Wabi-sabi

From wikipedia:

Comprehensive Japanese world view or aesthetic centered on the acceptance of transienorce. The aesthetic is sometimes described as one of beauty that is "imperfect, impermanent and incomplete"

The art of imperfection.

Sometimes its not about the grand gestures, the airbrushed photos or effort to make everything 'perfect'. In our mass-produced, globalised, constantly changing and fast-moving culture where iphones are disposed of yearly for a newer, better models which have none of the shortcomings of its predecessors, we crave something else. At least I do.

I know that if I kept up with this race of technology, I'll never be satisfied. There will always be something faster, more powerful and more efficient. If it weren't for this our economy could not be growing the rate it is (on a global scale- not exactly UK at the minute), businesses couldn't be more efficient or be able to serve our growing population and consumer needs. Those days of economics 101 come into play where we're taught to shift the production possibility frontier outwards and try and solve the basic economic problem; limited resources, unlimited wants.

But in our own lives, we have to reach that level of satisfaction. Level with ourselves to appreciate what we have, of course this doesn't mean giving up our dreams to become an astronaut, international rugby player or sucessfully carry out our plan of world domination. Just to be content with being. I don't know if this contrasts what I've said before; can we strive for more-be better people and have that incentive to invent and develop better products whilst being at ease with who we are, whilst appreciating our imperfections and what we have?

Perhaps its just all about finding that balance.

Its nature for me. Pure uncensored, uncontrollable, authentic beauty of nature. It may have its flaws- leaves fall off and decay as Autumn turns to Winter. Weathering can leave cracks in the rocks and trees are subject to the mark of time. But there's an aching magnificence about it. Its the muted beauty of the sun peeking out through the trees, a lake so still any ripples will be magnified and fresh morning dew settling on newly sprung daffodils. It somehow instills a quietness of mind, an inspiration of stillness and of contentment. The need to just be rather than do.

And so I had that priveledge this morning. An early rise leading to a morning walk outside on the grounds. This place is the heart of Birmingham, just a few minutes away from the chocolate factory and literally right next to the main Bristol Road. Yet, it manages to be a closed retreat- a getaway from the hustle and bustle of the mad London rush and the piercing Brummie accent. There was no-one around, save for a few geese who had not yet been chased away. Just the morning sun, fresh air and the breakthrough signs of springtime.


Edit: Why this post came out in strange font I have no idea. I struggled for 5 minutes trying to get it to change back to normal but the realised it was against the whole nature of the post.

The path of destruction

It starts life as just a seed. All it takes is that one passing comment, one flicker of uncertainty to plant it in the dark recesses of the mind.

From time to time, you forget about it. Forget it exists. Then its as if its a spark waiting to happen, like a fire needing the three crucial elements to burn. Without one, it would flicker out. With all three, it has the power to destroy.

And once it starts up, its difficult to put out. It continues along its war path, no particular direction or form, just continues to gather speed and pick up anything-good or bad- that should fall in its way. So then you forget what caused it in the first place, what ignited that one spark that turned it into a fully fledged monster.

Instead you can only look back at the path of destruction it has made. Look to the path ahead and find a way to control it. To put it out and salvage what there is left.

Who listens to our soul in its search to be heard?

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If life were a musical...

I've just come out from STOMP, the rhythm and beats still ringing fresh in my ears.

I board the night tube at Liverpool street. I tap my fingers against the plastic bag I'm holding in my lap, as we've learnt tonight everything (except banana peel) has a sound that can be exploited.

A man gets on with heavy workers boots covered in drippings of paint. He's carrying a paint can. His boots would make the perfect stomping material to accompany the rhythm in my head. His paint can could just as easily be turned into a musical instrument to tap along to.

Right on cue, two men board the tube at the next stop each carrying fosters cans. The lighter rat-a-tat-tat of the aluminium cans would go in perfect harmony to my heavy workers boot stomp, plastic bag rustle and paint can tap.

In reality of course, I sit there tapping my fingers on my bag, an imaginary rhythm playing in my head whilst the strangers in question are completely oblivious to their cue to join in.

How awesome life would be if it were a musical.

People sketching

New blog!

http://peoplesketching.tumblr.com/

Nope, everyone is too busy ranting about how the trains are all cancelled and delayed once again.

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Back to early mornings

There's a gorgeous sunrise today. Beautifully vivid colours which somehow blend themselves together subtlely. I wonder if anyone has noticed it but me.

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How Economics saved Christmas

http://blogs.forbes.com/artcarden/2010/12/09/how-economics-saved-christmas/

The salesman

Right beside me sits a largish bloke, perhaps no older than 35. He has the gift of the gab. He chats animatedly to his mate beside him, a conversation that the whole carriage can be expected to hear. I sit beside him, carelessly flicking through my Evening Standard, pretending not to eavesdrop. He talks of his newfound love for Jeremy Kyle after watching yesterday's hot topic of the day, 'I know you cheated on me because I got an STD', nothing less is expected on a train to Southend Victoria, in the land of Essex. You cannot help but hear every word they are saying. The man is a comedian at heart, a salesman by occupation. Its no wonder he has learnt to charm the crowds. 5 minutes later and this man is still endorsing Jeremy Kyle as the cure to every man's bad day. He speaks of one having had a shitty day at work coming home to a round of slagging matches on TV after the subject's boyfriend/friend/brother cheated/lied/had a baby with other guys/best mate/mother/mistress (delete as necessary), stories almost prevalent in every episode of Jeremy Kyle. Stories that somehow puts life in perspective after you realise that yours isn't so bad after all.

A man opposite him, dressed in a sharp business suit suppresses a smile behind his Evening Standard. He catches my eye and we both smile. The salesman is still ranting away about Jeremy Kyle. The smile turns to a chuckle and soon enough this salesman has drawn us in. A lady opposite is intently reading a book titled 'Life after death', supposedly a book written by a friend of hers. Its not long before the salesman spots her and after confessing she's been reading the same line over and over, she too is drawn in. Soon, passengers seats across get wind of today's hot topic conversation and soon enough the whole carriage seems to be in on this conversation. The mood lifts and what was once a bunch of strangers dressed up in their work attire~ uptight suits and tight ties has turned into a place of lively banter. Weary, robotic travellers are suddenly brought to life. All due to the power of the salesman.

Power of the net

uk.news.yahoo.com/5/20101208/tuk-wiki-war-hacktivists-take-down-visa-45dbed5.html

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The first snowfall

It's snowing! I can't help but feel all excited and I'm sure I have a silly childish grin on my face at the first snowfall of the season. I waited half an hour in the cold, my feet are numb and the bus ended up getting stuck in the snow for a while. I would normally be in London by now but have only just boarded the train. I'm rather impressed that the trains still run pretty much on time though. I'm travelling right through the snowy untouched white fields where the snow has left its mark with a frosting just enough to coat the bare branches of the trees. It's so beautiful. But all I can hear around me are workers calling their bosses telling them they'll be late or people rather absorbed in their usual morning busying.

It's snowing! And I feel like I'm the only one who is excited.

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Back to the bubble

I went up to visit Warwick this weekend. In the midst of the lead up to exams (2 weeks now!), it was a much needed break from the city. I needed to go back to Warwick as the place where I learnt to find my own way, fend for myself and where I had made a home for myself for three years. I wanted to see how it had changed, how I'd changed since entering the working world.

And so there was no place better than my favourite haunt by Jack Martin lake. I'm pretty sure its not called Jack Martin lake but that's what it will always be known as to me. Its a place I used to visit often just to let my thoughts simmer, take in the fresh air or even attempt to study (though somehow everything around was always far too distracting). Its not the greatest of natural wonders; a murky lake, the contents of which are somewhat debatable, a few bare trees in the winter and only a badelynge of ducks sauntering around hoping to poach food from the few visitors that pass. But netherless being around nature allows me to breathe and inspires the belief of something greater.

On that cold winter weekend- early Sunday morning, there was hardly a soul wandering the land which gave me the perfect opportunity to claim the lake as my own and snap away with my new camera. It was more of a trial and error effort in an attempt to stay away from the cheat's auto mode and learn for myself. As such, I adjusted far from enough settings and so a lot of the photos from my shooting frenzy were out of focus and somewhat blurry. The playback screen had deceived me into thinking they were not so blurry! But as this is my first attempt at shooting from my new toy, it can only get better. I have to admit I enjoyed a good hour in the cold, snapping away in all manner of positions until my fingers were so frozen they might have dropped off. Anyways, just a few of my newbie shots from the weekend:

"People sketching"

I glance around the crowded carriage in an attempt to pick my first victim. There's the lady with the large Louis Vuitton bag in front of me, make up and nails immaculate plugged into her iPhone whilst simultaneously tapping away at it. There's the lady right next to her- tight pencil skirt reading the metro with her hands dressed in pink leather gloves. For now, I can only define them by their objects, the key pieces they carry or wear that sets them apart from this suited up crowd.

My eyes fall upon man just across from me. His business attire would not warrant a second glance, indeed he blends in with everyone else. Black tailored suit, white shirt, pink tie and polished leather shoes. He reads the Times, again standard for this working class, flicking between the pages and pausing every so often to read an article of interest. He hasn't any defining features, one could quickly pass him by unknowingly in a crowd but something brings him to my attention nevertheless. He has the air of being good looking in his younger days but the signs of the years passing are evident in the faint lines on his forehead. He's so absorbed in his paper, in his own world that he doesn't even glance up to have a nose around every so often. He doesn't even notice the train pull into the final station and when he does look up his forehead wrinkles up and the lines deepen. As the mass of people rush off the train, he takes the time to dress himself, to slowly put on his coat and reach for his bag on the overhead shelf. He is the last in the carriage, still on the train as I finally get off, as if this morning ritual, this five minute ritual helps to prepare him for the day ahead.

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Brewing beneath the surface

These nights I have trouble falling asleep. It's the worse feeling being tucked in underneath the covers, all ready for a good nights sleep then finding yourself still awake after an hour. Then as you get more desperate, checking the clock to watch the minutes change into hours and the darkness turning to light before its time to get up again.

I never usually have trouble sleeping, I can sleep through almost anything...even the sound of cy snoring isn't enough to stir me when I'm in my deep sleep. It's only when I'm troubled that thoughts start to brew in the recesses of my mind. But until they bubble up to the surface, I'm not sure what has provoked them.

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The London commute

As I sit here tapping away on my phone (I say tapping but my fingers still haven't quite grasped the concept of a touchscreen phone yet), I am outnumbered by iPhone users. Seriously with so many other phones on the market, why does everyone seem to have iphone? I feel somewhat special with my HTC and smile proudly whenever a fellow HTCer should whip out their phone.

Commuting takes up a huge chunk of my day. My friend and I once sat on the bus on the way to school calculating how much of our lives we had given to travelling the bus day in, day out. But I'm not alone, the trains into London are always crowded with people who live outside the city despite the inconvenience. Perhaps it gives them space to breathe away from the towering office blocks and transports them back to their own lives, outside of work- to their kids, partners, pets, friends and loved ones.

I too have disappeared into the commute; I grab the Metro on the way to work and hastily pick up the evening standard on the mad dash home. I've mastered the art of balancing it when I'm crammed onto a crowded tube but haven't quite got to doing the crosswords at the back yet. I tut as people cross my path or stop abruptly when I'm dashing and weaving in and out to catch the next train when I know I've probably done the same thing to others. I get annoyed when people don't stop to let others off the train despite the reminder we get from posters and the lady with the megaphone to mind our manners. I feel secretly pleased when I manage to score a seat on a crowded tube during rush hour and cringe at the mention of a tube strike though it somehow works out fine in the end. I now know that the beeping sound before the tube doors close is not to warn us to step away but rather to make a James Bond like dive for the doors for the sake of saving a whole 2 minutes of waiting. I watch others as they tap away on their blackberries, are plugged into their music, doze off to sleep, read their books, newspapers or catch up on their knitting. Perhaps I should start knitting, think I could probably finish a scarf by the end of this year. Though it seems like an odd thing to do on a train, I guess it makes good use of all the time spent travelling. Maybe I could start selling my creations too.

It's hard to imagine sometimes these people are all individuals with their own lives, thoughts and emotions. It's all too easy to lump them into the mass of commuters floating in and out of London day by day, staring lifelessly out into the distance, marching from place to place as they get to their workplaces.

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A childhood memory

It is early November, around the time of bonfire night when the anticipation builds u as you hear the odd cackle from the neighbour's garden and rush to the window in excitement. I'm dressed head to toe in winter woolies wrapped up tightly by my mum. We are all stood outside in a small field behind the infant block of my primary school; me, my mum, dad and little brother who sits snuggly in my mum's arms. We only had one field for school events which used to transform itself during our school's sports days and summer fetes. There was always a good turn out, people left their busy lives to revel in the simple pleasure of fireworks and as such there was always a strong sense of community and school spirit, or so it felt like back then. We waited eagerly with our jacket potatoes and hot dogs warming up our insides awaiting those magical bursts in the sky. It was all about the jacket potatoes back then, especially as the fireworks always seemed to start late.

15 years on, I'm standing in another field at Blackheath. The winter chill is ever present and I'm bundled up in my scarf and gloves. The field is larger by a long shot and filled with a throng of people who have trekked from all ends of London. I crane my neck to get a better view and as I do sparks fly and illuminate the sky. The fireworks are no doubt bigger and more expensive than my school's own production but the feeling is just the same. Despite the cold, the crowd ooh and aah in all the right places. Our eyes shine brightly and inside that coldlike wonderment is ignited. There are the ones that glow coming in an array of colours, those that fizzle out into the darkness, ones that seem to take on a life of their own and the ones that are launched into the sky with a piercing cry. It takes me back to 15 years ago when I would crane my neck in awe but with my hands laced firmly over my ears to block out the sound. The only thing missing now is the jacket potatoes.

Fireworks at Blackheath

I've lost my blogging mojo

If there is such a thing, I appear to have lost it. It's not that u haven't started writing anything, they just never made their way to be posted. I just can't seem to string my thoughts together and that worries me. It's almost as off Im unsure of who I am anymore, unsure of the thoughts I want to pen down, unsure of myself. People retreat to all parts of the globe, take gap years, travel to cultures different from their own all in an effort to discover themselves as if we are lost souls waiting for that turning point to reveal whatever it is we hope to see.

I'm so bogged down in trying to find out where I'm going, what I'm doing, thinking for the future; my future, our future that I've forgotten about the now. I've forgotten what its like to feel truly excited by something, to have that adrenaline pumping through my veins, to feel so eager to finish something I don't mind staying up all night. I hope this is not what it means to be working as I am, sucked into an endless cycle of work and exams.

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My affair with London

Stepped outside into the glorious sunshine at half past three today. Half past three! Any city worker would have been envious of my fine working hours, today was just short of the hours I had when I was at school. I felt almost guilty walking the streets without sight of a city suit worker but it allowed me to appreciate how beautiful London is without the mass of crisp white shirts and tight fitted suits I usually have to dodge my way in and out of. To top it all off, there wasn't a single grey cloud in the sky and I could be almost tricked into believing it was summer having spent the lunch hour chilling lazily in the park with my colleagues. At these times I love London. Its mix of people, cultures, architecture, musical theatre combined with the hustle and bustle of city life with room still for pockets of open space and greenery.

At other times, London can feel like the lonliest place on earth. Ironic, as it is hardly short of people. But for every stranger you pass by, for every soul that barges past you on the mad rush home, you begin to feel a chill deep set in your bones until one day when you've had a bad day or things haven't quite gone your way, the coldness hits you like a brisk winter wind. The grey skies can't possibly get any greyer. The tall office buildings cast their shadows over you looming intimidatingly above and at times you can feel claustrophobic. At these times all I want to do at the end of the day is retreat back to the suburbs.

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Photographs.

I spent a few hours today digging through old and new photos. I wanted to pin some up in my room so went out and bought some simple black frames to house them. What I didn't realise is quite so many I actually have collected over the years.

I may not be able to use one of those contraptions they call a DSLR or be a whizz at photoshop but I'm not a newbie to photography. When I got my first camera one birthday many many years back I was ecstatic and promptly went around taking pictures of almost anyone and everything in my way until the film ran out. I sent my photos off to be developed (by snail mail) and impatiently waited for them to be returned. I'm not sure where those photos are or even if I still have them around but the feeling is just the same now. I love taking photos, I love looking through people's photos and seeing how they capture them. I love being captured by them. Except now I don't have to wait for my photographs to develop. There is some magic though in the waiting and anticipating.

I love flicking through old photo albums and picking up an oldie and in an instance being transported to that time and place and the feelings of that moment come flooding back. They are also good for a girl with a memory as terrible as mine. Photographs have the power to move you, to capture in a nanosecond the essence of a moment you wanted at that time to freeze forever. And even if those photographs are not your own, there's something about a photograph that can simply speak and tell its own story to the beholder.

So I pinned up my photos (Vonne will be impressed with my fantastic hammering skills...so much so that I had to quite possibly make a few more holes than nexessary just to get it right) so like my room in the royal palace which I miss dearly, I can glance at them from time to time and feel a glow in my heart just remembering those times.

Strange familiarity

I wondered how somehow along the line caught up in our own separate lives we lost touch. Phone calls and meet ups became fewer and further between. Cards were less personal and more just a way of habit and gradually we shared less and less of our lives with each other.

I wonder if that's really what will happen to some of my friendships now. We'll part ways, find new friends and move on with our lives.

But then one day, you'll catch a glimpse of something sparkling in the sand and although through time its been buried layer upon layer, all it takes is the tide to wash it away and bring it back up to the surface.

Like a forgotten gem.

There's something so familiar about old company no matter how many years its spent tucked away in the closet. That despite all the years you still know their phone number by heart. You fall into the familiar habit of checking your height against one another, only to discover you're exactly as tall as them as it was 10 years ago (though you may have grown an inch or two since then). And that they still care to remember the little things about you that you'd thought they'd forgotten.

Yes, old friends. Its nice to discover them once more.