Social media

If you gaze into the social media long enough it will not gaze back.

There is noone on facebook to talk to. Or put it that way - there are a lot of people to talk to - that is of course if you qualify square profile images under names as people - but noone will hear you. You know that - yet you still occasionally put your heart and soul in it.

Twitter is no better.  The life of a post lasts a second. Every retweet is a reincarnation - which also lasts a second. Nobody will go back and read through what you said. It is quantity over quality. Very easy to overuse exclamation marks on twitter, it is. And you have to count your words, and even your letters. It is almost like going back 10 years and SMS texting on your Nokia 3310. (Apropos, I still own and use a Nokia).

Embrace the emptiness.

Greenwich Early Music Festival

It is that time of the year when winter is coming and heating is a central subject in casual conversations - but on the plus side, Greenwich Early Music Festival and Exhibition was in town once more, between 13-15th of November.

Fear not, reader! I am not going to bore you with Google-able details.

As a Trinity Laban student I was stewarding at some point during the festival. Looking back I think I had incredible luck shift-wise. It is not everyday that one gets paid for having fun. And it was pretty much all fun, apart from the slightly aimless handing-leaflets-to-disinterested-people-outside part.  And perhaps the bright-orange prom-queen steward banner thing was a bit over the top. People kept asking me how to get to Greenwich Observatory and the nearest Tube station. Unfortunately people would just not get interested by the traditionally looking leaflets!

They had no idea what they were missing:

Rows of recorders, herds of harpsichords, stacks of baroque bows, herds of harps, flocks of viols and flights of fiddles, the occasional hurdy-gurdy, and many more oddly-shaped and deliciously old-fashioned instruments occupied the Painted Hall and the vault-ceiling-ed St. Mary's Undercroft - which, I realised after walking in close proximity almost day for two and a half years - are actually connected with each other via a long underground tunnel.

Needless to say I attempted to play every single harpsichord in the exhibition at least once.

Somebody once said that the sound of the harpsichord reminds them of  a couple of skeletons making love on a tin roof. Undoubtedly amusing and endearing comparison - however, to me (as both a harpsichord-enthusiast and synesthaesiac) the harpsichord sounds like sunset rays over a golden treasure, with a hint of ginger ale and chocolate orange.

Oh no, look at the time.

Now, to diminish the suffering and to make this a bit less of an aimless post, while yours faithfully is trying to silence her harpsichord withdrawal symptoms with listening  (full on, obviously, to show a good metal-fan heritage) to recordings of Rameau, played by Gilbert Rowland, a renowned UK harpsichordist whom she had the pleasure to meet at the festival, you can have a look at some photos from a previous edition of the Festival:

See you there next year. =3

You know what?

You know what?

(Of course you don't.)

I would be seriously concerned if I thought my dreams would never come true.

(But, I know they will. They always do.)

If.

I don't want this to be too easy; but I don't want it to be too hard. Nevermind.

Возможно, вы имели в виду: 
.
?

Nevermind.


Google Trans(too)late.
I am the son of the criminally shy.

Listening to The Smiths again, instead of Avro Part (or Brahms...?).
If I only knew...

But I didn't.