cheezy cheeky

something to look forward to

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Fri, 25 May 2012 21:34:00 +0000

Leaving the office while there was still light outside did not become an imperative this year before the good weather got going, and that was rather late. In bad weather, home means projects and pottering, cooking warming meals and catching an episode of a favourite show. All that if once I spread my mobile office in the kitchen, and Chris in the lounge, anyone remembers what life is supposed to be like.

In this revised weather, life moves outdoor, and so does home, the rest of the space auxiliary, used as a passage. Little changes about what we do, if you don't count trying to cook every damn thing on the grill, but doing everything in open air, the fragrance of jasmine, the chatter of a busy restaurant, the pink clouds of sunset, that makes home a destination. So I don't mind working now, in the least.

It is from now on that all the hours invested in the terrace pay manifold, be it a place to catch one's breath and wear loose clothes, the place where one admires the progress of summer fruits and greens, or equally, and more often that not, the place where one cracks the next mindboggling business problem. And it is where we started living upon moving in, so it is here where we feel most ourselves. At home.

ebay message of the day: fair enough

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Fri, 25 May 2012 18:01:00 +0000

Hello,

Thank you for your payment. I'm at a cat show tomorrow and my son said he'll go to the PO. If he doesn't, cos he's 19, I'll send it on Mon!

Thanks!

alien life on the entrepreneur ship

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Thu, 24 May 2012 21:49:00 +0000

Time I got home: 8.45 This is early, and I live around the corner from the office.

Time I left home: 8.45 This is early, so I had to do with 6 hours sleep again.

Outside temperature: 24 Celsius This is hot. We only turned off the heating three days ago.

Internal temperature: lizard. This is good, lots of things don't get on my nerves anymore.

Daytime layers: 4 This is mad, but one was silk, and I've got to wear a bra.

Evening layers: 1 This is good, nothing beats being barefoot about the place.

National product launches: 1 This is good, considering we're all home for dinner.

Free client trials: 2 This is good, but five times more won't hurt.

Work emails sent: 17 This is bad, as much more fell by the side.

Other comms: countless. Most written ones are in Skype & Twitter DMs.

Glasses of cava: 1 This doesn't happen nearly enough, but here's hoping for more.

Mugs of double espressos: 4 This is very good, I normally lose count.

Useless networking events: 1 This is alright, I was working during most of it.

Profanities uttered: countless This is good, it's how I entertain myself.

Fruits consumed: 500g This is great, and not negotiable, because...

Junk food consumed: 1 This is bad, but counters 4 beers last night.

Important tasks on my list: 65 This is normal, and only what I don't keep in mind.

Urgent tasks on my list: 65 This is equally normal, everything must get done.

Pains in my body: 3 This is normal. Hello GP fave, ibuprofen and paracetamol.

Kgs in my bag: 6 This is good, it was actually a bag, not a backpack.

Videos processed: 3 This is good, we must document more of our work.

Blog posts written: 1 This is good, but if you ask, I'll do even better.

Time spent putting this together: 15 minutes Outrageous, but I glanced around at my babies, took photos, had a smoke, you get the picture.

effing budding talent

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Tue, 15 May 2012 21:42:00 +0000

Chris: Do you know the business account sort code?
Me, laughing: What do you mean? It's on your fucking card.
Chris, annoyed: No, it's not!
Me, pulling out my card: What IS this?! Fuck me!
Chris, as I look up electronic records: You give Malcolm Tucker a run for the money. Did you hear what you said?
Me, sort code dictated and fucking memorised: What did I say?

counting sheep in his sleep

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 14:15:00 +0000

Chris: Three thousand. Fourteen hundred. Ninety nine.
Me: You mean four thousand, four hundred...?
Chris: Hmm! You KNOW what I mean!

Twist the knife, damn it: I NEVER do.

where my olympic journey ends...

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 21:14:00 +0000

...at least in its official track, as a volunteer, in equally official gear. This hot piece of euphemistic passive aggressive communication has just landed in my inbox:

[...] Unfortunately, your application has not been successful. While we cannot commit the time to answer individual queries, we can confirm the most typical reason for not being shortlisted was limited availability. We thank you very much for your interest and enthusiasm in support of London 2012 Ceremonies and hope that you will support London 2012 in other ways. [...]

If you don't know what the fuss is all about, find out where my Olympic journey started, and where it stumbled severely. And to my 3 year younger self: HAHAHA!

save for never: episode 1

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 01:45:00 +0000

This idea has consumed me for at least a week. I live in a world of ideas, and no resource to make most happen, so nothing really consumes me for a whole week. Ideas are cheap. Fleeting. Done before. Shifted. Etc. Seeing this one won't go away, however, or morph into something completely different, here goes.

Bookmarks are dead, we all know it. But we all still do it, to some degree, and for some reason that may be about status, if not self-esteem. Regardless. Who ever goes through the bookmarks again? Though my life is different from yours, none of us has time. Except for those things that still get us.

Save for never is an attempt to chronicle what got me, and was gotten by me, without the need to save it for later. I'll keep it short.

1. "I'm not fucking happy—who's happy? I don't even know what that is." >> David Chang, chef (cameo), Treme

2. The sound of the last day of summer. It has been with me since the last perceivable day of summer, and will stay for years to come. I don't even own this yet. I don't need to. I like how it comes at me serendipitously, from here, there and nowhere.

3. Marc Jacobs AW12. Yes, fashion! The best of it. Mad as a nut. Even the fashion people can't get shit about it. They will ponder whether it was serious or a joke until the end of their lives. How delightful! That doesn't happen often. Truly, and gorgeously disruptive. Plus I kinda have one of them mad hats, the trendsetter I am.

my london 2012 olympics will run under @fru's logo

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 23:13:00 +0000

When I saw this beautiful logo for the London 2012 Olympics made by Frulwinn Collick I had one more reason to cry over the rivers of spilt milk around these games. The logo in use, as it stands, conveys no joy, no unity, no movement (citius, altius, fortius as of 1924), no recognisable image of London—not even as seen by the eyes of its millions of residents, nevermind the world population. The logo in use could've shown, among others, just how strong the UK is at "creative industries" (apparently its intended leading spear, should one remove financial services). Perhaps the official logo has, in fact, succeeded too well in reflecting how London, and the country at large feel: broken, fragmented, moving at once in all directions—thus none, lacking ambition, searching for an identity.

@gorgeoux i made an alternative olympic logo for fun yesterday. do you like it? any feedback is welcomed :) twitter.com/Fru/status/174…
— Fru (@Fru) February 28, 2012

By contrast, Fru's logo is something that made me smile instantly, that anyone anywhere could read in a blink, memorise, recognise and identify with. It would also stand the test of time, and convey London in its informal, playful nature of nowadays, while simultaneously nodding towards its history. I love its joy, simplicity and power so much that I'll print it on a white t-shirt and wear it religiously during the Olympics. I know it'll catch the eye of many, make them happy on the spot, and be an awesome conversation starter as amazing athletes from hundreds of nations save the day and help us forget how the organisers broke some part or other again*. Why not print your own t-shirt with @fru's logo?

* OK, they'll probably get the fireworks & lighting the flame right

it's spring alright!

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 22:15:00 +0000

Without doubt, it is spring on our terrace in the heart of London. And while I know that a city like this can easily get 3-5 degrees warmer than its surroundings, note I'm not announcing spring just as the first flower buds were spotted, but when everything is in bloom. This is one of two daffodils that hurried to open this morning, as the sun shone bright and the temperature steadily rose to the 15 degrees I experienced just before noon.

Swinging the terrace door open and being able to leave it as such was, of course, an added benefit, and for the whole five minutes I basked in the sun between moving work from home to the office, I snapped away happily at all the splendour. The crocuses, in particular, as they are nearly gone, and quite hidden under the rosemary that finally manned up last year, once I gave it a new pot in 2010 and kept it away from the cleaner than nearly watered it to death in 2009.

I expect that as it grows and bushes up, the woody branches at the bottom will lose their foliage, and my crocuses will shine in the sun in all their purple glory as of next year. And speaking of sun, I loved catching an early glimpse of this gazania, as it has so much more colour than the blanched flowers of summer. It didn't die over the winter, which is why there's such an early bloom, both facts recommending it as a year-round flowering plant in London.

The hyacinths, however, only coming round once a year, are quite happily hidden away from the sun among some greenery. That makes it a tad hard to spot them before they're fully open, but then again, I'd rather they last longer. Even if it means I have to bend a little for a photo and a sniff. This is not the only hyacinth (two more are go), and not the first either—as the snow flattened the gazania pile, the hyacinth behind it had quite a bit of sun quite quickly, and recently passed away.

Our silver wattle, meanwhile, or mimosa for others (acacia dealbata, to be clear) is approaching its climax. The flowers are already too high for me to smell without a ladder, but guess what I'll be doing this weekend? Oh, yeah! We bought this tree in the late winter of 2010, in a deplorable state. It has grown incredibly fast, the bush creature it is, and I feel incredibly successful to have it bloom already, and proudly receive compliments from the neighbours who're used to seeing it in the South of France.

There's a lot more going on in the garden, and I'll be trying harder to report on it. Last year I photographed every bit of interestingness dutifully, but failed to tell the stories timely. There was a lot of actual gardening involved, for at least a full day every weekend, and I hope that it all pays off in the years to come, when hopefully it's a lot more about maintenance and sitting back to enjoy the lush green paradise that is manmade miracle in the city centre.

some peace and hush

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 00:54:00 +0000

Nothing prepares you fully for running your own show. Not even having run a radio or TV show. The areas where you could make a difference are infinite, but your resources aren't. Not if you need to be sharp, focused, hard-working, fun, motivating and inspiring, and thinking on your feet non-stop, day and night, whether it's about not buying the same cake each time there's a meeting or writing and submitting six proposals in the space of a few hours. It is paramount, then, to look well after yourself, and quickly assess just how much sleep deprivation is scalable and for how long, and which comforts you cannot do without. Coffee first thing in the morning comes to mind.

We could get it at the office, or on the way to a meeting, but by that point you must be bullet fast already, and coffee takes some thirty minutes to kick in. So coffee, often before you can walk or string sentences together, is a rather clever idea. If it also happens to come in an equally sturdy and elegant mug of the mellow spectrum, the better. And if you can have at least a couple of sips while still in bed, or sitting on your favourite armchair, that, my friend, is pure bliss. You wake up to a world of peace, and beauty, and for a few precious minutes you can atune yourself to the universe at a pleasant pace and focus on the flowers rather than your pressing business.

And as you take the mug to a more functional corner, it helps if the eye can travel smoothly from one area of beauty to another, from one pouch of peace to the next, as the hands slowly pull wardrobe doors and drawers, and feel for the textures that suit the weather, the day. The light will always tell you, with the curtains partly gathered, even before your mobile gets all impatient and important, what the day is like. Sunny and crisp, or rainy and balmy, windy and fiery, or grey and quiet. If you just jump out of bed ignoring this fleeting but ever so gratifying while of peace and hush, you know you'll miss all the energy kicks, and all the reassuring cues.

I think we reached a point of balance. It means we're ready for another leap.

glimpses of fashion week

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 21:29:00 +0000

Our Bloomsbury office is within walking distance of several Fashion Week venues, so it's gotten to the point where I needn't know the scheduled days anymore. There will be glimpses of the proceedings even in the shortest walks around the neighbourhood. All of a sudden, bright spots of orange will spark through the loose-fit grey shades of the London river of labour. Impractical footwear underneath grimacing ladies. The coveted yellow and black combo of the (current) season. Professional hairdos. Brave stockings. Wacky tailored suits. Men and ladies alike carrying all their possessions in their hands (a rather hilarious trend of the last year). Posh foreign accents. Discussions about how London changed in the last year. Fancy manbags every step. Brand new lady bags that look like vintage lady bags. Branded bottles and vitamin waters. And somewhere in my endless photo collection, much better examples than today's, including the woman who stopped outside a cafe to jump into flats from her impossible heels, which then she proceeded to squeeze into the smallest, slimmest clutch. I'm loving it!

a mistake, probably, but delicious at that

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 12:42:00 +0000

Received an email as a forward this morning. Either a mistake, or I'm being really thick. But either way, appreciative of other people's interesting missives. Very old school, too.

Esteemed Mrs. Professor,
in Cluj, Primo Levi is not listed among authors to be studied.
I hope you are well.
I'm wishing you (and myself) to escape this winter sooner!
With love,
M

mirona + chris = love

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 00:31:00 +0000

I walked out to a meeting today with my hands in my pockets. Not because I'm carefree, but because for the first time in years it wasn't about a presentation, a demo, or even a single screen. Though it was a business chat. In such rare moments, one must make sure their pockets are not empty. And past the cardboard cards and the plastic cards and the phone and the other essentials (cigarettes, ok), there must be a camera. For omens might present themselves.

Art installation? Secret language? The Universe saying I love you? Whichever the case, it didn't stop there. The pigeons, for lack of doves in the city, had gathered in an urgent council. Neatly aligned, some watched my steps and others watched to the four winds without as much as a feather moving. Every such wondrously odd occurrence pointed to the momentous something or other, and I couldn't think for a bit that it had anything to do with the actual meeting.

And then, something that never happens: a perfect macaroon, waiting at the office, just for me. The Cordon Bleu Cafe had finally opened round the corner, and Chris braved the poor service to bring me a token of esteem. Since he was already at home, I asked him to make us a nice mug of Lapsang, grabbed the macaroon and took my toys home. The signs were becoming to make sense, though I still had a mind full of spreadsheets.

And when I finally got to the tea and the perfect pastry, it was time to tell the story, too. And that's really what the Universe had been going on about, the whole evening. Mirona + Chris = Love, and it's time you hear about it, cheer and make merry. We confirmed it on New Year's Eve, under the biggest half moon that ever shined over Antigua, not too early for fizz to replace our bottle of white wine (donated to the staff) and not too long before the fireworks.

It's true, indeed. As we whiled the hours before midnight talking about the good things that had happened in 2011, and I made some terrible joke about diamonds (as you do) or lack of them thereof, Chris casually reached for his pocket and I laughed the gesture away, thinking my Christmas gift may well be a bit late and in the form of rock earrings. But he got all serious and pointed out that there might just be another good thing to tick against the closing year.

And there it was, all 65 years old of it, and as rocky as it gets. The ring. The ring of the grandmother that called hotels hot hells, was thanking people for their hostility at the end of a visit, and magically received branches of mimosa in fragrant bloom every Christmas, as her husband marked the anniversary of their own engagement in the aftermath of World War II. The grandmother with whom everyone thinks I would've gotten along well. HER ring.

Perfectly fitting MY finger. And sleeping with me ever since, though it seems the biggest threat to diamonds are... bed sheets. To be fair, wanting to do things properly and in our own time (parents, siblings, Facebook), I've been sporting along the above decoy ring that my mother happened to pass down to me last October. If you spotted the REAL ring these months (I've played with them a lot, as the peasant finger itches under the collected suns), thanks for not asking.

Oh, you are asking now? We are engaged. To be married? You'd think so. But when? Do not save any date. This is one long engagement. There is more pressing business in our lives. And if there'll ever be a wedding, close family and friends do know just how much Chris and I disagree on the ideal proceedings, how eccentric we individually are and just how out of line that gets when you put us together. Plus it is very tempting to just elope and burn through all that cash.

So don't wait much to cheer and make merry. Here and now, it is as good as it gets :)

all's well with the world, if a tad red

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 21:28:00 +0000

When Chris finds a way to bring independently produced chocolates wrapped in furry red paper with the morning coffee, I know the day will be a good one no matter what. And when it happens on February 14th, and even before breakfast I have a delicate lavender truffle, it becomes very apparent that all's well with the world.

And that I should absolutely have a go at wearing the red patent shoes. I came to London in a similar pair, and broke them to shreds on these unforgiving streets. My sister got me a new pair a couple of years ago, but they soon endangered my darling feet, and until now red hot and patent has been elusive, when I need it to be a mainstay.

Then get the party going. Who thought the Christmas tree would come handy in February?

Or that our smallest holly would hold on to its one and only red berry?

The rest of the day has been all milk and honey. Plus flowers :) How else, with such a start, and such an end? We might even watch a movie. Take that for going gaga on a working day!

where my olympic journey stumbles severely

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 14:01:00 +0000

After all that excitement, my recall audition was scheduled for December 2nd 2011, which came and passed in a flurry of events. As before, I gave it my best. My overworked, sleep deprived, not-so-fit best, and then some—will and ambition go a long way. I learned I was there for performing, rather than, say, dancing. I spotted quite a few more men than in my first audition, some of which could have been described as athletic. I enjoyed the warm-up routine, and the games we played after, all of which are worthy of a pub chat if you'd like to hear more some day. I stumbled again and again through a first proper routine, but persevered (though the imaginary shovel that turned into an axe failed to make sense and I failed to ignore the need for sense). I did well through my second routine, and loved it, too—especially when they put the music on finally, and two hundred of us came together naturally, moving as one, row after row, in front of Danny Boyle even. We did stuff similar to what the video below showcases. Only we did it better :)

There's a very high chance I wasn't good enough, in the end. But to hear endless calls, in media, and in my own inbox, for men men men, did nothing to improve my hopes while waiting. They had finally figured out they needed men, for whatever reason, and were going for it big time. I probably didn't even shine among women, not to mention men. So no big surprise when a few weeks into 2012 the answer finally came through, and did not contain an offer. As expected, it contained the option to remain a reserve performer. More than expected, it contained a form to volunteer for other roles, as well, with clear availability windows one can opt for, role descriptions, and the need to attach a cover letter. Bring it on, I said to myself, and nicely had the documents on their way hours before the deadline, although on a late Friday evening I'm not generally in a good place for pouring my brain and my heart out. See above re. will, etc.

And if you're checking out the form above, you might quickly understand how one gets excited. While I've no skills to be a seamstress or build props, even less to operate follow spotlights and fix the ground team's walkie-talkies, surely I can cover team welcomes and victory ceremonies! Even when unclear about what the filling in instructions were for that part of the form, even after giving up any hope for Presenter and Athlete Escorts on account of I'm clearly too old (These are female roles and in line with our promise of a youth driven games need to reflect this, they will be in front of the watching world.) and Medal and Flower Bearers on account of I'm not a man, again (These are male roles for the first time in Olympic Games history) it still seemed like positive discrimination could not chip my hopes entirely, not with my experience, nicely summed up in the cover letter. I ticked all the needed boxes, filled in others, prioritised, and clarified my availability—the Olympics could have any evening of the week as of April. You wouldn't normally call me an optimist, would you? Then I'd better stop thinking like one, as the reply urged me to:

Unfortunately, Victory Ceremonies has placed everyone that they need. Are there any other roles that interest you? You're a great candidate.

Ah, the great candidate blah! Surely I've already expressed my availability, interests and skills to a high standard and in more detail than requested. But there's a chance they mean well, and regardless, I should carry on the conversation:

The news makes me quite sad, considering the content of the form suggested otherwise. [...] My strengths lie in leading, live show production (radio/ TV), and image/ comms, so if there are roles in that area that did not appear in the form but follow a similar schedule, I'd love to hear about them.

And I certainly did! This is what's available to an overqualified overachiever:

Your details have been passed to me as someone who may want to help the Casting Department over our next set of auditions. We are looking for friendly helpers, who will be able to assist with a variety of tasks – welcoming our auditionees, giving them wristbands, checking their ID and taking some basic information from them etc. And guiding them through the audition process.

Nevermind I'm available from 6pm any day, as of April. This magnificent role (with which I'm awfully familiar since I've auditioned twice now, and have received said help) needs filling in NOW, and I'm just the man (!) for it. The thrills, the opportunity! The bitter taste... as I had to decline. From the onset in 2010 or so, volunteering for the Olympics has introduced two aspects that are extremely British and extremely unhelpful: 1. the organisers know better where you fit (so you apply to be a Game Maker, not a particular type of Game Maker) and 2. everyone is welcome to volunteer. Both are supposed to be about inclusion, one team, finding everyone a place and avoiding potential grumbles—idealistic to the sky and beyond. And completely disconnected from the Olympic spirit. The Olympics are NOT for everyone. They're for the fittest and fastest, most hard working and most focused, most ambitious and most deserving, most accustomed to pain and to sacrifice.

The fact that my overall fitness and effort levels only got me as far as reserve performer (more of an honorary badge, I'm sure) is very in tune with the true Olympics. The fact that I'm skilled, experienced, willing to juggle the Olympics next to my business, enthusiastically so, and yet no one offers a role in which I can make a real difference is very in tune with the socialist Britain organising the Olympics. And from what I've learned on my own skin about socialism, my Olympic journey might have just stopped here and now.

Update, February 20th 2012: This evening I've been invited to interview (first come, first served) for a good number of the positions for which I DID NOT express an interest, in the following departments: Accreditation, Catering, Comms & Sound, Operations, Props & Staging, Transport, Volunteers. While some may sound good, the role descriptions I have, and can share, are terribly disappointing.

fleeting dilemma

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 00:04:00 +0000

What are you doing Friday evening, asked the lady, with no visible change in facial expression. Would you like to go to a BAFTA event? Photographers, LIMELIGHT, all that. I think I have no plans, I answered tentatively. It's RED CARPET, you know, she added, looking me up and down a couple of times, pondering. Oh, everyone's got a little black dress (or two), I laughed it off, starting to doubt we were going to make friends. BLACK TIE, you know, she insisted. I know I was wearing a rather boring pair of jeans, a thin black jumper, and no foundation. I also know that below the cuff of the jeans there was a rather unusual pair of purple suede Ferragamo shoes, under the jumper one could've spotted a purple top in natural silk of a cleavage so plunged that a large brooch of amethist held in the gold wings of a butterfly barely kept it decent, and between that and my light makeup there was a gorgeous, long, asymmetrical necklace in pearls and vintage bezel Austrian crystal. Anyway, I'll catch up with you after lunch, I said, and faked picking up a call as she waxed lyrical to a witness about the most heart wrenching Romanian story of the last 20+ years, these poor children in orphanages that hardly see daylight once in three-four years and you wouldn't believe... I faded out. There is no BAFTA event this Friday. Thought as much.

what if you took photos with a... scanner?

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 23:14:00 +0000

One of the books I received for my birthday, Beach: A Book of Treasure [amazon.com, amazon.co.uk] by Josie Iselin drew my attention to using a scanner instead of a camera. And playing with the machine yesterday, I easily made an interesting enough clementine to get Chris involved. He then placed on the surface some random objects from around the office, and voila! I'm pretty excited with the results—what thinks you?

pick and choose: miranda liliescu or michelle lemonstew?

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 18:53:00 +0000

This is my first attempt to embed a Twitter conversation. Took some figuring out, and some persuading of the Twitter UI—it seems to me they didn't consider embedding a whole conversation just yet. Either way, curious whether it works for you and when/ where—e.g. will the JavaScript produce anything at all in a feed reader, or just revert to HTML? And, while at it, which name should your anything-but-humble author employ? In other words, yes, I'm quite alive. And the English are getting better and better at misspelling my name. How have you been?

@gorgeoux You should just change your name once a week for a year and see what feels best.
— Mark Sorrell (@Sorrell) January 20, 2012

@gorgeoux I like to think of you as Michelle Lemonstew, if that helps.
— Mark Sorrell (@Sorrell) January 24, 2012

@Sorrell Ta. Branding potential aplenty google.co.uk/search?sourcei…
— MIRONA ILIESCU (@gorgeoux) January 24, 2012

take two: centre point in the fog

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 02:01:00 +0000

As of last Saturday, we've been surrounded by fog. I love it nearly as much as I love snow, for smoothing out the harsh lines of the urban dwellings and cloaking everything in a mysterious, dream charged cape full of promises. Seen from Centre Point a week ago, the city looked small and cozy, too, and maybe I'll get round to posting those photos, as well. For now, how Centre Point itself looked in the fog tonight, framed by my babies.

the time of the momiji

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 01:15:00 +0000

After the first Japanese maple a few years ago, two more joined us last year, and then yet three more this autumn. Each time, they grew smaller and smaller. Which is ironic, considering that they are slow growing and will hardly ever get taller than me. There is method in my madness, though: I'm having another go at bonsai fashioning and decidedly keeping it all outdoors this time. Which at this time of year works a treat :) I have a chair by the momiji table, and spent a few moments this late afternoon contemplating single leaves, at times. I love my Japanese streak.

where I start my olympic journey

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 23:19:00 +0000

Many moons ago, when I was six or seven, I was selected for gymnastics. This wasn't optional, as long as one had the right height, weight, flexibility and disposition. A few weeks into the adventure, however jaw dropped I was at the slightly older girls who could twirl around the bars and do back flips, my parents found a way to get me out of it. It had become very clear why Romanian gymnastics were great, there was a fair amount of smacking packed with training. I think I didn't get much of it, but my stories about less fortunate mates seemed conclusive. Now don't you go aww, poor you and all that. It was the same deal in all countries that meant anything in gymnastics back then, as proven by some of our famous trainers back then escaping to the US at a later point and making that team a magical winner. Also, it was clear that regardless of my drive, I wasn't the material that gives a national star, not to say, heck, a world champion.

Not too long after, I was selected for Ceausescu's mass games to celebrate our labour day in August. That wasn't optional either, as long as one could move, and I think I enjoyed the experience quite a bit. But my parents found a way to pull me out of it in a few weeks or so, again, and they were right to do so. Something had happened that was serious enough. I might have fainted for the first and last time yet, in the unforgiving heat of the Romanian summer, rehearsing full days in the row at a time. In my mind, these experiences somehow suggested that I was a bit of a wuss, and that I had kicked away chances to debatable stardom, but I didn't think too much about it, to be fair. My knees were always an open wound, and I was pretty good at kicking boys' asses in football and whatnot, climbing trees and bossing others around, like a proper tomboy. One that never broke a limb, too.

I am quite sedentary today, and my most engaged sport moments are in front of the blue screen. When the whole team went out for some simple tennis coaching a few weeks back, I was sore for at least a week, and not that impressed with my performance. My knees refuse to work with me on a daily basis. I am a few sizes larger than it suits me, or is comfortable, my back has been an issue from primary school, and most serious walking and such gentle activities overheat me to no end. When we moved house over a year ago, something heavy fell on my big left toenail and the pain of seeing it through still wakes me up at night. Funny enough, the other large toe caught the condition, too, and it's been crippling, to say the least. And these are just the minor deprecations I can mention. Still, across the years, when I put my mind to something sportsy, it came out right. And God knows I tried a few things, from power aerobics to bikram/ hot yoga, from climbing mountains to running long distances, from basketball to badminton, from rollerblading to dancing long nights in the clubs of my youth. But nothing stuck for more than a couple of years, and I figure I just didn't try the right thing. With more than half a lifetime ahead of me, surely something will come up.

Reality is that the right activity at the right time gives me a proper high, like runners often claim, but few things have been appealing enough for long enough to make me want to wake up early, train, and get all psyched about the right gear.

Meanwhile, my long affair with the Olympics took an unlikely turn when volunteers were called for the Opening Ceremony (unlike the other volunteers who are more or less rushing papers left and right, backstage). I didn't think much before enlisting, and I wasn't told much after, either. I made it to the audition today, and somehow worked through all the fun pain we were given. Dancing, jumping and, ahem, acting. I was far from rested—in fact, we're off work for a week as of tomorrow for serious fear of exhaustion. Soon into the proceedings, a moment came when my limbs just didn't listen anymore, and did their own weird things. I could barely comprehend, not to mention decode in reasonable time, most of the instructions. I could barely see the instructors. I was at the back of the class, literally volunteer 201 in a casting session meant for 200. Casting session 51 of 200, too. All around me, beautiful, mainly young and exercised bodies exuded something I could remember from days past, like a vibrant mist of energy and vitality that I didn't feel I could convey. I'm now remembering all classes of muscles I didn't feel in a while, and knowing that tomorrow I will struggle to get down the stairs. But I hoped, like any cheeky creature, that their desperation in casting enough people and my ability to carry on beyond reason would be a match made in heaven.

The part of town where the studios are, not that far from Stratford, is desolate if not dead. I fumbled alongside a six lane road after all that ended, desperate for air, and of course, a smoke, while learning to walk again with dancestruck, spaghetti limbs. Off a bridge, I looked at the Olympic Stadium. It wasn't a bad thought to imagine I'd be standing there, a bit fitter than today, blinded by the spotlights, all 35 years of me among thousands and thousands of similar pawns. Creating human chains between the greatest athletes of the world, I hear. It wasn't a great thought, however, to think of myself back in that warehouse, where this and that didn't work and nearly everyone else seemed better for the role. Where bmx riders, ballerinas particular on point work, serious rollerbladers and drummers (!) stayed behind to show off some of their special skills. Once I peeled my eyes off the limelight and walked up and down that dreary area for half an hour, failing to get a cab, I got myself on the Tube, and headed to a pub where my team was having drinks with a candidate who had spent the day with us.

I proceeded to have a few beers (pints, no less), a commensurate amount of smokes, and a bit of junk food. Once home, I had a bath that didn't go higher than the solar plexus (in line with some nebulous memories that that's how you treat some insults to a body with the flexibility of a rock), and let my toenails uncurl and develop the excruciating level of misery they accomplish when submerged. I had two large glasses of sweetened water in hope I wouldn't have to crawl tomorrow, but painfully flex a muscle or two in an appearance of going places on hind legs. I told Chris more stories than he could take, and that was censoring myself. There are many interesting aspects of the afternoon, to a manager and to someone who produced large events. And then I picked up my phone, and there it was, the thing I didn't think I would see, and which was supposed to take some 72 hours. Only three hours after I had left the premises, I had been invited to a second, role-specific audition. I had to scream a little and postpone the jumping with joy, what with being in a bath and frankly, broken. Chris rushed back upstairs, partly annoyed and partly curious, and I gushed over my accomplishment and how it didn't make much sense in light of my earlier performance, and the seeming falling apart of my body.

Now I could still fail, in many ways, or end up being a stadium sweeper on the closing ceremony of the Paralympics, at best. Didn't they have sweepers in the Beijing choreography? But one thing is sure: throughout the years I learned much more about what a wuss is and is not, and while I can't remove bloody Black Swan images from my head, especially since of late my various joints took on loudly cracking (which always startled me unpleasantly in other humans)... I'm happy I pushed through today. Maybe you'll have a tiny extra reason to turn on your blue screen next summer :)

chance ikebana: morning glory in the morning sun

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 19:24:00 +0000

When my mother uses her camera at its best, some pretty amazing imagery can ensue. The light, the depth of focus, the sharpness, the framing, the harmony and the simplicity, everything comes together so perfectly in this picture that I'm instantly transported back to that balcony in Bucharest, in that unique time of day and year, gentle breeze and early autumn fragrances included. Mother Nature has quite a taste for ikebana, and I salute my mother's spot on capture. Bravo!

and then I saw the light

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 00:57:00 +0000

He turned around, hugged me, and said: My name is Chris and I proudly present this message. Then went back to sleep presently.

cheezy birthday to cheeky me!

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 23:45:00 +0000

I've been blogging for six years. Though not necessarily here, and blogging itself is a debatable term, but let's not take ourselves too seriously just yet. In the last year, I've managed to put in front of you 76 stories. Nearly one and a half per week. I used to have one loyal reader, but now he won't stop by unless I make him.

I suppose that gives me a lot of freedom from the tyranny of readership, with its paraphernalia of stats and the likes. It doesn't help me sleep well, however, as the lack of a public brain dump is flooding my mind with its debris and sediments, some potentially delightful. But we'll never know. A sabbatical wouldn't be enough to tell you everything I've wanted to tell you of late. And I've started thinking that even the better of us do their best work early on in life. I might be done.

In case you are still reading, however, here's looking at you, kid, with a stale last sip of beer, late for bed and fraught with tomorrow's worries already. One thing is certain, I have been living out loud. Just didn't get to blog it much. And not even I know what the future holds. A seventh year of sparingly blogging, I suppose. And all that jazz. Chin chin!

la vie en rose

noreply@blogger.com (gorgeoux) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 23:26:00 +0000

I couldn't explain why, but I was very determined that we move work home from the office in time to catch the last wink of light. Chris kindly obliged, and while we only have the shortest walk imaginable (other than tumbling from bed to the office), we did take a bit to drag along 96 candles off eBay (as you do) and vividly debate hires and commitments (as you do). Chris quickly mixed us a drink, while this was quickly evolving outside:

I was ordered to pop on the terrace and enjoy it, and since I started snapping away (as you do!!!)—even more vigorously ordered to put the camera away and... enjoy it. So we did, drink in hand, and work chat suspended for a very short and at once very long five minutes, while the world was painted peaches and our skins glowed in one of the best London phenomena: pink sunsets as only Asia, we thought, can provision. I'll drink to that. As you do...