenham and all I want was to get home back to fucking Victoria but instead we had to come all the way around up here again and no one woke me up! It was two hours ago! We left Shanaia's fucking two hours ago and now we're back up at the top of the line. I'm sick of London transport I've got a fucking six year old here..." Each sentence wasn't exactly clear, but the point is she was doing an awful lot of yelling and swearing, clearly frustrated that she'd missed her stop, someone said they'd wake her, and the bus came back around so they had to make their (hour?) journey home all over again. But the yelling didn't stop. Or rather, it would for maybe a minute, and she'd start up again. The same rant. I changed position in my seat to see if she was on the phone or something, maybe she was making this tirade to a friend, maybe even to her daughter (a very sleepy six year old), but certainly not to the bus in general...right? The yelling continued "I've got a fucking six year old here I fucking want to get home." And then to the six year old "don't you dare fall asleep we're both going to stay wide awake until Victoria. I don't need you falling asleep. We're never going out to Shanaia's house again." And later (this was clearly to her daughter) "Look, look out the window. Did you see any of this before?" Her daughter said yes. "Why didn't you fucking wake me up then?! Useless!" And on. And on. And on. This was a long ride. Many stops. She never quieted. Not once. And it's not like she had more to say. She was just re-stating. Every time. I couldn't believe it; didn't have the guts to say anything to her, ask her hush a little. I felt awful for the girl. It was dreadfully awkward for everyone else who was riding. I guess I don't know what to say about it other than that.
Once I made the transfer an old guy who'd been on the other bus with the ranting lady stood with me at the bus stop, and we made astonished noises about the event. He lived in Lewisham, or something like that..was waiting for the same bus that I was. And though he should have gotten off about ten minutes worth of stops before New Cross, he explained that he was staying on the bus to make sure I got home okay. Nice. Creepy, but nice.
I got home okay.

Now it's 12:18 on a Saturday. I've had some oatmeal with bananas and honey and have no idea what to do with my afternoon. Or evening, for that matter. It's funny, I've noticed lately that in my mind, Saturday is just the day before I get to play soccer.

If I were a field, you would be in clover

The DULLEST Ethnomusicology lecture this morning. This poor professor has this way of lecturing that consists a line of his notes and waiting a good 40 seconds for us to contemplate what he's said. Needless to say, classes are endless and contain little information so I'm going to drop by a bookstore today and pick up some of his suggested reading in the hopes that I get something...anything out of this class. This morning's lecture was followed by a short field video of African women doing coming-of-age dances. I wanted to put a sports bra on everyone. Sorry, I know that's a terribly un-cultured thing to say, but I really did spend a good part of the film wincing.

Errands to run today include the locksmiths, post office, Waterstones bookstore and STA travel - I've been invited on a trip through Paris and Brussels with some Muhlenberg students (all in my acting class) during reading week (February 13th till the 20th) and I think I'm gonna try to make it happen.
I must be off as I have no idea how long any of these errands will take but I'll have my ipod for company and will be busy sending Kate good luck and chocolate-coated gummy bear vibes. More later.

I am a the proudest monkey

Today has been nowhere near as productive as I'd imagined it would be. Other than the rice pudding in the refectory I've got to admit I've really kind of piddled the day away. Firstly I had the 9:30 Folk and Urban Music class this morning in which a professor who had stood in for the usual professor (Jill) previously, lectured again today. He was frustrated with the group as apparently the students had told our regular professor (Jill) that he (today's professor) hadn't explained to them the evolution of the 12 bar blues format. No...really frustrated. The words were "well guys, I talked to Jill and from what she said you'd think I stood up here and quacked for a couple of hours. You made me look like a right cunt!" But beyond that initial outburst he was actually very good humored. Some kids were goofing off in the back and the exchange was
Him: Hey. Am I boring you?
Them: No.
Him: Right. Shut the fuck up then.
I can't decide whether I like such a hopelessly relaxed and colloquial approach to education in a classroom setting. It's refreshing to some extent, I appreciate a professor who doesn't let his students walk all over him and knows his material, but I can't help but feel that it some way it degrades the material itself. As though it says something about the blues, about Muddy Waters bass lines, about Bessie Smith herself even, that she would be taught by a guy so crude.
Makes me miss John McDonald, my advisor, who wears slippers to class and achieves that familiarity and laid-back environment this guy might have been looking for without forcing it. He's just so damn zen. I suppose John has been known to say that what Schubert is doing is here is "bullshitting" (I think he might have actually put it in quotes), essentially melodic water-treading, if you will, but never swore at students. In fact other than that one example I can't remember him ever swearing in class. Outside or in meetings, upon occasion. Again, not that I have a problem with swearing in the least-- I think it's effective. But more often than not I just think it's unimaginative. Fuck? That's the best you can do? Please.

Beyond that class, the day was spent reading (slogging through Jane Austen Book Club still...endless), on the phone with customer support with the MyNow Internet thingy thing...program...deal...and now I've got internet back up, going to do some more reading, have some soup and call it a night. Tomorrow I have fantasies of talking a walk through Kew Gardens, stopping for a cup of tea at the Orangerie and plowing through the rest of this book. And perhaps dim sum.

I'm currently online searching for a website for Saint Chapelle. I suppose it is a mildly ridiculous notion that a gothic church would have a website. I'm looking for concerts for Mozart's Birthday tomorrow; seems like it's something worth traveling to Paris for. We'll see. I'll be awfully content with St. Martins if need be. Or if I'm feeling particularly cheap I'll just walk with the Magic Flute on my ipod.

Now for soup...

He was shakin' lots of bacon- cook an egg in his shoe

Today it is the kind of cold that makes deep breathing an impossibility. Students are walking around campus between classes- each of us under-dressed- clearly under-prepared for the intensely frigid air and huffing blasts of hot air at our curled fingers in vain attempts to thaw them. It's currently 4:03, the nearby schools have let out and herds of children are huddling in the doorway of our flat to escape the wind, many of them with boxes of fried chicken from the Jamaican shop called "Bellyfull" just 'round the corner.

We read answering machine messages in the acting class today. Not random messages, it's actually a play though I cannot remember the title. I think I really like this teacher because he considers 'character analysis' was a waste of time, and that knowing what your character had for breakfast or even his name, is useless without heavy textual analysis. And I like that. I'm all about that.

Must pee, exchange change sweats for jeans, and go sing. Actually that's not an uncommon list.

She pushed me in the pool at our last school reunion

All over London there are posters advertising Natural Gas in huge lettering. I feel right at home.

I'm just about to head out to my drama class followed by voice lesson followed by dinner (probably butternut squash and apricot soup out of a carton with veggies thrown in) followed by Karate? Reading? Origami? Something equally dreadfully low-key? Must brush teeth now. Must charge ipod while brushing teeth. Must put on good teeth-brushing music for the event.

everything is un- everything is unfi- everything is unfinished

Despite the cold that rattled me out of alto range and cornered me in a basement range that any bass would be proud to have, I managed to get the alto part in the trio that sings one of the Russian prayers for the Chamber Choir. I then went to meet with my Folk and Urban Music professor who stood me up. Apparently she hadn't been in all day. Bloody frustrating.
Around 4 I met up with my composer counterpart for my Advance Classical Performance class, a student named Tim who is supposed so compose a piece I'll then perform at my juries. In what I think was an attempt to get out of doing the brunt of the work, he suggested writing a Troubador song. You know, an a capella melody with no accompaniment? (This would mean that he has only to write a single melody line, no piano...hell, I could make it up in the shower.) Needless to say I hope I talked him out of it. I'm half expecting that he'll show up with a piece of paper with a single line drawn on it and tell me "Okay, the line demonstrated the melody's arc. Just pick a note and follow the arc. It's new age."
Soccer tonight was ridiculous. Or at least the first half of it was. Both the guy's soccer team and the guy's rugby team were on the pitch next to us and with their attention, the girls became complete middle-schoolers. Whining, flirting, pretending to fall down, noticing broken nails, applying mascara in the backfield...I just yelled at them more than usual. Now that I think about it though, I don't know that that was necessarily a reaction to their unusual behavior. Could very well have been my middle school reaction to the guys. My mascara.

Now I'm back in the flat, post-udon, and pre-teeth brushing. And very very sleepy.

sing with me, just for today

My shower drain is clogged from the mud off my knees. I've so missed playing soccer. Love this game.

More after dinner.

Anton Bruckner - Agnus Dei, Mass in E minor

I'd like to find a poster of this. Or a t-shirt. Or a tattoo.

this verse was written to make you feel smitten

I'm just back from London Bridge (not the one in the postcards, that's Tower Bridge) where I procured both a new cell phone, a new cell phone number, and a piece of coconut Turkish delight that was killer. Eat your heart out, Edmund.

My new cell number is : 07726 747109

Again, I don't know what specifically needs to be dialed before that to get out of the US.

I discovered that turkish delight on my way back from the cell phone place, in the bowels of the London Bridge station underground. There's a whole set-up of small foreign food stands, olive carts, tiny shops selling fruit and nuts in large barrels, and not just raw and dried, we're talkin' spiced, pickled, roasted, dipped in yogurt, caramel, nougat...and of course turkish delight in an array of flavors. I, of course, opted for coconut. I also purchased some dolmas which were dull; I was more interested in the roasted almonds and cranberries I'd bought with them. All of it was forgotten with the first bite of turkish delight.

Now I'm back in the room putting up the posters, copies of illuminated manuscripts, and maps of venice beach Dad sent me, attempting to make the best use of the four pushpins I've got. Everything's overlapped and hanging a little askew but at least it's all up so the walls aren't so bare anylonger. Shotokan at 7:30 tonight, the good instructor. Tea and reading till then.

My Mariiiiiiaaaaa

It was a great 4-1 victory. Not because our team played particularly well, not because of my one goal contribution (a tap into the right hand corner with the right foot on a cross from Elyse on the left...I'm really proud of how well-placed it was), and not because Mick, our coach, handed out Cadbury chocolates after the match, but because the level of play stepped up. Again, that's not to say that our team played particularly well- there were constant errors, only to say that the other team knew what they were doing and our placement on the field was strong. And I shouted myself hoarse. "Der Tod , das ist" might have to wait. I did more slide-tackling than usual but this was inspired by the other team's tendency to call me "The American". I need to think about why I took offense at that. They didn't call me 'number 6', 'the blonde', 'center mid', nothing I've been called before that's logical. They actually bothered with the three syllable of 'American'. And so I tackled. A lot. A make their sidelines really cranky lot.

I need a shower, I need some soup, I need an orchid for my room, I need a functional phone. Oh, and hugs.

Ain't Misbehavin'

The evening went as follows:
7ish- Antonio and I arrive at St. Martins, pick up tickets and proceed to the left side of the church where they sit along the side walls facing the main aisle in a pew box we shared with an old couple both of whom hummed along to each piece. New London Soloists Orchestra enters and begins the program.
Bach - Brandenburg Concerto No 3
Vivaldi - Spring from Four Seasons
Bach - Air on the G String (why...why does that title always make me giggle)
Vivaldi - Concerto for Four Violins
Intermission in which Antonio and Mollie sat in the crypt cafe and had coffee and biscuits.
Vivaldi - Winter from Four Seasons
Handel - Concerto Grosso from op 6
Bach - Concerto for two Violins in D minor
9:40ish- We leave St. Martin's go to an awesome Mediterranean restaurant in Trafalger where I order couscous (too spicy, but better than the spackel I'd made at Christmas) with vegetables and he has lamb. He tells me about his chemistry experiment that ended in disaster and a blue ceiling when he was six. I tells him about the plays she and Peter and Lucy put on when we were younger. I leave out the part about the time Peter made a grand entrance wearing a silk robe and pumps, although he still brags about it to this day.

By the time I'd gotten back it was time to check email, watch the episode of Friends I'd downloaded, and worry a little about my phone. I fear it's not as simple a simple as getting a new charger, I think I'll need a whole new phone which means a new plan and whatnot...ohhh things to do. Speaking of which I've got to get into the practice rooms this weekend. Nan, my voice teacher, has assigned me this beautiful Leider, 'Der Tod, das ist die kuhle Nacht' for which I've got to look up a translation and become familiar with.

And in other news, biiiiig big soccer game tomorrow. Still need shin guards. Still need to make myself a sammich to take for after tomorrow's game (it'll be chicken and mayo and lettuce, in case there are questions). I miss the parents making tunnels for their girls after the games.

born at the instant church bells chime

My phone has broken. It's not the service, nor is it actually the phone itself, but the charger. Just this morning I'd disconnected the phone from the charger and a piece that should've remained attached to the charger instead remained plugged into the phone. This wouldn't have been so disconcerting if there weren't little corkscrewy gold wires sticking helplessly out of the rest of the charger. I've got a fully charged phone at the moment but I don't know how long that'll last...

I've got to hop in the shower as currently I smell like lazy and I've got to meet Corey, Meghan and Tom at the New Cross tube stop in order to lead the charge up to Camden market for the afternoon. At 4 I'm meeting Anthony at the globe on the Thames and we'll wander, find dinner, and make our way up to St. Martin in the Fields for the Concert tonight.

Really really, more later. I know this was sparse.

Oh, and Mum, I CAN receive text messages...and love them.

audio book - Huck Finn

Wow. I was all over London tonight. I met Antonio, Sam's friend who works for Sony having just moved to London a few years ago, just off the Oxford Circus tube stop at the Liberty and first went for coffee (the first decent latte I'd had since my arrival...christ I'm such an LA snob) at a small Italian Bar around the area. Then onto some smaller trendy night club where we had exotic raspberry drinks and talked mostly about gothic architecture. From there we walked to Chinatown while discussing 80's power chords and their relationship to Rachmaninoff Vocalise, and how said relationship is similar to that between the idea of pornography and that of eroticism (one's empty calories and in-your-face immediate gratification, and the other's far more subtle with a payoff you have to work towards while allowing it to evolve a little through the experience of observing it...or in this case listening to it). He also caught and threw back every Eddie Izzard and Barenaked Ladies quote I referenced. And he likes opera. Hell, I don't even like opera! Gotta say, he's the smartest (and most educated) fellow I've met in a really long time. But before you all rush to make fun and before Mum reminds me about staying in the hallway, let me clarify that this isn't a crush, just my excitement about having found someone fantastic to spend some time with.

The destination in Chinatown was a restaurant called Crispy Duck at which of course we ordered the Crispy Duck. Ohmygod. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Now, I was a tremendous fan of Kate's Christmas duck this year, and I'd tasted Peter's Tour D'argent (sp?) in Paris, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to state emphatically that this duck put all ducks to shame- this thing was fried and had plum sauce and little pancakes to go with it and you know how I am about pancakes. The noodles with vegetables and rice and tea were fine, yeah, but this duck...oh my head.

From there we walked around Chinatown, up Charring Cross Road through various bookstores, shops that sold loose tea, dioramas and astrological crap which we mostly mocked. By 11:45 we'd nearly talked ourselves into missing the last train back to our respective necks of the woods, parted ways and headed home. I think we're gonna catch the Mozart at St. Martin in the Fields on Saturday.

10am Ethnomusicology class tomorrow followed by Tate Modern and a bookstore.
Brush teeth and bed now.

kodachrome

Today's gotten better because I decided it needed to. Which feels both empowering but makes me a little anxious because now I have a responsibility to keep it better. I...don't know how I feel about that.

Cory, whom I've been running into at the Student Union quite a bit, called and asked me if I wanted to play pool. And we talked. She's one of those wildly crazy girls who has the most disturbed family history I've ever heard of not to mention off-the-wall psychological oddities. I've learned that there are two categories of people who I can be. One is the leader, the bold one, the decision-maker, the flirt, the organizer, that's all one category. The other is the more thoughtful, shy, studious, careful one. Cory brings out in me this latter category. Which, frankly, is kind of a relief. She's funny, she's very dark, she's someone to keep at some distance if you know what I mean, but great to spend time with.

I'm now heading to Oxford street to meet Sam's friend Antonio for crispy duck.

Oh...joy of all joys...I've got internet in my room now : )

house of stone and light

Yesterday was utter crap for various reasons including but not limited to losing £5 to the washing machines from hell, getting punched forcefully repeatedly by a truly terrible yellow belt who hadn't trained in years and who thought wailing on me was "training to her potential" (actually that whole class was taught by some guy who thought he had something to prove and therefore wanted to sparr everybody, including me), a computer that is out to thwart me, an increase increasee!) in the price of yogurt at Sainsburys, the realization that my phone calls really are £1 a minute, and an alarming loneliness I haven't felt since I was six years old. Despite my bettejudgmentnt and my overpowering desire to go swimming in some softened hagen daaze, I left the flat around 10:30 to meet some people at the Student Union which was hosting a weekly event called Club Sandwich. What a quirky name, I'd thought. It wasn't until later that I learned that the name wasn't cute and accidental. Rather, sandwich is meant to indicate the type of dancing popular at this event, namely, the girl is "sandwiched" between two guys. Classy. I played pool and danced in a group of girls. Good 80's music, and not an awful night.

I've got to log off as there's a class starting in here...more later

the dawn knows no reprieve

I'm lumbering back from soccer more caked in mud than I've ever been, large bruises blooming on both shins, grimy sweatshirt over my shoulder, cleats tied together by the laces and thrown round my neck and most of what once was a ponytail hanging in my face. I round the corner and pass an older black guy with whom I proceed to have the following exchange:

Him: 'Scuse me
Me: Yep?
Him: Best thing I've seen all day.
Me: Sorry?
Him: Best thing I've seen all day. Do you understand what I'm telling you?
Me: I think so. Thank you.
Him: No, thank you.

And he kept walking.

Just made me smile. Then back to the flat for a shower (I clogged the drain with mud) and a frozen dinner. I've just popped into the library to check email before I head to the student union where a 70's funk band made up of a few classmates from my folk and urban music class is playing. Not that they'll know who I am or that I'm there, but I figure solidarity is at the very least a good start. Man oh man, why am I so bad at this 'being social' thing? Why is it I'd much rather walk the city or go to a concert where earplugs aren't a necessity (thank you for them, Mum) or simply sit and read? I wish it didn't take so much energy for me not to be a loner. This is exhausting and not yet worth the effort. I'm keepin' the faith though!

It just don't work out that way in the course of a lifetime run over and over again

I've just returned from both a choir rehearsal followed by the audition for the choir I'd just rehearsed with. I'm in, singing Alto I. I sat down at the beginning of the rehearsal next to a girl named Eliza (strong French accent, I had to ask her to repeat it 3 times). Our choral director then barked a question at her in french and she barked right back. Apparently she was a first year, this was their first meeting, and they were introducing themselves. Eliza then turned to me and said, "When a teacher scares you, you scare them right back."

The unfortunate side of the performance aspect in this choir is that, for the semester, we’re singing all Russian repertoire. This makes for, I find, an excruciatingly long experience as an audience member because Russian choral music tends to be mostly folk songs (occasionally a hymn or prayer) with four or five verses each separated by a chorus. Also harmonically, these composers (with the exception of Tchaikovsky) aint all that inspired (i-v-i-v-ii-v-i). On the other hand, the upside of the whole rehearsal process is that it's all Russian repertoire which means that there's always echoed counterpoint going on although it's often not inspiring (we just can't all be Buxtehude), and as the text is Russian, when you're singing each note becomes not part of a word, but more of a meditation on a single syllable, making singing the same vocal line through each verse less tiresome. The choral director is great. Ever heard anyone yell with both a British and Russian accent? She's high energy quick quick "jzeh not ze!" all the time for an hour and half. Tireless, she is. Which leaves me, well, tired. Needless to say, although it's not the Palestrina I was swooning over this morning, it's home again home again to be singing with a choir again.

So I think I'll grab some yogurt and a few chapters of the Jane Austen Book Club before soccer tonight. More later...


They were ever so happy, they were ever so sad,
To grow old in a new world, through good times and bad.
All the parties and weddings, the Ceili's and Wakes,
When New York was Irish, full of joy and heartbreaks - Mary O'Dowd

(I love that close second melting to a third on "ever" and "parties". I remember listening to that opening a capella bit over and over and over when I was little on the living room stereo at Dad's)

Make a little birdhouse in your soul

Went across the street this morning to a cafe which boasts breakfast all day, and had two poached eggs on toast, and tea. As I left the woman behind the counter shouted "Bye then, love" and I felt wonderful. From there I walked down to the post office (about ten minutes off campus), picked up Emma's waiting package, applied some 7up flavored chapstick, mailed a letter to Mitchell Ave, dropped by Sainsbury's to pick up some cut veggies for the next few days, back to the flat to grab a sweatshirt (the green Skidmore one with the torn hood) and wandered up to the club fair in the Student Union (no classes today, can you tell?). I signed up for the email listings of a Women's Writing group, the Gay and Lesbian Alliance and the Badmitton club (well, why not?), left the union and proceeded to the cafe to sit with some tea and read a bit of the book that I've been hearing people rant about for the past few months "The Jane Austen Book Club". While I'm reading, I do what I can to hide the bookie cover as it displays a rendering of six cutesy armchairs under the title, all in pastel. All too adorable for me to risk being associated with : )

The only set plan for today is Karate at 7:30. Tomorrow is for choir auditions and voice lessons. For now I'll just sing at the sky.

PVC IV- Blue Man Group

It felt so damn good to put on shinguards again. Granted they were not mine, they were very used and very grimy, but feeling them around my calves meant that I was playing a league game, a refereed game, not just a kick-around. The uniforms are gold and black: black socks, black shorts, gold and black long-sleeved (great material) jerseys- we're sponsored by Budweiser (it says so across the front of the jersey in as tactful a way as can be expected).

Playing with British women is so different from playing with Americans; they're nowhere near as physical, they're not as argumentative with their marks or the ref, and they're not nearly as vulgar. So relative to my teammates and opponents I suppose I was kind of a beast. The day was freezing, I played center half all game, we played full 45 minute halves, and when our coach Mick brought out orange slices at half time I nearly burst. It felt amazing to play. A-mazing.
Afterwards the two teams gathered in one of the halls for tea (tea!) which consisted of baked potatoes (called jacket potatoes here), baked beans, chocolate digestive biscuits, more orange slices, butter biscuits, cheese, coffee and, yes, tea. We ate together, hopped back in the van, and made the half hour trek back to campus. We won. I got a hat trick.

And now I'm showered, in the library, downloading episodes of Family Guy, and utterly exhausted. With any luck this means I'll sleep tonight.

There's a light on in Chicago

This'll be short as I've got to get a uniform, borrow some shinguards, get changed and on the bus for a soccer game...

I walked yesterday starting around 11 from Regents Park, through the Queen's Rose Garden, then to (and through) Camden, down to Trafalger square where the Russian Winter festival was being held and they were selling blintzes by the barrelfull. By that time it was 3ish, and definitely time for tea. I found the Dukes hotel where I sat with afternoon tea and finished the crappy novel I've been reading ("a cracking thriller!" it says across the front). After tea I walked back through Piccadilly Circus and then south to Westminster where I caught the tube back to New Cross.

One of the petty annoyances of having your own bathroom rather than having a communal one for each hall, is that you have to buy your own toilet paper. I can honestly say that I have never in my life had reason to buy my own. I guess that means I'm an adult now. Hah! Well, for some reason, the toilet paper at the local Sainsbury's is more expensive than the yogurt and I just can't condone spending more on tissue than I do on food. So yesterday in the restroom of the Westminster tube station I used the knife Ted gave me to unscrew three of the toilet paper holders from their stalls, and bagged the rolls. It's in anticipation of opportunities like this that I carry that big black shoulder bag.

I'm still not sleeping more than 4 hours a night. Mind you, I lie there for the full 8 hours. I'm fully functional throughout the day but I'm waiting for it to catch up with me. I have no idea what's going on with my body.

I do know that it's about to play a soccer game though *grin*

Chapter read and lesson learned

Last night, the East London line transferring at Canada Water to the Jubilee Line, transferring at Waterloo to the Bakerloo line and up to Charring Cross where I alighted at Trafalgar Square. There I made the spring (as I was late) up the steps of St. Martin in the Fields Church, bought a £6 ticket to sit in the stalls in the balcony with no view of the musicians for a concert of Bach Concertos. The whole church was lit by candlelight which barely illuminated the faces in the dark pews. The group, The London Concertato, stood in the apse of the church under two hanging and fully lit candelabras. The only natural light in the place was those clipped on their music stands which illuminated only the underside of their instruments- the violins and the viola left their faces in shadow. The place was packed. As I entered late they were already in the second movement of their first Bach concerto but as the program continued, they eventually strayed a bit from their Bach program, a discovery I made when they launched into a familiar piece that I could've sworn was Vivaldi. I grinned through the rest of the concert realizing that not only was it Vivaldi, but was his Concerto for two Violins a Minor on which I'd just written a beast of a paper last semester. I can't remember ever feeling like I owned anything more than I that piece at that moment. I was listening for everything I'd drawn out from my recording and detailed in the paper: the exchange of voices between violin soloists, the harmonic water treading and how it served to heighten tension before the cadential material. I know it's nerdy of me but I was thrilled listening through each concerto for the routine circle of fifths and trying to determine what had just been tonicized, stuff I'd struggled with so badly within those first terms at Tufts and now was able to hear- Schmalfeldt would be proud.
I'm the first to admit I'm a sap so I've got no qualms about explaining how fortunate I felt sitting there, loving hearing what I was hearing, loving the loving of it, wallowing in the hopefulness of my romanticism; I am so unbelievably grateful. There's a Colin Hay song I discovered last year titled "Waiting for My Real Life to Begin" that's on quite a few my ipod's playlists. Again, I'm being a cheeseball and I absolutely know it, but, um, all of last night felt like it was beginning. Any threat of loneliness I'd felt on the horizon simply melted. Heh...we'll see how long that lasts, but that's that. I'm just the luckiest girl.
Waiting for the tube on the way home I was looking at various posters on the subway walls, one of which advertised a Beatrix Potter impersonator for children's parties. Made me remember- out of the blue- some event in the 4th grade or so when we had to research and come to school as, a literary figure, namely a character or an author. I was Beatrix Potter. I remember wearing Mum's apron and the tight bun she fixed my hair into, some little rounded white collar. Peter was Mark Twain with an enormous moustache and a steam boat captain's hat and jacket. Man, we were cute

The concert was definitely the high-point of yesterday, but had I not attended, it might have been grocery shopping. I adore grocery shopping. It's something I've been putting of doing en mass and have been much more content to buy a few packets of oatmeal or containers of soup here and there because somehow I thought it less expensive, but yesterday it was a four Sainsbury's bag full adventure. I didn't want to exceed £25 of groceries, so I had my mandatory list which of course included soup, oatmeal, some veggies, yogurt and tea, and my wish list, which included things like q-tips, laundry detergent, milk, shampoo and muesli. It all came in under budget. £24 on the nose. I think I enjoy grocery shopping for the same reason I enjoy theatre. It's all just "playing house".

I've just come from my Ethnomusicology class (large class, dull professor, interesting potential paper topics), and I've got a little over an hour before my Classical Performance Seminar with the composers- all the singers will be paired off with composers and will collaborate on an aria to be performed in May? June(ish)? I've also just picked up a flyer for a comedy called Otherwise Engaged playing at the Criterion Theatre in Piccadilly Circus for £17.50 a seat. It's a possibility, but other than class I have no idea what I'm doing for the rest of today. Perhaps laundry.

Lids down- I count sheep- I count heartbeats-
the only thing that counts is that I won't sleep-
I countdown- I look around-
Who needs sleep? (Well you're never gonna get it.)
Who needs sleep? (Tell me what's that for?)
Who needs sleep? (Be happy with what you're gettin'; there's a guy's been awake since the second world war.)
So much joy in life so many pleasures all around,
but the pleasure of insomnia is one I've never found,
with all life has to offer there's so much to be enjoyed
but the pleasures of insomnia are ones I can't avoid.
-Barenaked Ladies - "Who Needs Sleep"

Gangster, gangster at the top of the list

I just went to confirm the class schedule with the professor of the Acting in London course. I walk in with my course sheet, he takes one look (really, one look) at me and says, "You should know, you'll be playing mostly boys roles."

I sighed and told him there's a first time for everything.



HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

If we'll make it back I'll renounce Jack Kerouak and all that romantic crap

I've made the Goldsmiths Women's Soccer team. [Warning: lil' bit of bragging to follow] I think what cemented it was the long ball, that high arching left-footed shot into the upper left hand corner of the net. It was so pretty. The field was easily the muddiest I've ever played on, so much so that my cleats were pretty useless as mud just continued to collect around them, caking onto itself, (mm....cake....) until it felt like I was running in ski boots. The girls seem great; they've got a vibe that is slightly reminiscent of upper-level AYSO practices what with the goofing off and teasing and such, but it was their first practice back, energy was high, ball skills were pretty strong, and although they play a less physically aggressive game than I do, they have no problem being slammed around. That sounded cruel, that's not how I meant it. I just mean that it's been so long since I've played with other women that I've since adapted to a style of playing which keeps me afloat in scrimmaches with guys- my ball skills usually aren’t as strong as theirs are so I need to make up for it with a stronger sense of the game and presence on the field, namely, as my Dad would say "body up". The result being that I then showed up to play briefly with a women's tournament team awhile back, who was then cranky with my excessive tackling. My point is, these girls had no problem with it, and that was, for lack of a better word, really cool.

I grabbed some chicken pita thing on the way back to the flat, showered, and my flatmate Rhys (pronounced Reese) knocked on my door and explained that he and a few of the others were going out to a pub where some friend of some other friend's former roommate's cousins' band was playing. We met up in the main hallway and headed out to the Montague Arms, a great little hole-in-the-wall, low-ceilinged pub with knickknacks all over the walls that ranged from an ancient scrabble set to a zebra head. The problem with those great little hole-in-the-wall-places is that the ventilation's not so hot. And everyone's smoking. Everyone. All five of us, me and a few other flatmates, in a booth. We also ran into a few people I'd met earlier, Americans Beth and Chad, who stuck it out with me for a half hour more and then walked back. Mostly it was just an evening for good chatting, which, after the soccer, was about all I had the energy for.

Still about all I've got the energy for as I can't seem to get a decent night's sleep. I'll fall into bed at 11, thrash around till 3 and then cat nap till 7:30. I'll tell ya, NyQuill's sounding pretty good right about now, although sometimes it inspires me to write the most creative emails...

First class today followed immediately by my first voice lesson. I'll letcha know.

glass vase cello case

Training last night was wonderful. Their belts are more colorful, the higher ranks are a little cockier than I'm used to, and Emma would put every woman there to shame, but it felt great to use those muscles again. Gotta admit though, it took a lot of composure not to giggle my ass of; there's little funnier than hearing japanese spoken with a cockney accent. No mirrors too, which was odd. Thought maybe a good thing for my first class back. It meant I could rely solely on muscle memory and the way my body felt rather than trying to make my reflection mimic the instructor's.

They still haven't sorted my schedule. Still haven't heard back from the Chamber Choir director. Again, Joe Lewis is nowhere to be found and the poor woman sitting in for him is Swedish and struggles with our American accents. So what I know is this:

Wednesday - 2: 00 Acting in London
4:00 - Vocal Study
Thursday - 9:00-11:30 - Folk and Urban Music
Friday - 9:00-11:00 Ethnomusicology
2:00-4:00 Classical Performance Training

Again, that's all pretty tentative as I can't get in touch with anybody to confirm class times, overlaps and whatnot. I'm really hoping these classes are final though, because that'll allow me to do both Shotokan and Soccer (which by the way is tonight at 5:30).

At the moment I'm engaged in a feverish file-transfer war with Emma, downloading an episode of South Park and trying to bury my nose in my sweatshirt- the guy next to me is wearing so much cologne it's making my eyes water.

Still pining after my rollerblades...*sigh*

Chopin: Nocturne in E-flat Major

Sorry about the font earlier, my mouse must have slipped.

I've topped up my phone card, grabbed some dinner, and now I'm about to head off to the east London dojo. I'm excited, a little nervous, but mostly I'm just hoping I remember, um, anything.

Spent much of today in the International Office with others who had changes to make to their class schedules. Unfortunately though, for reasons unbeknownst to us and apparently the rest of the Goldsmiths administration as well, Joe Lewis, the gentleman in charge of all those studying abroad and their respective schedules, didn't actually show up to work. His wife hasn't heard from him since Saturday. Nobody knows where he is. Hilarious.

Kate cheered me greatly with this though...

http://www.artisanduchocolat.com/ArtisanduChocolatSite/product/Chocolate%20tasting/TASTING.htm

Alright, off I go. Shoulders down and no blocking with my shins.

"Surrender in the Queen's high name; you are a blundering son!"

****

The Tate Modern yesterday.  I went with my flatmate Christina, expecting to be
greeted upon first entrance by that instillation of a giant red, glowing sun with
the heat lamps ('member, Mum?),but apparently that was a temporary exhibit and had
been replaced by a huge ice maze,Styrofoam really, piled and stacked like sculpture
into what looked like a small town.  That enterance hall is a great high-ceilinged
echoing space whichwas completely taken over by this exhibit.

http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/whiteread/default.shtm

Those photos don't give you a sense of what a sight this exhibit is.  It's just huge.
I wish they'd given you a human for scale.

Unlike American museums, silent, contemplative, a little pompous even, not usually
a family atmosphere, the Tate buzzed with the hum of people in line to buy tickets,
people on cell phones, people milling loudly about between upstairs exhibits, all
punctuated by the shrieks of children, thrilled at the novelty of running through
the ice maze downstairs.  Also, um, they sell really good muffins.
As the paid exhibits (Henri Rousseau: Jungles in Paris) were £13 each (that's like
two days worth of food), we opted for their regular (free) collection. We did manage
to sneak into the Jeff Wall photography exhibit; the above photo is one of his.
Titled Room 6- Insomnia. To me he felt like one of those literal photographers who,
with the exception of the landscapes, presents you with a picture and you're looking
at it unsure if something is about to happen or it's already happened.  Either way
you feel like you've missed the best of it.  I guess it's one of those things where
you're just supposed to trust that as the photographer, he's given you the best part.

Returned to New Cross, got some excellent Indian food (chicken so spicy it made my
nose run, salad, sweet naan with almond and coconut...omigod naan gives a whole new
meaning to soul food),read for a little while and called it an early night.

This morning I went for a run around 11, ipod in hand (let me tell you, people in
New Cross really don't know what to make of runners).  I went mostly for the purpose
of exploring non-tube areas. About twenty minutes out after enduring a bitch of a
hill, the road plateaued into a great expanse of green; really, huge, circled by
houses so far away I could barely see them through the mist. Reminded me of the
vineyard.  This was Blackheath; a tiny suburb of East London characterized, clearly,
but this huge expanse of field, the two lane road of heavy traffic running through
the middle of it, and off to the right, the Blackheath Tea Hut.  This was -really-
a tee-pee in the middle of a field that sold tea.  I had no money on me but the guy
very kindly gave me a free cup of water.   Better deal than Venice beach where they
charge you 25 cents for the cup!
At the moment I'm in the library with my own laptop (so grateful for wireless, dodgy
and inconsistent as it may be, there's something about typing on your own keysboard)
The other students here are amazingly well-dressed.  Here I am in my black thermal
with thumb holes cut out, jeans, boots, hell, I'm even wearing real earrings, and I
look a wreck next to these girls in prim little sweaters and skirts and heels, guys
in foofy scarves (scarves!) and colorful boots...*sigh* Roberto would be right at
home.

Well, all that's left for the day is solidifying the week's class schedule and a dojo
trip tonight -finally heard back from the one on campus.  And yes, probably more
oatmeal.

I do wish I'd brought my rollerblades, although there is no place for them around here.
Soooo ready to have some work to do.




shimmy shimmy quarter-turn

I drive on the streets cause she's my companion

Last night was an adventure, although not one of those fantastic one you talk about for years after, like getting lost in Portugal or Milo and Otis. Someone's flatmate had suggested an area of town called Brook Line Row that was supposed to be lined with pubs and dance clubs and the like, so naturally a few of us were eager to explore a little. Now, I'll rattle off names here but don't for a second get the idea that I know much about them other than that they're nice people. Tom, Simon, Kristin and Meghan and I walked to the New Cross tube stop where they decided, after waiting around for about 15 minutes while they counted change for an evening tube pass, that we should take a bus. As it turns out, it's not one bus to Brook Line Row, but rather five. Five busses Ah! Ah! Ah! (that was the count from sesame street laughing there). That's five busses with rather lengthy waits in between. We got their around 10:30, and as it turns out, Brook Line Row is less a row of pubs and more full of Indian restaurants with guys standing outside attempting to convince you to come in with deals like two free rounds of drinks for patroning their restaurant. So we bummed around there for awhile, eventually did find a few pubs which we didn't stay in for long as they turned out to be far more expensive than we'd imagined, danced a little at another smaller venue, and then decided to call it quits and head back to New Cross. The tube was sounding like a better rount of return given the time and the cold so we walked to the station, when suddenly Simon decided that we should, in fact take the bus and not the T because- get this- "what if we're too late and we miss the train". I then tried to explain to the group that the underground didn't close until 12:30 (it was 12:10 then), to which Simon responded "right, exactly, we might miss it!". We were standing in the station. I was awfully confused.
Eventually, for reasons I didn't really understand, they elected to take the bus(es) back to New Cross and as I already had my oyster pass, I opted for the tube. Which was a mistake. Because it stopped. I took the Hammersmith line from Liverpool Street to Whitecastle, picked up the East London line headed to New Cross, and it broke down between stations. Which was awesome because I swear I was the only sober one on that train (in my car, three very giddy older pink-cheeked women loudly complaining about their relationships "unattainable is sexy, Laura, don't call him back", a couple of businessmen making their way back home from the pub, and a slew of teenage guys singing soccer chants. Long story short, the train got moving after a little over an hour, I went home, showered, and fell into bed.

This morning I woke up at 1, grabbed some oatmeal and ran out to my audition for advanced vocal training. It went well, I'm approved for the course, now I've just got to figure out the specifics. Goldsmiths is amazingly unclear about it's own system, it's on courses. In an email I wrote to a friend, I ranted "what's so damn frustrating about all this is how different it is from the American University system. It's odd how disorganized the British system is. They're so totally unclear on the requirements for each course, let alone how to communicate those requirements to their students, there seems to be very little communication between departments, they seem to rely solely upon word of mouth between students in order to communicate assignments, registration procedures..."
As overwhelming as it is at American colleges to be handed a huge orientation handbook and stacks of other smaller booklets many of which you'll later use to loft your bed- and then told that all that information is online just for your reference so you know, in all of the overwhelm those handbooks evoke, there's real reassurance in the knowledge that everything you need to know is in there. All of it. This is the University communicating with you. Goldsmiths would do better off with smoke signals than its current system, whatever it is.

you could always hear it on the AM radio

We received schedules today and as it turns out three of my classes overlap. Instant stress. With classes starting on Monday it just meant a buttload of running around getting signatures, the international office, the various professors teaching the courses I was looking for, the union advisors, the registration people. The people in the Registrar's Office seem a little hopeless as apparently I'm not the only one given overlapping classes. I think I've arranged a solution that'll allow for minimal changes (Advanced Classical studies - heavier vocal trianing- as opposed to just basic voice lessons, and a British Musical Theatre course instead of Shakespeare's London...boo). I'll keep the Ethnomusicology and Urban and Folk Music courses as they're central to my major. So far it's looking like I'll have two classes Friday, one class Thursday, and one on either Tuesday or Wednesday. This means three (possibly four) day weekends for travel and whatnot!

I've also put myself up on the women's football club list. I went into the student union office to ask about training, the kid asks for my name, I tell him and he says "Ohhhh, you're the one with the left foot! We've been waiting for you."
Um....Dad?

My tummy's rumbling and I think I'll head out for a run in a bit. Or maybe not. Maybe it's too cold. Maybe I'll just go sit in a pub and read.



(ding, fries are done)

Watching traffic from the lab

Found the computer lab- finally- no more internet cafes! It's a pretty spacious building one side of which, the side facing the streets, is all glass, making it easy to become lost in people-watching and the back and forth of traffic...makes you lose your train of thought. It's especially nice walking by at night when all the lights are on and you can look up and catch the eye of a student looking away from the computer for a distraction. Someone's always looking out. Reminds me of the little office in Cambridge above the Dunkin' Donuts on Bow street where I used to walk by on Friday afternoons- this office is also all windows on the street side and, like clockwork, this one woman would be sitting at her desk and she'd look at me we'd wave at each other. Every Friday. Someone say hi for me.

Present news...I'm continually asked about what my room is like aside from cold, so I thought I'd explain. Firstly I've managed to figure out the heating system. Um...it was there all along I'm just a twit. Turn the thingy on the side of the thingy and heat goes on. Still working on the internet in the room situation but as I'm the kind of girl who’s surprised electricity doesn't dribble out of the wall socket when you unplug something, it's slow going.

The room itself is about the size of my original dorm at Regents- a little bigger even, although that was a double. The flats we're all in are seemingly refurbished recently. Mine's carpeted (yes!) and has nice light wooden panelling, cubbies, and desk space that curves around to become a sort of nightstand. Each room has a tiny bathroom, so no sprinting through hallways to pee in the middle of the night, and I've bought tile cleaner for the shower, a sponge and some rubber gloves (by the way Mum, you owe Kate ten bucks). I'm on the first floor at the very end of the hall, and my window looks out on an alley with a few plants in which a catfight took place around 4am last night (real cats, not girls). There's a kitchen we all share but I have yet to use it except for the microwave. As for the people in my flat, I've yet to meet any them. Perhaps this is because I'm not housed with the other visiting students but with British students who are still not yet back from holiday.

This morning was all just more orientation meetings. How to stay safe in London. Banking in London. How not to plagiarize in London. How to use the underground. If the room weren't so cold I might have fallen asleep.
So far people seem very nice but reserved. Most of them are here through particular programs (usually you apply via an American Abroad program i.e. Syracuse, BACL etc, rather than sending your application individually like I did), so these programs have their respective orientation and icebreakers and tours of the city separate from Goldsmiths. It does make me wish that I'd applied through one of those programs simply for the immediate community, but that'll come. Classes begin Monday. I don't know my schedule yet, but the classes I'm taking are Ethnomusicology, Folk and Urban Music, Classical Music Vocal Study, and Shakespeare's London (a course which I think everyone has taken at least three times by senior year, but I'm assuming it'll be a completely different experience to take it in London). I've got a music department meeting at 2, and then perhaps a run. I've heard tell of club soccer teams through the student union and I'll see what I can do to get involved. As for Shotokan, I'm beginning to think it doesn't exist in London. If I don't train soon I'm gonna forget how to tie my belt.

Also, I'm possibly going out to dinner with other newbies whose names I never remember. They've learned to re-introduce themselves each time we meet. I'm so appreciative.



Paul Simon - Spirit Voice (everything off this cd reminds me of driving through France with Mum and Kate)

move along, I believe there's something beautiful

Walked all afternoon. I revisited Regent's College; fed peanuts to the geese and squirrels in Regents park- the geese crane their necks and follow you expectantly, occasionally nipping at your heels. Re-memorized the underground, bought some soup to take back to the house with me, wandered through some posh shopping areas and got quizzical looks when I asked about fingerless gloves. Humph.
Still looking for dojos. The three I've tried to contact so far nolonger exist.
Ted, I'm accumulating your heaps of chocolate. Worry not.

I'm eager for classes to start. Ready for something to do, something to get anxious about.

Correction: So far, London is full of mediocre rice pudding. I remain, as always, in search of something phenomenal...rice pudding or otherwise *smile*



Great Big Sea - Something Beautiful

Thursday Morning

Last night was freezing. Really. Zero.
I slept in two pairs of sweat pants, two pairs of socks (one of which was the cow socks Mum gave me for Christmas), two sweatshirt with both hoods up and tied, and the sheet that came with the bedding I got yesterday. I woke up around 3 and pulled all the coats out of my closet, piling them on top of myself like the Mother in Angela's Ashes- not to compare my adversity to theirs by any means- I had four walls around me, knew where breakfast was coming from and had fallen asleep listening to Harry Potter being read aloud on iTunes- my point was I was cold and a little bitter I hadn't picked up a comforter. So that's on the agenda today.

Bought my Oyster pass late last night, walked Oxford Circus for all of 30 seconds before I turned right around and got back on the tube realizing I was dead tired. On the way home I had a conversation with a pleasant inebriated gentleman who was eager to discuss how underrated the harmonica is.

Now I'm of to...to wander, I suppose. Orientation begins tomorrow, Enrollment was this morning, and the rest of the day is for all I mentioned in the last post, dojo, Thames, maybe soccer. Food first though. Didn't do the breakfast thing yet.

Oh! Here's this:

Mollie Birney
1D
Chesterman House
334 New Cross Road
New Cross
London
SE14 6AG

It's Bonnie Tyler Shakedown time

Just grabbed some Thai food with a few other wandering newbies and popped back into the internet cafe to clarify the phone number situation (I've GOT to find a way to get internet in the room. What's a girl to do without AIM?) With country codes and area codes and such, my full international cell number is 01144 79 515 02370

I'll post an address as soon as I'm confidant what it is- I desperately need pictures and posters for the blank walls I'm living in so please feel free to send some my way (could sure use a little death sells out right now... I'll pay your postage?).
I've got a 9:30 orientation meeting tomorrow and following that I'm thinkin' I'll get my underground oyster pass and explore, walk the Thames (sometimes I'm too romantic for my own good), maybe go running, look up one of the dojos (although nobody has yet to pick up the phones of the two SE1 locations) Maybe grab my soccer cleats and head to Regent's. Hell, maybe I'll do that right now...


and by the way, London is full of rice pudding.

nearly settled

I've arrived, but only in the most literal sense of the word. A longish taxi ride with a cab driver who was eager to tell me about his son's learning dissabilities and his daughter's excessive drinking habits but who was so very dear and drove me all about campus while I tried to figure out where to lug my bags. Chesterman house, as it turns out, is a little...how shall we say...displaced from the rest of campus. Perhaps it's just that no one has returned from Christmas break yet, but I could very well be the only one living there. Without internet. *whimper*

The view is nothing like that in Regents park with those great white windows that open out onto the green; here I'm on the first floor and it looks out into, um, an alley, I think. Truth be told I actually haven't been through to explore the campus itself yet, only to drive around it in the taxi. It's far different from Marleybone, I think on their website Goldsmiths refers to it as "an ethnic neighborhood", not grand by any means but a sweet little section of the city- not touristy in the least- populated by mostly Internet cafes, vintage boutiques and a smattering of Indian and Chinese places - the one I'm most eager to try is called Uncle Wrinkle's.

Oh! And I've got a phone number: 07951502370dunno what you need to dial ahead of it, country code or whatnot, but there it is.

I'm off to scavenge for food, and a pillow for my currently sheetless bed. Peter- your coat was a lifesaver. Emma- the packing tape came in handy for reasons other than sentimental ones, Mum...the poncho is still in the suitcase. Love you anyway.

Hallo all. This is the fully-functioning blog I'll use for updates rather than sending out a mass email, spam-style, detailing my travels and escapades and whatnot. At the moment I'm still in Santa Monica packing like a fiend, anticipating tomorrow night's 7pm departure, and occasionally wading through the piles of laundry to change the songs on my playlist.

I am beyond ready to go.

I should admit ahead of time that, as I don't know that I'll have consistint interent access in my house, I make no promises as to the frequency of my posts or the regularity of their length; that is to say, I don't imagine this will be a five times a day endeavor. I'll write when I can. In that same vein, I don't intend to edit for content, spelling or vulagiry. Sorry, Dad. ...about the spelling.

And now, more packing.



but under my feet, baby, grass is growin'
yeah it's time to move one, time to get goin' -Tom Petty

1:11pm make a wish

Test Post...the music is Crash Test Dummies - Mmm Mmm Mmm