all one to me

Monday, 7 November 2011

23-10-11

"It's your last chance"

The final squeeze -

Giving birth to what

You do not want

But need.

© kate marlais 2011

Martin Munkacsi, Nude with Parasol (Harper’s Bazaar, July 1935)

Let's prioritise...

Slacker. Sloth. Passive. Laggard. Negligent. Absconder.

Yes, these are all words that you can use to describe me. I have left you, bloggites, for too long, too too tooooo long. How could I? I feel wretched about it. Can we talk?

Let's try now to move on, shall we? I've recently been to a series of group sessions in which I re-evaluate my life priorities (I haven't) and after much opening up and letting go (none) I have landed on the happy conclusion that I need more blog in my life once more. Therefore, for the next ten minutes, you blog, are TOP, tippity-top, of my list! YES!

Quite frankly, we need to work on our relationship. It's not you, it's me. I know I am flaky and have a tendency to let my eyes wander and my mind wonder. I realise now that I've been giving too much attention to stupid, stupid Twitter and her friends and have left you forlorn, alone. I don't even know what I saw in her. After all, who can truly express their thoughts, let alone establish a frankly hilarious witticism fully in 140 meagre characters?! C'est ridicule.

And that is why I've come back to you, my dove. I've missed you. Why, I blabber on, and you just let me! You listen. You really do. You are... God, you're good. You're just so...you.

I'll explain my absence to you in bullet points. It's been a busy few months. When did we speak last? It was May, wasn't it? And I told you all about Kenny and his fish. That was fun.

Ergo, here goes; from whence we last spake (in present tense, as if a diary entry so to establish a more intimate relationship with you, the reader):

Move to Hoxton. Feel so cool it's frightening. Take up urban-zen activities like yoga, goji berry juice & quoits.

Travel a bit... Wales. Nice. Liverpool.

Do some plays. Playing Fairy Godmother in Cinderella at Liverpool Playhouse. Get to fly. Get extra pay. Casually named 'accidental death money'.

In Between all of the above I have also been doing any one of the following:

a) Selling my soul to the Underground Society of Closet Corporate Temporary Staff (low IQ & Look Magazine obligatory)

b) Spending and earning money in the ratio of 2:1

c) Writing - plays & poetry; and on those days where one has been bound by 'Writer's Block' (hereby known, in my personal definition, as 'online shopping') I have religiously stuck my hands in ink and smeared it all over my face, donned my finest shredded linen shirt and marched intensely to the local coffee shop where I will sit and look all Writer-y in the hope of a publishing deal infiltrating my soul via osmosis, and perhaps a few shrewd glances from fellow Hoxton sages/ latte-love admirers. Rarely doth anything occur, but By Jove, I love a good latte!

*Cue Coldplay/Zero 7/Sigur Ros background music for sudden but effective mood-sobriety. Soft focus close-up on bunch of grapes/ field of horses/ other such natural wonder*

Hey, let's get serious. I've been writing a collection of poems. Keep your eyes, ears and egos a-breast of my blog, I'll post the darn things at random. I'm trying to bring poetry back, make it hip, give it some 'spect. A hard, thankless task. Proceed with caution, but if anyone can make pretentiousness en vogue again, it's me.

At least, that's what I keep telling my furrowed brow. ENJOY!

Thursday, 26 May 2011

Raw fish

I am craving sushi 24/7 these days. I can't get enough of that raw fish. Cook the fish & pah I'm over it. But gimme it raw, and i'm an emotional, slathering mess. Yeah yeah, EVERYONE likes sushi these days because it's cool & healthy ra da ra da. Well, I like sushi because my Japanese friend, Mari, is, well, Japanese. Am I claiming to be the first non-Japanese-ian to start the sushi trend? Yeah, go on then, I am. Just like I claimed to start the re-trend in converse & parka jackets. No one has yet to prove me otherwise.

So why all these cravings at the moment? With bebe? No. Negatory.

It might have something to do with this guy: Ken Kawasumi.

Pretty dishy. And Ken too, he's not bad.

He is the principal of Tokyo Sushi Academy. OMG STOP NOW! HOLY COW! HOLY MOTHER OF PEARL! HOLLA! ETC.! Yes, there is a sushi academy. Hang on, that deserves some caps lockage - A SUSHI ACADEMY.

Kenny K is the dude. He not only makes amazing sushi (tick), he is the champion of it & won awards n such (tick tick) BUT he also creates little chaps like these:

A man who combines fun and food? Ken I'm coming over. I need some sushi tutorials, one on one. We'll hit it off Kenny boy. Let's roll in that rice paddy. Ahem.

Aah gotta love pandas!

My point, if I choose to make it, is thus - if you're going to Tokyo, check this place out. Tokyo Sushi Academy. They do courses, and they "speak English" too, according to the website. Impeccable.

Or if you aren't planning your far flung trip just yet, lest not forget all the fun you could be having with raw fish. (Typed with total innocence. You dirty lot.)

Yum.

Friday, 20 May 2011

Helen

Please throw some love over to my favourite, Helen & her blog britgirlbondi

She's way too cool. Even though she is from (*chokes on a peanut*) Essex, follow her - she's a very clever girl.

I'm a sad camper that she no longer resides in London town.

Nevertheless, the Legend of Helen continues...

Sunday, 8 May 2011

Next chapter

Hello I'm back. Where oh where have I been? Hmm now let's see.

Athens. Has cool bars. They love crepes. Who knew?

Madeira. Apparently, I still qualify for parent-child holiday. I crashed my folks' holiday. If you are over 60 & like flowers, this is the place.

And now, back in Blighty, I have been wallowing in self-poverty & dredging up the remains of my bohemia. In other words, I have been forced into CREATIVITY, confined to my tower by lack of dollar on Oyster card.

Writing, writing music, making sweet music, making sweet...no no none of that.

Maaaan, I feel like Dylan on Lucozade, Cohen with vertigo, Hendrix in Madeira...

NO SERIOUSLY. In a vain attempt to stifle my strong urge to jack it all in & go straight down to the Next sale & purchase a polyester, slightly-too-short-at-the-ankle trouser suit, I have resorted to my roots. Gotten into my time machine & landed back where it all began, all this creative nonsense. Read on, read on...

I hope you are sitting comfortably. Uncomfortably is also ok.

Once upon a time, there was a naughty, tomboyish, puzzling sort of girl who spent all her free time running wild in the heart of suburbia. She liked to think of herself as the rebirth of Joan Baez, the remake of Joni Mitchell, the rekindled Carole King. Secretly, she knew she was none of these, but didn't care to mention it in case anyone noticed.

With her much-loved guitar sidekick & her quick ear for a double-edged lyric she would make up tunes, as many as time would allow. Tunes about boys, tunes about her, tunes about nothing much.

Her hair was long, a bit matted, her nails always bitten, her mind always off somewhere, anywhere. She had a sharp wit, a mean one often. But for all her outer bravado, mouth & opinion, inside she was shy & thought the whole thing was a bit foolish.

Her guitar playing too clumsy, the idea of it all hugely narcissistic, she certainly didn't want to make a fool of herself. So she kept all these tunes, songs, lyrics to herself & never told a soul.

Eventually they were forgotten. That's what happens when you don't pass things on.

It was only when she had grown up a bit, experienced a bit more & a bit more after that, did she realise that her little head was too full. Too full of tunes, songs, lyrics, boys, herself, nothing much. She should release it all back into the ether where it belongs.

It had been a while. But she began the long task of writing it all down, using different, better words, playing her hackneyed clumsy guitar so this time it could not be forgotten.

Monday, 28 March 2011

The Red Shoes

A quick one...

Just been to BAC (Battersea Arts Centre for those not down wit da lingo - not to be confused with RAC, an extremely valuable car break-down service) to watch Kneehigh Theatre's "The Red Shoes".

They've done it again. It's very physical & superbly visual. It's Brother's Grimm meets Cabaret. For very brave children. Including me.

Dutch-ness is all over the costumes & choreography. Not sure how the very Danish main man, Hans Christian Andersen, would feel about that. He wrote it, innit. I guess if you squint hard enough whilst looking at a map, Denmark blurs into Holland.

Anyhoo, Dutch-ish it is. Dutch clog dancing mixes with contemporary, free-spirited sequences & I even spotted some Lindyhop. Oh yes, I've a keen eye for it.

All accompanied by live, folky music from the players & two observant, patient musicians - one rather handsome musical chap if I may be so bold.

Every detail is mapped out &, well, detailed.

As ever, Kneehigh play all their cards. Shaved-heads, physical theatre, dance, music... a tranny with a mic. If in doubt, go all out. Et pourquoi non?

It's clearly a hit with the A-Levelers. If only I could read the detailed accounts they hand in tomorrow morning. Perhaps then I'd arrive at a deeper understanding of the sub-text...? They clearly had a lot to say about it.

Bullet points & Bic Biros.

However, I think back to the days when I could have written an essay about a fart. Oh, the bullshit I dredged up from the deepest pit of my pretension. And? I got an A.

Quite frankly, I enjoyed it just as it was. A jolly good story, jolly well told. Sub-text: negatory.

http://www.bac.org.uk/whats-on/red-shoes/

Monday, 21 March 2011

LONDON FASHION WEEK 2011 Day 6

OOOOOH last day! It's piping hot. And full of men ('s fashion). Excellent.

J.W.Anderson tapped in to my current fashion hummunahs - tweed, paisley & pastels.

Hum-mun-mun-mun-aaah.

J.W.Anderson A/W '11

And...skirts? For men.

Yes, skirts for men.

Not quite sure how I feel about this look.

Can't help but think Da Vinci code priest.

J.W.Anderson A/W '11

Doing it for the Dudes:

Cassette Playa had the London 80s graffiti scene all over it.

Literally, probably.

That is URBAN.

If I could beat-box, I'd definitely wear this stuff.

Cassette Playa A/W '11

James Long, the huggable, knitted man's friend.

With a dash of PVC junkie thrown in.

James Long A/W '11

Katie Eary tumbled awkward models on to the catwalk wearing Harajuku/Decora styles that hark me back to Cosplay & the bizarre street fashions in Japan.

That, or Cyberdog on herbal tea.