неделя, 27 декември 2015 г.

С Днем Рождения!

Happy Birthday Sergey Bodrov Jr.
(27 Dec 1971 - 20 Sept 2002)

I believe there is a parallel universe where 13 years ago you and all of your crew would have been rescued, and you would be celebrating your 44th birthday today.
And this parallel universe is a better one.


It would be better for many people (and I am possibly not anywhere on the list of people to even qualify to say this. Although I would probably have been a slightly happier 14-year-old).
For me, it would mean there would be new movies. There would be TV shows, which I would look out for when going home for the holidays (I have never owned a TV). Some would be interesting, and some would be stupid. But what they'd have in common is that they would have had your voice in them.



С днем рождения, Сережа!








четвъртък, 18 юни 2015 г.

Nancy

There is this girl who lives in my head. I don't know where she came from as she is not of the usual sort  that comes here. She only moved in recently but she has unpacked her suitcases as if she is planning to stay forever. I am a bit disgruntled by this new addition and by the overcrowded shower schedule caused by it, but I don't really get to have a say about it. And while I find her incredibly boring it is difficult to dislike her. She is nice and well-behaved. She drinks red wine and her hair is always in place. She always washes her bowl after finishing with her Special K. She dresses classy, has a stable job and a respectable profession. A doctor perhaps, or a dentist. Or a sales consultant. Or a lawyer. She is comfortable to be with as she would never do anything awkward. She is everything that I am not. She is naturally normal.

Let's call this girl, say, Nancy (short for Anastasia). 

Nancy (short for Anastasia) knows how things work in this world.
She would never have cereal after midday.
She would never leave her house without trimming her eyebrows.
She would never hoard tea mugs in her room.
She would never never make a bold statement without supporting it with sufficient evidence.
She would never wear baggy jeans. Ever.
She would never put her feet on her chair.
She would always get diet cola when feeling indulgent.
She would go to the gym and run in the mornings.
She would never smoke.
She would never wear a shirt that hasn't been ironed.
She would never juggle in the park.
She would never even think of climbing to the roof to watch the sunset.
She would never wear panda-patterned socks.
She would never get a fail for an academic essay.
She would never eat Nutella straight from the jar.
She would never drink coffee in the evening.
She would never steal sunflowers from Canary Wharf station.
She would never put newspaper cuttings on her wall.
She would never sit on the floor.
She would never wear heart-shaped sunglasses.
She would never buy strange clothes in a charity shop.
She would never get drunk. Though that is a bold statement unsupported by sufficient evidence.
She would never fully rely on anyone's encouragement.
She would never wear black tights in the summer.
She would never wear Doc Martens to a formal event.
She would probably never wear Doc Martens at all.
OK, maybe in the mountains.
But she wouldn't because she has proper walking boots for that.
She would never travel by herself.
She would never lie down on the road just because she can.
She would never listen to sad music on her own without a (reasonable) reason.
She would never steal a pint glass from the pub.
She would never listen to the birdsong at dawn after a sleepless night.
She would never buy a glow-in-the-dark dinosaur figurine for herself.
She would never keep fairy lights in her room after Christmas.
She would never cross a field ringing a pair of pocket Chinese cymbals at night.

She would never love you as much as I would. But then again, that is a bold statement unsupported by sufficient evidence.

събота, 13 юни 2015 г.

At night

because I haven't written much at all recently and also I spent a substantial amount of my day on the Tube:

At night
when I often realise
that I miss our
shoulder-length conversations
At night
it is often hard
to run as I
am walking the streets knee-deep in memory
so intense that I must have made it up

It has happened before, it will happen again

Sometimes I like to imagine my mind
as a vast cellar where I
deposit in big jars
all that should not be;
an exercise in taxidermy
and the occasional promise of orange marmalade tomorrow;
Can you stomach these pinned butterflies?
emotional potpourri
triple marinated fortune
Would you like that with rice or with noodles sir?

Life keeps writing take-away poetry
on a piece of kitchen roll.


събота, 22 ноември 2014 г.

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.


понеделник, 17 ноември 2014 г.

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



събота, 1 ноември 2014 г.

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.


понеделник, 2 юни 2014 г.

Privacy

I have been thinking today. I don't know why - it might be because of the looming double deadline on Thursday and the complementary anxiety that comes with it, because of a phone call with my mom in which we talked about putting stuff online, or because I realised (while casually stalking him) that a friend of mine whom I haven't seen for a long time has removed his facebook account; or because I saw another friend who just always makes me think a lot and about all sorts of things. It might be all of those things at once and many others too.

I do realise that I am mostly doing this because I am procrastinating writing my Portfolio essay... which I was planning to write in order to procrastinate writing the program notes for my recital on Thursday. Don't get me wrong - I am very excited about writing these program notes, and about the recital in general, but that doesn't mean that I don't feel like hiding under a blanket and pretending to be a little penguin, awaiting less stressful times. Anyway, this is connected to the Portfolio assignment; therefore, to continue the ornitological metaphor, I am not chickening down but am actually killing two birds with one (flint)stone.

Just to say, I am against animal violence (as well as pretty much any other kind of violence).

So, I have been thinking about privacy, and sharing things online but also about what we tell to people. The general idea is, if something is worth sharing, it gets shared. But is that really really so?  Let's take for example, those 'eureka' moments.While it is true that sometimes when I am practicing a piece and I receive this brilliant idea about what a passage means/how to play it the small part of myself that is the extrovert/Sagittarius/show-off feels a gush of desire to share it with the whole world; my hand impulsively reaches for my phone to go on facebook. (One thing that could be said about facebook is: 'never before so much stuff that is not important has been shown to so many people who don't care about it' - I believe there is an almost identical demotivator about blogging somewhere.) And then a voice in my head says, 'Stop, what do you think you are doing? Wait until you see where this leads and if it really makes sence.'
Or for example, when I am having such a good time that I don't feel like writing about how I am having a good time even when there is a lot to say about how good the time is and why is it good exactly.
Or secrets. There are of course secrets and secrets; I am talking about the ones that are beyond gossip and take a part in one's heart/mind/being.

Using those examples and some others, I was able to derive the following formula: if it is important, I keep it private. If I am not keeping it private, it means it is not that important.
I also realised that with some important things I don't even dare to separate them as thoughts from the entangled mess of a feeling, because sharing them even with myself would make them shrivel and die.

I believe I am not (too) different from other human beings, at least from the ones I like and am able to interact with, and I suspect it is probably how it works for most.
I am afraid I lost my train of thought here, at least a few of the coaches got redirected. My point was the internet is full of semi-important things that both the reader and the writer only half-cares about. Crazy, isn't it.

Now let's do some work... after I have dinner, because dinner is good, and when hungry, I pose immediate danger for myself and the others around me.



понеделник, 13 януари 2014 г.

Bach-and-breakfast

One of the New Year resolutions this year, in addition to finding a job and sorting out what I want to do with my life, was to keep this blog and regularly write lots of smart things in it.
In view of that, I thought I'd share with you a little bit of musiciany nonsense.
















My inner self: Gifs are tacky! Gifs are bad!!! 
Me: I'm not listening! *covers ears and starts humming*

неделя, 8 декември 2013 г.

Marathon.

Do you know the feeling when you run and you are already tired and gasping for breath? Of course you do. Hundreds, no, thousands of needles are piercing your lungs; your body begs you to stop. But you don't stop. It hurts, but it will hurt even more if you do. Thousands of knives will readily cut into your muscles the moment you halt. And as if that is not enough, you'll have to face the breath of the cold December wind  all by yourself: he is busy saying goodbye to someone else. So you go on. Your feet wearily bounce off the pavement, with only your shoes to keep them from going faster. Suddenly you feel you have stopped. You seem to have run into something. Something pretty. You don't really see ityour shoes hurt and you are not paying attention. Reality check: you paid so much for those shoes. You tie the strings around your wrists. Tight and blue, so the blood cannot escape. This is the moment when your body catches up with your soul; your tired, naked skull ricochets against the wall and bounces off your bare feet. You chant words you don't understand. But it is too late.

And then you realise that climbing the second storey of the bus was perhaps a bit too adventurous. But you know you will survive. You always do.

неделя, 1 декември 2013 г.

To Faversham and back (with 13 pictures)

Today I went to a place called Faversham to give a concert in Faversham Assembly rooms with Camino and Daniel. I knew little, to say none at all about the destination.

The place itself turned out to be outside London and in order to get there we had to leave really early in the morning, at the crack of dawn, as one of my Performance practices lecturers used to say. In his case, however, the term was used to describing much later an hour and was intended sarcastically. Quite on the contrary, we were geniunely sleepy and freezing. It turned out that we were to go beyond the "end of the map" for us (which was Dartford) and as if this was not enough, we even passed a place bearing the cheerful name "Grave's End". We even saw some sea.

The first thing that caught my eye in Faversham was this birdy thing:

Awesome, isn't it? Not sure what is its practical use, but that makes it even more awesome.

We were welcomed very nicely and were offered coffee, which I was the only one from our trio to gladly accept; my embarrasment didn't last long though, as it was very much needed. The hall was very nice and not at all as cold as one might have expected; and the piano was well tuned. To my surprise, the hall was packed. First Camino and I played a movement from Anton Garcia Abril's Sonata for violin and piano. Then she and Daniel played a number of very short and very folky Bartok violin duos. It was great to see the audience respond to the music; to me, the little friendly laughter at the end of short pieces is among the nicest things one can hear.
After that I played Vladimir Djambazov's 33:8. It is so much fun to play. I will never forget one occasion when I nearly got thrown out of a hall for attempting to break the inventory, because of trying out a moment when you have to tap the rhythm on the wooden part of the piano.
We continued with pieces for two violins and piano by Moshkovski and Shostakovich. It was our first concert together, but it went well.
The audience was just lovely and it was a pleasure playing for them. I remembered one very cool lady who had about fifteen piercings and at least two tattoos. (She came to talk to us afterwards.)

After the concert we had a delicious (and free) lunch in the pub next door, which I didn't take photo of because pictures of lunches are being taken too often anyway, even without my contribution. Instead, here is a spicy thing from the bathroom:

[click on the image to read, and make sure you: 1. don't read it aloud to your five-year-old sibling/very traditional auntie 2. read it until the end, the end is important!]

Camino and Dani had to rush back to town for a rehearsal once we finished our meal so they went to catch the train. I, on the other hand,  felt like a stroll in the town before heading back, so we parted ways.

* * *
I went down the street and two minutes later I walked into the main street and into this cool bench:

It was not long before I got in the first shop. (It was called Goodness Gracious... and I thought it was an unusual name).

It was prop heaven. They had everything starting from clothes, funny hats, pictures and jewelry, glasses in all shapes (and apparently the glasses from the 30s are different to those in the 60s) and ending in boxes full of strange toys for £0.50 each. here was a nice Scottish piano that visitors are welcome to play. Needless to say, yours faithfully couldn't keep her paws off it. There was an open book of Chopin's Walzers so I played a couple of them.
I had a chat with the shopkeeper, Michelle -she was a really lovely lady. She told me she only just got the place and doesn't know what will happen with it in the future. She also told me that next Saturday they are going to put the piano on the street so people can play it; and invited me to come and play.

It is a lovely place, with Michelle, and the Patsy Cline recording, and a really nice and friendly Mily (she didn't bark once at the visitors!) If you ever are around, make sure to check it out. This is how it looks from the outside:



* * *
It was a market day, and the streets were covered with forests of miniature potted Christmas trees, organic vegetables, antiques and stalls with homemade cakes. There were some carols too; nice to see a place where all the premature Christmassy stuff is actually not annoying!


I spotted a large toy Garfield in one of the charity shops and am very to have him now. :D Also played with his real-life counterpart with half-orange half-black face:


I liked Faversham with its clocks, charity shops, old houses, narrow passages, and smiling people. I think I will come back. Maybe even next Saturday. Why don't you come too?






                                         the end! =)

вторник, 1 октомври 2013 г.

[MEME] When playing the piano

On my way back today I was thinking about how different things are on stage and in the comfort of the practice room. Nothing particularly smart came to mind, but that's what did, in the primitive form of a meme.

WHEN I'M PLAYING THE PIANO IN A PRACTICE ROOM
How people see me:

How I see myself:

WHEN I'M PLAYING THE PIANO ON STAGE:
How people see me: 

How I see myself:

And finally, HOW I SEE MYSELF WHEN I MAKE A MISTAKE:

 Isn't my life epic? xD