all begins with L

on why i’m at peace: this is a cut&paste so don’t be offended. )

“Alright, here we go.

Eight months on and I am declaring that my quarter life crisis is coming to a proper wrap. After series of interviews, taking aims and pursuing ‘proper’ jobs, I walked away from the last interview feeling utterly relieved knowing that I wouldnt be taking up the position despite putting on a good show.

After an hour of grilling the CEO looked at me and say that I am not one who value sales as much as marketing. I looked at him and went “absolutely.” We all know that a good product is a matter of being communicated, sales is a by-bonus end results. Chey-bah. )

After which I recommended him a good restaurant to have lunch in and he asked me to join him. But then I thought my time with him that day was already over stretched.

I am however meeting him again for possible collaboration. I’m beginning to embrace this mantra of working with people, not for people, even if you’re in a company. And that’s exactly what I’m gearing on with this coffee stint.

True enough, couple of weeks down the road, I saw the present in light. I start to work with what’s around me, my customers, my colleagues, the bosses and just working with the present value.

After seven months I’ve gradually make known to the managers of what I really want to do professionally and right now I’m co-interior designing the new coming cafe these guys are setting up. End of August I’ll be heading to Italy for the Biennale.

Coming back I’ll be starting an introductory course on Interior Design, not a masters nor a bachelor but a starting point. I’m beginning to love London for what it’s worth. Even today taking a new bus route home, I chance upon a road I’ve yet to stroll by.

It hasn’t been easy, I’ve made fools out of myself and still catching myself doing so at times, I’ve gotten quiet lately, perhaps having something to do makes you talk less, and if you talk less then you’ll really find something to do. The equation seems to work at present moment.”

THE FOLLOWING IS NOT CUT&PASTE, SO PAY ATTENTION. )

well, yes the ceo extended a dinner invitation next week. why not. and there’s a new distraction in town. when i get a name, i’ll let you know.

i found an interior design course from st martin which i’ll be signing up for when i get back from Italy. starts in October. Lola leaves London for good tomorrow, i’m quite sad about it actually.

i kinda fought with Sanran, I don’t know how to put it across to him that I can’t be friends with him anymore unless we completely put aside this intimacy.

on a more trivial note, i’m meeting ms. elizaveta tomorrow.

man?women?man?women? is never the question. )

you, i miss, as always.

now what next
for the coming decade

ps. i miss the family

where i am intangibly fulfilled i am starving artist. and where i eat well, my soul is an empty rock. this transient period is eating me up. i do not want to be here. i don’t/

i have become accustomed to the fact that nobody in london replies immediately to text msgs immediately.
everybody here is in their own world, it seems.

including me, perhaps.

i can’t sleep. my head’s running in a spectrum of direction. it has been like that since nine years ago.

in three days time
it’ll be my second monthlyvesary in london
i’m still househunting and housemate hunting
this city is filled with extremes
creativity, passion, brilliance
living harmoniously with
arrogance, delusion, hedonism

the product, the result
an economy that permeates dreamers with prevailing dreams
regardless

today i went to view a house
in the east, shoreditch to be specific
famous for its streets littered with starving artist
musicians, writers, peeking into white finished gallery windows

he said, i’ve just gotten out of a twelve year depression
when i renounced the idea of being a film maker
i lost this (he pointed) part of my brain
then four years ago, i decided i want to be an artist
i felt reborn, flagging his arms up into the air
voosh, he said

i am obliged to give him that thirty minutes of my attention
after all he poured me a cup of tea,
with a slice of apple pie which he proudly claimed to have acquired daily
for free

stupid, he said, people throw these away

my thirty minutes was up
i gave him my best wishes
not verbally

it scares the shit out of me

not him,
not the pass expired apple pie,
not the neighborhood

i found a weighing scale in the bathroom.
had a moment of truth.

gulp.

the ex boss hinted that i might be flown over to the bosphorus for a collaborative effort,

status in progress, so hold thy horses.

lost interest. this art bullshit is getting on the nerves.

being here earns me the same amount of money as i would back home, and if you think i’m losing out on building a portfolio for the ‘job market’ you’re wrong. every one here is doing the same thing. post graduate, earning and traveling and free falling.

i think it’s called the global market.

punch wall.

dear God, no really Dear GOD..

is a broken fm radio tuning songs from the bosphorus.

Am rather amused at this beta morphing murketing (yes with a ‘u’) industry. There are designations called Junior Trends Researcher, Creative Planner, Planning Strategeist, and then there is Strategic Planner,

down to Account Executive which does not differ much from Portfolio Manager. In certain agencies you have Studio Managers that doubles up as Personal Assistant (??). Well that is when the (old and married but rather suave) Creative Director starts hitting on you.

What is the difference between New Business Development Executive and a Junior Business Strategist again?

And when they just can’t decide what you are capable of,
you are the PROJECT MANAGER.

Oh wait, on the creative side, here’s the best: User Experience Designer.

this guy came up to me and said
“your energy resembles that of a reincarnated princess.”

i said, yea might be from the ottoman or the byzantine. whenever it was, it had to be by the bosphorus.

he was rather high.

you know you’re in london when you’re watching big brother on a saturday night.
i grew up with british education and american tv. this is as foreign as it gets.

throw me in timbaktu and i’d probably still be able to relate.

god as his plans, i have mine.

you become an absolute moron posing as a genius seemingly entitled to divine poetic license.

there’s a certain ritual to ushering in the new year, or rather if you’re a less futuristic person (with a history major) you would say instead, ‘to wrap up the year’. And they are almost accurately as follows:

a) reading old letters/blog post
b) scrolling through phone numbers
c) and delete those you’d probably not need to remember about (or pursue) in the new phase of your life
d) decide whether you really should delete their numbers
e) chart how old your virtual pets are, namely your blog, your flickr acccount, your twitter account, ourchart account, hotmail account??!
f) re reading certain post and stomach a guffaw, re re re reading another post
g) that brings a trip down memory lane that turns into another lane, then goes waaay into the back lane
h) and go “omg C, look what i found!!”
i) and go bloody hell! my blog is turning three!

the flings, the affairs, the trials, the pursuits, the fantasies that partially morphed into bitter sweet realities, here we we go again.

here goes

i am putting up in central london at a friend’s place. days have been spent shooting emails and perfecting my resume, knowing that at the end of the day i’ll meet a random person in a restaurant/bar/bythestreets/outsidemydoor that’ll give me the job (that.i.want.).

but for productivity sake i have submit the self to delusional means of job hunting.

the festive season puts no one in mood to talk about work, let alone employment. so i’m taking a chill pill to embrace the led lights that lid up X’mas and the remnants of an ending year.

this city has been welcoming me well, london is a place where i find comfort in familiarity - food and old friends. this is also the place where I find people of a spectrum of different culture and nationalities binded by similar dreams and ideals. it’s good to be able to c.o.m.m.u.n.i.cate.

i’m not an expat anymore, i’m not a foreigner anymore, here everybody is. and to illustrate a simple example of a reality check:

i walked into a bar last night to gate crash a couchsurfing (network of international travelers) party, but i did not take down any number. unlike in istanbul, i’d just walk into a cafe and find the most international looking crowd (slash english speaking) and chances are that’s where the party is. so yes, without any number and a vague memory of who the host of the party is, me and a friend ended up with our small corner chatting the night away. i can’t possibly go up to each table and make an enquiry. everybody’s a foreigner, everybody speaks english.

doosh.

so there, i am glad to be here.