jueves, 27 de marzo de 2014

Watashi ga Renai Dekinai Riyuu (not that I speak Japanese)

I have realized that when you grow old (because I do grow old, indeed. You can't help but notice when the students are younger than you, and when in TV everyone is younger than you [specially traumatizing]), you become more risky in terms of fashion.

I remember flipping pages of catwalks in fashion magazines thinking, 'who the hell is brave enough to wear such flamboyant fabric display?'. But now I love them. The more provocative and eccentric, the more I wish I could wear them.

And that takes me to a very special accessory. The country of flamenco dancers and fishy yellow rice that I come from teach you, from very early age, never to put on a hair grip. Never. It looks tacky, and it is mostly associated with house-cleaning jobs - the type of thing you would use if you had to clean your toilet seat. Please, it is not meant for the street. 

Look at that! Appalling, right?

But yet after those hundreds of Japanese shows that I may have already watched (thank you, gooddrama website), my perception of the fair grip has changed. In fact I am sitting in my office and I have the dignity to be wearing one of those. Because it is so fashionable in their culture (they might even have the cool to wear them on a date!)! So there you go, age has taught me a very important lesson - to wear what I want without caring.

Some Sweet Moves

And I shall finish with a happy dance, as I have an official deadline for my thesis. It is called Fist of June.

jueves, 13 de marzo de 2014

My cat is calling, as I won't be on duty today

I have to face just one fact: after more than 12 months without any signs of weaknesses... I got sick.

I never enjoyed getting ill.

Nobody does, I get that. But at least there were some kids that could not wait for the days they could skip those classes and stay at home watching Doraemon and ClupSuper3. They just could not wait.

Not for me. I would suffer. Of course I would also binge on cartoons, but still I much preferred to be at class. And 20 years later I find myself mirroring the exact same situation. Is it not sad?

I can sweat, have a fever and back pain, moan in bed for feeling week and sluggish, and yet the clock reverberates in the morning and I start packing my bag and putting on some make up.

Call it PhDaholic, call it I-don't-know-what-to-do-with-my-life-if-I-am-not-at-work. Or better call someone to make me feel better. So many things to do, and so little time to spare!

Kisses from a victim of tiredness and illness.

jueves, 27 de febrero de 2014

Sticky oranges

I do love oranges. But this routine of mine, of peeling the poor thing and then spraying the whole desk (and fingers) with the sticky juice is driving me insane.

Obviously I didn't came here to moan about the way I eat my breakfast (and of not throwing away the tissue that I use to clean such mess, but leave it on my desk, as if it was my new pet and was keeping me company). I came here to make sure I remember two points.

The first point is a feeling. I imagined how intriguing it would be if it was possible to live the life of someone else for one day. During my pre-adult years, I had the 'opportunity' to work in the crappiest and most weird jobs that you could imagine (e.g. check screws while monitoring an oven in a dimly light factory during 1AM till 6AM over the weekends. Yeah, what can be worst, right?). And this gave me insight into ways of thinking that I could have never thought about, and those thoughts have accompanied me over the following years.

But of course I couldn't do them all. Mainly because most require different skills and factors which I may not possess. And this is a shame. If we could all wear each other's shoes, I think they way we interpret each other would dramatically change.

I imagined being a social young blogger, capturing pretty pictures of my breakfast (maybe some oranges as well, but mainly muesli and pricy blueberries), courtesy of the latest hotel from the most flashy city, paid by (the mystery of 'who it is really that sponsors them') so that they can cover as many collections as they can during the busy fashion week. Get to wear those nice clothes and then get mesmerized by the fact that you look a million times better in those pictures than in real life.

I would also like to be an engineer. Practicality, solve other client's nightmares, and then see my creation somewhere. Go home and worry about my own hobbies, but not my job anymore. I could be a dancer. Feel the pain after protracted rehearsal hours. Visit Freeds and be considered an usual. I could be a writer. Feel the block of not knowing what to deliver. But deliver it in time, nevertheless. Be a firewoman and go down the pole. Be a professional Olympic skater and understand that hug right after your routine, coming from your couch, the one in the stadium that can get to feel your emotions. I could continue this list endlessly. It is just a pity that it could never become true. There are so many things that I wish I could learn. But I guess it is all about choices.

The second point is a post-it note that I don't store mentally for fear of loosing it (lately I sometimes realize I cannot follow a conversation and I am dreaming about introductions, and ballets, and my daily thoughts that are becoming oppressive and compulsive):

I have found this charming store in London and I think when it is all over (of course I am talking about my thesis, there is nothing else that I seem to be able to chat about lately if not that), I deserve to go and buy new ribbons for my flat shoes, which will soon become a pompom. They do remind me one of those cute dogs that you feel the urge to put a fancy dress on them because they look more like a lion than a dog.

I adore this dog. You can also follow him on Facebook (he is irresistible!).

Smelly kisses of oranges for everyone. I have procastinated far too much this morning.

jueves, 20 de febrero de 2014

Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage

I love mornings. I eat my two-oranges genetically-modified-portions and slowly slurp the kuofi (Australian for coffee) from the 5th anniversary flask token. I check my usual websites. Social networks, just to start the engine; Margaret Zhang for inspiration, the New Yorker or the NY-foodie blog lover, to cover for my NY-nostalgia altogether. I might play some classic music (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dPnkrvtuiMQ). I might find out more about those actors that I might have watched the night before. I might want to learn more about a new skill. Let it be conducting. Let it be a new recipe that I will end up never cooking. Let it be a picture that will then take me to a sketch.

And among this list, today I was on a whim to create an extra list with the “Things that I wish to be doing when I finish this agony”. And you can find it below.

1.       Read the new Murakami’s. Give a chance to the Canadian Alice Munro. 
2.       Write a piece of fiction. It can be short. It can be none sense. It can be crap. But write. 
3.       Pay to watch an orchestra playing live. Attend to the conductor’s moves. 
4.       Wake up and do some stretching, at least for 5 days in a row. 
5.       Buy the most expensive sushi box in the shop. Call it Kokoro. 
6.       Eat miso soup as many times as I feel like it.
7.       Pay for Udon. Invite him. 
8.       Take my dad to a Guitar heaven and buy him a Stratocaster. Or buy it and make a big entrance whilst playing it. Haven’t decided on which one yet. 
9.       Pack my brother’s suitcase and take him to Lansdowne. Show him the new park at the Level. Show him how to cook, and bake. Teach myself first. 
10.   Prepare at least ONE dish from my Japanese cooking book. 
11.   Bake a tray full of cookies. 
12.   Buy an expensive suit. Preferably brown. And with a pattern inside the blazer. 
13.   Travel to a far-away-place. Kyoto, is my preferable but it may as well be a sandy beach. Philippines. Malaysia. Vietnam. Fine, let’s sign for Vietnam. 
14.   Print out my papers, which they will be soon published, just in terms to motivate myself to continue this none sense writing. Show them to my mum. Even if she hasn’t the foggiest what does it mean. Nor do I either. 
15.   Finish the writing course and draw a short story for kids. The yogurt club, did I name it. 
16.   Perhaps upload some of my drawings to that personal website that I never got around to start. 
17.   Learn to play at least one short song in the piano. 
18.   Contact the pianist and do language and music swap. 
19.   Take one book from the Library’s Classics section. 
20.   Shake off the dust from the skates and ride along the seafront. 
21.   The creepiest one has to be the last one. Do a 45-min pilates session. Record it. And do it again, eventually!

But first I must go to the library. Try to sell my story. Short stories are far more compelling than long, complicated ones. No one likes to read the bible. Let me drop it in size and be proud of this last one. And we can call it a day.

sábado, 1 de febrero de 2014

¡Qué nervios, me pilla esto en bata!

Siempre que empiezo me da como por arrepretarme la bata y menear la cabeza de un lado al otro con boca de pasa y con rulos imaginarios. ¡Si es que en verdad soy tan maruja!

Resulta que llevo días con conversas (inciso, ahora me preguntaba si '¿conversa o conversación?', esto de vivir en países ingleses hace que vuelvas a la etapa de los nueve años, en los que decías cosas como pendents, munyecs, birnús con toda la confusión del catalán-castellano que llevan los pobres críos) (ay, me quedo sin aire con tanto paréntesis). Las conversas eran muy profundas. De las que uno ya ni se acuerda de lo que estaba pensando (es que la edad ya va picando, no te creas). Y el tema era: ¿qué?, ¿me vuelvo pa'l bloc (con c sin duda mejor que con g)? ¿o qué? 

Y bueno, la respuesta ya está clarita. Clarita como (me doy cuenta de que no estoy tan entrenada como para poner metáforas o literatura complicada, necesito un poco de calentamiento). ¡Pero me ha costado el tema! Mira si me ha costado que llevo tres párrafos excusándome de por qué he vueeelto, de que si eeesto, de que si lo ooootro... y me estoy haciendo una pelma. Más pesaica que mi madre haciéndose selfies, o que mi corrector, cambiándome al español cuando quiero escribir en inglés, y cambiándome al inglés cuando quiero escribir en flamenco. Sí. Soy muy flamenca. Y muy chulita. Que esto de volver al bloc (erre con el bloc) no lo hace cualquiera. Vergüenza debería darme, después de tanto tiempo. Como aquel mail que no te atreves a mandar a tu amigo de toda la vida por temor a que te amputen los dedos después de tal pergamino. Uno se queda en blanco. ¡Tantas cosas (en realidad no hay tantas pero uno tiene siempre que aparentar)!

Así que haré ver que aquí no ha pasado nada. Voy a poner la boquichuela esa del uassa (whatsapp para muchos padres) que tanto me gusta (un espacio publicitario para hacer mi actividad favorita, que viene siendo escribir "emoticono boquichuela pal lao del whatsapp" en el google) (sí, soy de esas personas que dice, "ay, pues no sé, ¡búscalo en el google!"). Ésta misma (podría hacerme la falsa y no decir que me ha costado encontrarla pero voy a ser honesta):

Ahora que ya hemos roto el hielo (sólo 4 párrafos, podría haber sido peor), voy a hacer lo típico, que es contar las cuatro cosas que he hecho en el día, así muy a modo "mi querido diario". Voy a pensar que tengo amigos cibernéticos y que no voy a ser yo la única que se acabe releyendo sus propias entradas (que pasar pasa, igual que la gente que se mira sus fotos del mobri -me da por llamar al móvil mobri- tooool día, toool día miráaandose sus fotos... que gente más cansina) (por si da pie a confusión alguna, me encanta mirar las fotos tropecientas veces, es un pequeño placer de la vida que tengo, oye).

Esta mañana me he levantado de mala leche (así, cambiando de tema). Hay días que parece que me hayan drogado, de la energy que tengo; pero hoy estaba de mala leche. Resulta que ayer mis vecinos me la liaron y tuve que bajar a la calle (con La Bata) a picarles al timbre como una histérica. Y porque no estaban ellos en la calle, que si no les tiraba una palangana de agua. A las 6 de la mañana me he tenido que levantar a coger unos tapones (los de cera que parecen chicle, que nos poníamos para ir a hacer el cursillo de natación, no, los que son más bien del tipo Shrek, entre Shrek y Punky Brewster, porque eran multicolores) (ya me he liao otra vez), del ruido borrachil que tenían montao. Así que sólo podía levantarme de mala leche.

Ahora he parado un segundín porque me están dando como rampas en el dedo pequeño. Está más estirado que las típicas caricaturas de los ingleses tomando té. Y diréis, chica qué mal acostumbrada al teclado, a ver si escribes un poco más. Pero no, amigos, no nos engañemos. Resulta que ahora estoy en ese túnel. En ese black hole del que todos los doctores hablan. Ese momento en el que no sabes si te vas a volver loco o si ya lo estás. Estoy en mis últimos meses (dos) (lo voy repitiendo por si no lo consigo, que me dé vergüenza, pero en realidad no tengo fecha límite) de writing up (que son los ingleses eh, writing up para lo que viene siendo un simple 'escribir', pero ellos con un writing no les resulta suficiente, necesitan un up o alguna preposición toca-moños).

Así que lo dejo aquí, no vaya a ser que me dé un empache. Como hoy, cuando me he sentado en la mesita de pino de la biblioteca (parecía una estudiante otra vez, me ha hecho hasta ilusión), y los libros que tenía justo al lado eran todos de writing. He tenido que mirar así para el lado con los ojos como platos en plan "no-me-lo-puedo-creer", "creo-que-alguien-me-está-persiguiendo".

Un saludo de, me voy a dormir que mañana me levanto para ir a balletear (otro episodio será dedicado a esa actividad tan graciosa que hago últimamente -dos años y pico, pero si hago ver que soy novata se me perdona ser patética- que se quiere llamar ballet) y estaré toda mustia, con toda la resaca que llevo hoy de tanta bata, timbres y tapones.

2014 me ha dado un bloc y una tesis.
Por dios.
Que me de una tesis.
Por mi salud.
Y por la de mis queridos.

martes, 16 de agosto de 2011

‎- Anna Karenina - 9th August - Row D 57-56, amphitheatre. Booked. And enjoyed.

After a while, I come back with a bag full of apologies. I’m a sad creature that deserves no respect for leaving this unattended, but never mind, you might be used to this absence periods.

I’ve swapped to English not only because I’m a cosmopolitan girl (who drinks orange and carrot juice, with no umbrellas hanging around the glass, no olives and of course no drops of alcohol in it, but still cosmopolitan), but also because I’m currently living in England and I need to do a bit of showing off, and after a year more or so I could go back to those lines and have a good laugh at my writing. You know I love laughing at myself, I can’t help it.

I’m in Starbucks at the moment, listening to Shopeng (also known as Chopin, but with my Spanish voice, during the reading “Chopin”, is almost gloomy, sinister and tacky, xxxxopin, with a strong sound at the beginning – I’ve noticed that I had forgotten how good it was to do a bit of criticizing, it’s on my girly nature). And I’m doing so for several reasons, ei, a), I have no internet at home because of the laziness that impregnates my brain just with the idea of thinking that I have to spend one hour (at least) with my ear glued to the receiver, listening to that already-friend-of-mine from Cielo’s company (I cannot reveal the real name, that would be so unprofessional); bi, b) because I realized that I was betraying S with another cafeterias and that feels bad, so bad, that I had to come back and order a Grande (I know, how risky, such an adventurous girl); ci, c) because I’m doing, pardon, I’m trying to do ballet with a woman that soon, pretty soon, I’ll mention in extended detail (I’m completely in love with her, in the artistic way of it, but with all my heart, and my arteries, and other physiologic components) (and I know c bullet point has nothing to do with the answer ‘why am I in Starbucks’, but you will also know that I always introduce things in the conversation for no reason, so I don’t need to ask for pardon in here).

Alineación al centro

This is me during the rehearsal...

yes well no. Ok. No.

Once I’ve described the scenery, I would like to say hello again. Briefly, I’m still doing science, I’m still walking around the tree brunches (this is so Spanish but I don’t mind), I’m still in love with my little brother, but, as news, I live far away from home, I’m trying to give more light in the addiction topic, I’m living with my boyfriend in a very cutie pink one-bedroom house with pretty wall paper and smooth ceiling that we very try to keep immaculate all the time, and I have this idea in mind to write a book in English about a guy whose head is expanding (you know, normal staff).

I wish, with my eye lids strongly closed and my fingers rolled, that everyone that I was following or was following me is alright. And I salute them again. Is so creepy to never forget you (specially talking about the Doctor and the Chocolaterie girl).

Regards, or that’s what they say,

The girl-that-promises-to-come-back-with-some-more-writing (with actually something more substantial than this nonsense).

domingo, 27 de junio de 2010

"What people do in the privacy of their own sports arena should be their own business", Phil

Yyyyy (muy alargada) como siempre vuelvo con lo más friki, creo que hoy es el día suficientemente digno como para venir y contarlo.

Después de hacer el Abúsame de Batuka, deportivamente en la habitación de mis padres, con un top de barcos de la edad de 9 años, unos pantalones largos azules nada transpirables, y el último sportgadget llamado pesas que se atan a los tobillos (puedo entender que alguien se sienta ofendido por mi nivel de penosidad, pero recordad que todos tenemos un lado oscuro y lo importante es reconocerlo para poder ir a un grupo de autoayuda y contarlo), SEGUIDO DE (volved a leer si es necesario, que he puesto un paréntesis demasiado largo -se nota que pierdo la práctica redactando... o que mi voz mental me supera-) 15 minutos de TaeBo (no es bueno abusar; buscadlo en youtube y aprenderéis a hacer patadasbarracroquetas caseras voladoras), (y ahora volvemos a retomar el hilo) HE VENIDO AL ORDENADOR a seguir con los tutoriales de HAIRSTYLE, easy to make, gorgeous to be. Y como me ha salido el primer peinado en serio que me he hecho, he venido a contar que no es una estafa (a parte de lo divertido que es hacer tal actividad). Yo ya lo estoy publicitando indirectamente a mi vecindario. Me pongo delante del pc, ventana abierta, espejillo en mano, ejército de horquillas... y dejo que todo el mundo vea lo paranormal que puede llegar a ser.

SÍ. Pero luego, ¿quién lucirá un peinado a lo más prom?
Cuidado (leído con voz fuerte), veréis la primera imagen y la autoestima bajará en picado. PUES NO. ¡¡NO!! ES UN ERROR. (si hay algún lector masculino, o es muy peludo, o tiene ganas de peinar a la Barbie... o mejor que ya no lea, por su propia salud). Si yo he podido hacérmelo y no recrear una boñiga en la cima del monte, vosotras podréis.

Luego debéis ir probando distintas peluqueras home-made. Los comentarios que hacen pueden llegar a ser muy graciosos (llámale gracioso, llámale...). Hay algunas que te enseñan a hacer looks. "¡El look de Megan Fox!". Y no. Eso sí que no. No creáis que vais a ser como Megan Fox. La estética tiene unos límites que todos debemos aceptar.

Para terminar el saludo-muy-largo, os recomiendo la adquisición de MODERN FAMILY. Una serie para no parar de reír en modo esquizofrénico, solos en vuestro salón. Algún día vendré y os contaré más cosas sobre ella. Y sobre la magnífica y divertida barbacoa que hicimos el pasado sábado (lo que viene siendo ayer).

Y no quiero que me odiéis, pero es muy probable que este verano... ¡¡VUELVA A NUEVA YORK!! (En próximos episodios...)

Qué de vida, la de los próximos episodios