Every once in a while you find yourself wandering between various Prets and Starbucks searching for internet access outside the tower of London because you are meeting a class there in an hour and the reason you are so early is because you wanted to practice the piano but the church was not open like it said it was but you find that the mushroom soup was quite lovely in regards to the the lousy weather and you own well-being also quite under the weather and green tea is always a nice and rare commodity in England and then you're starting to regret eating that chocolate chip cookie because it was almost 2 pounds and you are in fact sick.
I'm having one of those days.
As several of you might already know, I did not make it to Ireland. I would recount the story for you, but I find that I have hard time doing that without including profanity. If you are nonetheless determined to hear the story, please ask a mutual friend that I have already vented to and perhaps they can filter out the cursing for you. Enough said on that subject.
The past week has been eventful, complete with an Orion concert last night. To say that the 1st half lacked music that had the ability to give me an ecstatic endorphin release would be a drastic understatement. The 2nd half was much more suited to my taste (which, as we all know, is pinnacle) and showcased the orchestra as the fantastic group they are. Also, the 2nd half was absent of a certain pianist a la manner Lang Lang. This woman unfortunately reminded one of the Chinese superstar's lesser traits, including wild and dramatic antics unequaled with a deficit in musicality, though in her defense the concerto hardly lended itself to leaving one amazed. To quote a colleague, the piece was a bit "indulgent."
Once again, I apologize for the weirdness of style I have adopted for this current blog. The apology is false, for were it sincere I wouldn't write in this style, but it amuses me and therefore it is retained. Yet still I feel as though I should make an excuse for it, as though to make up for the fact that it is odd. My writing style is something that I am feeling more and more confident about. I find myself writing more than I ever have, between classes and work. Not that I have been getting positive feedback, in fact, the feedback is always on content and never on style, but the self-discovery of voice through experimentation as been wonderfully amusing. At serious poetry I am horrendous; and if rhyming is involved my readers normally flee and find the nearest wooden spoon to gag themselves upon. My light poetry is childish and gruesomely cute. Hallmark would groan if they read it. Academically, I am too casual and generally lazy in my research and approach: my most successful, discussing the endlessly boring topic of Jewish aesthetic theory in German 12-tone opera that I alone seems to find interesting, sits in a stack, only partially edited, while the author fantasizes of transforming it into an undergraduate publication. For journalism I am too long-winded, and "concise" is a term I have yet to learn. For prose, I strive for success, but with unsuccessful results. The mysteries lack the structure, the horrors are unpurposefully comical, the romances miss the real experience, and the fables have no morals. For plays, nothing could be worse, for dialogue is the most unnatural of my creations, perhaps due to my inability to talk and converse. (ha ha. ha ha.) For advertising, I lack the wit of 1 sentence. Why should I ever use 1 when I could use 7?!?!
This leaves me with one option, which I have learned to embrace fully and unabashedly: satire. The sarcasm oozes, the insults take wing, and my cynicism is finally put to healthy use. Yes, healthy is a debatable term. Therefore I take up my satire, boldly and fiercely, for it is all I have in terms of words.
Oh dear, I haven't even really written about London today.
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