Journalists are traders after all.
It's not who has the best story that gets the front page -or make it to the outlet at all-, but who sells the story better. Airbrushed bullshit! I really hate it.
But there's still hope. And it's an interesting choice of words as well, there's still hope in a still (picture). Today a great photographer (and great person as well) came to our International News class and for the first time in a while I had the vibe that being a journalist might mean something. That we, as journalists, might do some good for this world. His swearing-prone temper won me over immediately. His disruptive enthusiasm for the job was not sickening like someone else's enthusiasm for a bomb explosion. He told us quite plainly that war is full of nasty stuff and who enjoys those kind of stuff is a bit fucked-up in the head.
He was humble and naif enough to tell us (and I'm quoting here) that he still thinks he can change the world. A sort of campaigning journalism, if you want. A definitely not lazy, on the ground journalism. He had his reasons, his principles and morals to do what he does. He was frank enough to tell us which side he stands for ("If somebody punches me in the face, I'll punch him back and beat him until he doesn't want to punch me anymore"). He told us he drew a line between what is right and what is wrong and he sticks to it. He was critical and independent enough to open our eyes on certain details on today's media battles and propaganda, despite his lack of formal education. "And lacking education doesn't mean not being smart," he said. A photoreporter that not only showed us good takes and effective storytelling, but showed us commitment, understanding and passion. Passion not for a trade, but for people and their stories. A true combative journalist that went for the not-so-easy route to get the never-seen-before story! Loved it! And much much needed it!
Check him out: John D McHugh
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Hate the Message, Don't Hate the Messenger
He was a she. Somali was her name. Long, gray fur. Blind, deaf, very old and much missed.
I saw these words on a missing paper attached to a tree on my way home today. And her picture. I felt the urge of telling them. I felt I had to. After being partly responsible for the death of their cat, I had to tell them. And it was awkward and terrible.
I approached the house. The woman came out to throw away the litter and I told her that I knew what happened to her cat. I used pretty much the same words I used in my post. Her husband came out and she told him the bad news. I felt sorry. Incredibly sorry. But I think I did the right thing. They had to know.
I felt like she didn't really trust me. She was inquisitive about the cat's body. I had no idea where it went. The people who keep the road clean must have collected it and thrown it somewhere. She asked me if I saw her dying. And I said yes. I recollected the scene and it was horrible. I hope they believed I am really sorry for what happened. Cause I am.
I saw these words on a missing paper attached to a tree on my way home today. And her picture. I felt the urge of telling them. I felt I had to. After being partly responsible for the death of their cat, I had to tell them. And it was awkward and terrible.
I approached the house. The woman came out to throw away the litter and I told her that I knew what happened to her cat. I used pretty much the same words I used in my post. Her husband came out and she told him the bad news. I felt sorry. Incredibly sorry. But I think I did the right thing. They had to know.
I felt like she didn't really trust me. She was inquisitive about the cat's body. I had no idea where it went. The people who keep the road clean must have collected it and thrown it somewhere. She asked me if I saw her dying. And I said yes. I recollected the scene and it was horrible. I hope they believed I am really sorry for what happened. Cause I am.
Monday, 23 November 2009
Here Kitty Kitty Kat, Here Kitty Kitty...
I was on my way home, after an incredibly long day at uni. I was listening to some music on my mp3 player, when I saw this lovely cat nuzzled on the threshold of a house. I went closer in the most friendly way possible not to frighten him. And I stroked him. He purred and mewed with appreciation.
I headed forward. I crossed the street. Headphones in my ears. I turned around. The pretty cat was following me on the zebra crossing. He stopped halfway through. In the middle of the road. I waved as to tell him to move on. To go back. He went back, but hesitated again. In the middle of the road.
A double decker hit him to death. I saw his body whirling under the wheels as if he was made of cotton. His long fur covered with blood, his guts smashed all over the pavement. My heart stopped. I gaped in shock. A passer-by asked me if it was my cat.
No. It was not my cat. But he was a cat I had just stroked, who trusted me enough to follow me. And cats are notably distrustful. One second before he was alive. And now he rests in shreds on cold gray asphalt. Torn into pieces, as cars run over him, carelessly.
Two years ago something similar happened. I bursted out crying like a baby. This time I couldn't shed a tear. I guess I've run out of them... or I am turning into a cynical metropolitan bitch. Who tries to be sweet and lovely, and ends up killing pets.
I headed forward. I crossed the street. Headphones in my ears. I turned around. The pretty cat was following me on the zebra crossing. He stopped halfway through. In the middle of the road. I waved as to tell him to move on. To go back. He went back, but hesitated again. In the middle of the road.
A double decker hit him to death. I saw his body whirling under the wheels as if he was made of cotton. His long fur covered with blood, his guts smashed all over the pavement. My heart stopped. I gaped in shock. A passer-by asked me if it was my cat.
No. It was not my cat. But he was a cat I had just stroked, who trusted me enough to follow me. And cats are notably distrustful. One second before he was alive. And now he rests in shreds on cold gray asphalt. Torn into pieces, as cars run over him, carelessly.
Two years ago something similar happened. I bursted out crying like a baby. This time I couldn't shed a tear. I guess I've run out of them... or I am turning into a cynical metropolitan bitch. Who tries to be sweet and lovely, and ends up killing pets.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
News value: struggling for a definition
The more time I spend here, the more I ask myself, what is the point of journalism? What is the point of reporting? It's all very exciting when you see young wannabe or already experienced journalists running around the Department with their mobile phones stuck between ear and shoulder or typing on the keyboard while struggling not to choke on the scorching coffee they're having with a greasy sandwich, also known as "lunch".
But, what is the point of being constantly informed? I have a sort of Orwellian feeling that all this information overload we are subjected to every single day leads us astray from real life. From real people. From the struggles of everyday life, from what really affects us. We, as journalists, try to give our audience a portrait of the world we live in. But who defines what the world is? And most importantly, who defines what's important and what's not?
When it comes to defining what's newsworthy, all too often we miss to consider that little word that is key to comprehend and fully grasp the motive underlying the failure of international news reporting: worth. When we talk about worth, we talk about values. And there's nothing more relative and biased than values.
What is valuable, what matters to people differ greatly from person to person, and differ even more greatly when it comes to consider the issue from a cultural perspective. This is why I hate so much the idea that British and American media have of international news reporting. When they do so, they believe they are unbasied and accurate. The huge lie is that they cannot abstract from their own culture, their own values, their own beliefs. Which is fine. The problem comes when big media such as CNN International or BBC World mould the image people worldwide have of other countries on the basis that such big organisations practise good journalism. Says who? Who set the standards of good journalism? British and Americans. Now, that's interesting. It's like being left-handed and playing a game where the main rule is "You have to play with your left hand." Obviously, those who are right-handed will fail.
Last Thursday, Peter Apps came to our class. Great guy, great journalist. His neck was broken on a car crash while he was assigned in Sri Lanka. He went back to work after nine months. No question: he's admirable. He works for a big news agency, Thomson Reuters, that provides wire services worldwide. One of my classmate questioned him about what makes a story worth being reported. And he said: "Well, in the end you have to look at who pays your salary!"
In the case of Reuters, it's partly subscribers' revenue, but mostly financial screenings. In their website, they claim: "Thomson Reuters is the world’s leading source of intelligent information for businesses and professionals." So, are we sure that the editorial choices aren't biased in the first place? They serve businesses and professionals, not the public. However, most newspapers and broacasters make large use of the information Reuters provide. And especially in the case of international news coverage, since most newspaper cannot afford correspondents abroad, the reliance on tentacular news agencies is inevitable. It's them setting the agenda. It's them choosing what stories are worth telling and which stories are not. On what criteria? What defines the newsworthiness of a piece of news when values worldwide are so different? The big boss. Companies from rich countries interested in knowing where the next war or natural is happening so they can divert their assets where it's more profitable.
In this Orwellian dystopia, journalists are powerfuls' puppets, aren't they? And I don't want to do that. I don't want to be part of this game. I don't want to provide news just to move the machine. I don't want to be the oil that makes the mechanism function better. And what bothers me the most is the self-righteousness of these media outlet. When they cannot properly sit and confront themselves with other values, other cultures. It must be part of the imperialistic frame of mind. I'll devote a post soon to the British habit of referring back to the Roman Empire.
The idea that they know it all, when they forget to place the smallest detail in the bigger picture. When the smallest element fails to be part of the picture: the single person. The people. Where are they in the business and money-driven reporting? Where are they? In one of Apps's slide there was a reference to the number of "bodies" when reporting deaths. As if people lost their identity as members of mankind when dead. We become bodies. We're no more people. Is it like that? He reports on finance and humanitarian crisis. Am I the only one who sees the utter contradiction of the combination? Money matters and humanitarian matters don't come hand in hand, I reckon.
But anyway, all this chatting to say this. I believe we should, as journalists, be much more humble and question the meaning of the principle of our job: what defines the news value? We should acknowledge that our profession is influencial, we mould people's mind somehow. People's view on the world depends partly on what we tell them. Which calls for a great responsibility we are urged to take. And with humility, we should challenge our values according to what matters to our audience. Something that we can only achieve on a small-scale level, when we can actually talk to real people and feel what they consider important, what matters to them. And after that, make sensible choices when we come to determine the newsworthiness of a story.
If we rely on international news organisations that boastfully aim at addressing an international audience, we fail to see that there is no such thing as an international audience. And that there is no agreed definition of what is the value of a story. We fail to see that values are culturally co-built within a society, and that there is no metre on which we can juxtapose such values and evaluate them. If we do so, we ignore diversity and become colonizers.
Instead of aiming at the truth -which is, however, the kind of goal a journalist will never achieve; truth is more a matter of discussion for philosophers or priests- we should, at the very best, try to depict reality, which is complex and multi-faceted. If we fail to do so, we run the risk of fuelling hatred and resentment by misrepresentating certain parts of society. The aim of telling the truth and depicting the whole world is an enterprise that simply goes beyond human capacity of judgement. And we mustn't forget that before being journalists we are human. But if we fail, the consequences of our failure might have disastrous consequences that we often ignore or shallowly consider, because we are mezmerized by the thrill of the profession. It might do more harm than good though. (I'm thinking about one of my classmates who came back from a training exercise embedded with some military troops that will be deployed to Afghanistan next year. She was excited at recalling the first explosion of a bomb. I wondered if she knew that bombs are meant to kill people and are not supposed to be fun in real world. When you can actually die any minute!)
In certain cases, is it better to tell the truth and wage wars or is it better to shut up and live peacefully? Is it better to serve vague word such as freedom, democracy and truth or should we serve real people made of flesh and blood? It's quite a dilemma.
But, what is the point of being constantly informed? I have a sort of Orwellian feeling that all this information overload we are subjected to every single day leads us astray from real life. From real people. From the struggles of everyday life, from what really affects us. We, as journalists, try to give our audience a portrait of the world we live in. But who defines what the world is? And most importantly, who defines what's important and what's not?
When it comes to defining what's newsworthy, all too often we miss to consider that little word that is key to comprehend and fully grasp the motive underlying the failure of international news reporting: worth. When we talk about worth, we talk about values. And there's nothing more relative and biased than values.
What is valuable, what matters to people differ greatly from person to person, and differ even more greatly when it comes to consider the issue from a cultural perspective. This is why I hate so much the idea that British and American media have of international news reporting. When they do so, they believe they are unbasied and accurate. The huge lie is that they cannot abstract from their own culture, their own values, their own beliefs. Which is fine. The problem comes when big media such as CNN International or BBC World mould the image people worldwide have of other countries on the basis that such big organisations practise good journalism. Says who? Who set the standards of good journalism? British and Americans. Now, that's interesting. It's like being left-handed and playing a game where the main rule is "You have to play with your left hand." Obviously, those who are right-handed will fail.
Last Thursday, Peter Apps came to our class. Great guy, great journalist. His neck was broken on a car crash while he was assigned in Sri Lanka. He went back to work after nine months. No question: he's admirable. He works for a big news agency, Thomson Reuters, that provides wire services worldwide. One of my classmate questioned him about what makes a story worth being reported. And he said: "Well, in the end you have to look at who pays your salary!"
In the case of Reuters, it's partly subscribers' revenue, but mostly financial screenings. In their website, they claim: "Thomson Reuters is the world’s leading source of intelligent information for businesses and professionals." So, are we sure that the editorial choices aren't biased in the first place? They serve businesses and professionals, not the public. However, most newspapers and broacasters make large use of the information Reuters provide. And especially in the case of international news coverage, since most newspaper cannot afford correspondents abroad, the reliance on tentacular news agencies is inevitable. It's them setting the agenda. It's them choosing what stories are worth telling and which stories are not. On what criteria? What defines the newsworthiness of a piece of news when values worldwide are so different? The big boss. Companies from rich countries interested in knowing where the next war or natural is happening so they can divert their assets where it's more profitable.
In this Orwellian dystopia, journalists are powerfuls' puppets, aren't they? And I don't want to do that. I don't want to be part of this game. I don't want to provide news just to move the machine. I don't want to be the oil that makes the mechanism function better. And what bothers me the most is the self-righteousness of these media outlet. When they cannot properly sit and confront themselves with other values, other cultures. It must be part of the imperialistic frame of mind. I'll devote a post soon to the British habit of referring back to the Roman Empire.
The idea that they know it all, when they forget to place the smallest detail in the bigger picture. When the smallest element fails to be part of the picture: the single person. The people. Where are they in the business and money-driven reporting? Where are they? In one of Apps's slide there was a reference to the number of "bodies" when reporting deaths. As if people lost their identity as members of mankind when dead. We become bodies. We're no more people. Is it like that? He reports on finance and humanitarian crisis. Am I the only one who sees the utter contradiction of the combination? Money matters and humanitarian matters don't come hand in hand, I reckon.
But anyway, all this chatting to say this. I believe we should, as journalists, be much more humble and question the meaning of the principle of our job: what defines the news value? We should acknowledge that our profession is influencial, we mould people's mind somehow. People's view on the world depends partly on what we tell them. Which calls for a great responsibility we are urged to take. And with humility, we should challenge our values according to what matters to our audience. Something that we can only achieve on a small-scale level, when we can actually talk to real people and feel what they consider important, what matters to them. And after that, make sensible choices when we come to determine the newsworthiness of a story.
If we rely on international news organisations that boastfully aim at addressing an international audience, we fail to see that there is no such thing as an international audience. And that there is no agreed definition of what is the value of a story. We fail to see that values are culturally co-built within a society, and that there is no metre on which we can juxtapose such values and evaluate them. If we do so, we ignore diversity and become colonizers.
Instead of aiming at the truth -which is, however, the kind of goal a journalist will never achieve; truth is more a matter of discussion for philosophers or priests- we should, at the very best, try to depict reality, which is complex and multi-faceted. If we fail to do so, we run the risk of fuelling hatred and resentment by misrepresentating certain parts of society. The aim of telling the truth and depicting the whole world is an enterprise that simply goes beyond human capacity of judgement. And we mustn't forget that before being journalists we are human. But if we fail, the consequences of our failure might have disastrous consequences that we often ignore or shallowly consider, because we are mezmerized by the thrill of the profession. It might do more harm than good though. (I'm thinking about one of my classmates who came back from a training exercise embedded with some military troops that will be deployed to Afghanistan next year. She was excited at recalling the first explosion of a bomb. I wondered if she knew that bombs are meant to kill people and are not supposed to be fun in real world. When you can actually die any minute!)
In certain cases, is it better to tell the truth and wage wars or is it better to shut up and live peacefully? Is it better to serve vague word such as freedom, democracy and truth or should we serve real people made of flesh and blood? It's quite a dilemma.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Brits are freaks - Alcohol and Motherhood
The Brits need to put on their alcoholic beverages tags saying that pregnant women are not supposed to drink. This is something I've never seen in Italy. You could argue that English people are more mature and sensible to do so. But here comes a huge question mark: do mothers-to-be here need an ad to tell them that it's not advisable to assume alcohol while pregnant?
Clearly, they need it. And unfortunately, it's not an effective measure either, as such news confirm: Binge mom spared jail!!! The source is not one of the best. The Sun is arguably a serious paper. It's very biased in its reporting and the language it uses is far from objective. It slants towards offence most of the time, actually. But in this case, well, we have something to be outraged by.
I became rather sensitive to all the motherhood topic in the past two years. I've seen my sister pregnant, I've seen her in labour pains, I've seen my nephew new-born, with his diamond-shaped little face and wet black hair. And now I've come to know that my best friend is pregnant.
Motherhood is a sort of state of grace. My sister felt like Buddha when she was pregnant. She was radiant. Needless to say, she had fears, mainly concerning her son's health. She developed this morbid habit of watching eerie videos on the Internet of utterly appalling things, such as animals giving birth, kids with diseases and stuff like that. She was paranoid about her child's health and safety. Therefore, as she knew she was pregnant, alcohol was banned straightaway.
No ads, no commercials needed. She just made a commonsensical choice. Our mothers tell us so. I frankly don't know. We just know it. My best friend quit smoking. Ads are written in caps on cigarettes packages too, though. So I guess it makes sense if here, in England, they need ads to prevent pregnant women from drinking.
It's just rather sad that we need the advertising empire to tell us what's healthy and what's not. What about old wise granny's remedies? We know more, but we are far less wise.
And wasn't England homeland of commonsense? I doubt it.
Clearly, they need it. And unfortunately, it's not an effective measure either, as such news confirm: Binge mom spared jail!!! The source is not one of the best. The Sun is arguably a serious paper. It's very biased in its reporting and the language it uses is far from objective. It slants towards offence most of the time, actually. But in this case, well, we have something to be outraged by.
I became rather sensitive to all the motherhood topic in the past two years. I've seen my sister pregnant, I've seen her in labour pains, I've seen my nephew new-born, with his diamond-shaped little face and wet black hair. And now I've come to know that my best friend is pregnant.
Motherhood is a sort of state of grace. My sister felt like Buddha when she was pregnant. She was radiant. Needless to say, she had fears, mainly concerning her son's health. She developed this morbid habit of watching eerie videos on the Internet of utterly appalling things, such as animals giving birth, kids with diseases and stuff like that. She was paranoid about her child's health and safety. Therefore, as she knew she was pregnant, alcohol was banned straightaway.
No ads, no commercials needed. She just made a commonsensical choice. Our mothers tell us so. I frankly don't know. We just know it. My best friend quit smoking. Ads are written in caps on cigarettes packages too, though. So I guess it makes sense if here, in England, they need ads to prevent pregnant women from drinking.
It's just rather sad that we need the advertising empire to tell us what's healthy and what's not. What about old wise granny's remedies? We know more, but we are far less wise.
And wasn't England homeland of commonsense? I doubt it.
Monday, 16 November 2009
Place in the world - part 2
Today I saw the picture of some kids starving in Africa and my eyes went wet.
I can't deny that it's a cliché that I do not entirely approve of -a kid is always moving.
It made me think of how pointless I am right now.
It made me realize how much we lose perspective of how the real world might be in far-off countries. Whilst we think about social networking, tweeting, getting information overloads on our mobile phones, people are starving.
Real people, somewhere in the world -and not necessarily that far- are struggling with their plight for the mere survival.
We forgot how it was when we didn't have it all, and now we can't do withou it.
But potentially there are very few things we really need.
I thought about my grandfather today.
I touched the ring that he gave me and remembered all the times he told me I should write his memoirs.
He was a storyteller.
He was born in poverty and in a much disgraceful year: 1917.
Despite that, I believe he had a rather happy life.
Most definitely, a long one.
He was not much literate.
A smart, honest, good-hearted person, but not cultured (except for maths, where he was a skilled calculator).
I was wondering this morning whether it is true that the more you know, the least happy you are.
As if the top bargain did not exist and the options were just: happy but ignorant or sad but know-it-all.
Faustus has always been a fascinating myth to me.
And then I brooded over myself, my place in the world, yet again.
Do I really want to be a journalist?
Even if I went somewhere where reporting might make a difference, will I be able to just report?
How can you not be affected by such human tragedies as starvation, disease, famine?
And if you are affected how can you go back to the humdrum of everyday life in your rich country?
Needless to say, I don't know the answers.
I just wish that my life will make a difference and will be of some help.
If only for one person, I want to feel like I am much needed, perhaps indispensable.
This is my new mission.
I can't deny that it's a cliché that I do not entirely approve of -a kid is always moving.
It made me think of how pointless I am right now.
It made me realize how much we lose perspective of how the real world might be in far-off countries. Whilst we think about social networking, tweeting, getting information overloads on our mobile phones, people are starving.
Real people, somewhere in the world -and not necessarily that far- are struggling with their plight for the mere survival.
We forgot how it was when we didn't have it all, and now we can't do withou it.
But potentially there are very few things we really need.
I thought about my grandfather today.
I touched the ring that he gave me and remembered all the times he told me I should write his memoirs.
He was a storyteller.
He was born in poverty and in a much disgraceful year: 1917.
Despite that, I believe he had a rather happy life.
Most definitely, a long one.
He was not much literate.
A smart, honest, good-hearted person, but not cultured (except for maths, where he was a skilled calculator).
I was wondering this morning whether it is true that the more you know, the least happy you are.
As if the top bargain did not exist and the options were just: happy but ignorant or sad but know-it-all.
Faustus has always been a fascinating myth to me.
And then I brooded over myself, my place in the world, yet again.
Do I really want to be a journalist?
Even if I went somewhere where reporting might make a difference, will I be able to just report?
How can you not be affected by such human tragedies as starvation, disease, famine?
And if you are affected how can you go back to the humdrum of everyday life in your rich country?
Needless to say, I don't know the answers.
I just wish that my life will make a difference and will be of some help.
If only for one person, I want to feel like I am much needed, perhaps indispensable.
This is my new mission.
Sunday, 15 November 2009
Place in the world
Yesterday it was a horrible day. I had to go to the International Sushi Awards 2009. I called on Friday to get a press pass to cover the event. Again, an event that guests pay some £150. I could access it for free. It was supposed to be for my blog. Even though I was not sure it would fit the tone.
Anyway, in the morning I checked the email as I usually do and got THE NEWS OF THE DAY. A news that I wouldn't find on BBC, CNN, The Times, The Guardian, La Repubblica, Il Gazzettino... Nevertheless, it was the kind of news that affects you more than any other news. Not even a coup in Italy would have been more meaningful to me that THAT piece of news. MY BEST FRIEND IS PREGNANT. And she's keeping the baby.
I was so happy for her. She sounded great. And then, as I hung up and wrote her a congrats email, I had the break-down. What the hell am I doing here? Is this the place I'm supposed to be? Is this my place in the world? Am I needed here? What is our purpose in life? I feel useless in this city. I don't belong here. I'm not doing well at uni. I'm not a talented journalist. I don't know how much I want to be a journalist anymore. All I wanted to do yesterday was hugging her, the girl I've known since we were 6, the girl I've shared so many experiences with.
The whole world don't mean a thing when you don't share the joys of life with the ones you love. I chose a self-exile that is pulling me down like I've never thought it would. If I saw the Queen today, I couldn't care less. If I could interview Kate Moss today, I wouldn't care less. I just wish I was home, to have a chat with my best friend and ask her how she feels about becoming a mother, to help my sister with my nephew, to hug my mother and father and thank them for what they do for me, to laugh at my grandparents when they argue like 13-year-olds and then make up like grown-up lovers.
I miss those little things that make you happy in life. Because after all, that's what we look in life. We look for happiness. But where is it? Is it where you are? Is it what you do? Is it who you are with? Am I wasting my time? Am I wasting my parents' money? Am I wasting my expectations? My family's expectations? Where am I supposed to be?
Rejoice life. Congrats J and Will. I'm happy for the three of you!!! *^_^*
Anyway, in the morning I checked the email as I usually do and got THE NEWS OF THE DAY. A news that I wouldn't find on BBC, CNN, The Times, The Guardian, La Repubblica, Il Gazzettino... Nevertheless, it was the kind of news that affects you more than any other news. Not even a coup in Italy would have been more meaningful to me that THAT piece of news. MY BEST FRIEND IS PREGNANT. And she's keeping the baby.
I was so happy for her. She sounded great. And then, as I hung up and wrote her a congrats email, I had the break-down. What the hell am I doing here? Is this the place I'm supposed to be? Is this my place in the world? Am I needed here? What is our purpose in life? I feel useless in this city. I don't belong here. I'm not doing well at uni. I'm not a talented journalist. I don't know how much I want to be a journalist anymore. All I wanted to do yesterday was hugging her, the girl I've known since we were 6, the girl I've shared so many experiences with.
The whole world don't mean a thing when you don't share the joys of life with the ones you love. I chose a self-exile that is pulling me down like I've never thought it would. If I saw the Queen today, I couldn't care less. If I could interview Kate Moss today, I wouldn't care less. I just wish I was home, to have a chat with my best friend and ask her how she feels about becoming a mother, to help my sister with my nephew, to hug my mother and father and thank them for what they do for me, to laugh at my grandparents when they argue like 13-year-olds and then make up like grown-up lovers.
I miss those little things that make you happy in life. Because after all, that's what we look in life. We look for happiness. But where is it? Is it where you are? Is it what you do? Is it who you are with? Am I wasting my time? Am I wasting my parents' money? Am I wasting my expectations? My family's expectations? Where am I supposed to be?
Rejoice life. Congrats J and Will. I'm happy for the three of you!!! *^_^*
Friday, 13 November 2009
Saturday, 7 November 2009
You live it, you learn it: An education
From the very first brilliant cue that accompanies his tricky though charming smile, you can tell that this debonair 30-something is not the good guy he pretends to be. Nevertheless sweet and smart 16-year-old Jenny falls for David's debauched joi de vivre not less than for his sporty car and cocktail parties.
Eager to live like an adult, albeit trapped in a middle-class suburban life in 1961 London, Jenny (Carey Mulligan) grinds at school, ploughing through Latin translations and brilliant English essays, paving herself a way to gain a much yearned Oxford bursary. Her daydreaming about wearing black, smocking and reading philosophers of the Exsistentialism crashes into an unsettling chance encounter with David (Peter Sarsgaard), a well-mannered man that easily gains the girl's parents affection. The under-the-rain setting of the encounter only adds to the momentousness of the meeting.
However, David drags Jenny into a life of fun and enjoyment, gambling and dancing. The Swinging sixties peep out in Jenny's life as she joins David's privileged lifestyle and his rich posse: handsome partner in fraudulent sales Danny (Dominic Cooper) and his beautiful though dimwitted girlfriend Helen, played by Rosamund Pike, whose performance is imbued with charm and grace in a Marilyn Monroe kind of fashion. When David takes Jenny to Paris for her 17th birthday, the girl finally experiments with her sexuality and fully enter adulthood.
The only character who seems to be aware of the danger of the liaison with the older man is Jenny's thoughtful English teacher (Olivia Williams). And as everybody encourages the marriage between Jenny and David, Jenny's mom (Cara Seymour) and dad (Alfred Molina) included -the latter relieved by the expenses saved for her daughter's education- the cracks in the couple's relationship become bigger and bigger until everything falls apart and the truth is unveiled.
Historia magistra vitae, said Cicero long time ago, meaning that history is our first teacher in life. Our own history in the first place. But a more conventional form of education can be an indispensable loophole. As in Jenny's case, as she struggles to win back her headmistress' backup.
The story has all the potential to be a weepie, but instead the drama is interspersed with sparks of vibrant hilarity, in particular in the character of Jenny's father, whose bigotry and dullness reveal nevertheless a warm-hearted fondness for his only child. Mulligan's debut performance is moving and refreshing at the same time. Genteel features and strong personality have never mingled in such a harmonious way before. No wonder, rumour has her as possible nominee for next year's Academy Awards.
Scriptwriter Nick Hornby played an important part in the success of the film. His rendition of journalist Lynn Barber's memoir adds wit and humour to the story. Memorable quotes make the film all the more enjoyable: bitter remark by Jenny's school headmistress "You are not a woman" or Jenny's confession to her teacher "I feel old, but not very wise".
Lone Scherfig crafted all the details of the film with composure and taste, making it a delightful ensemble: casting, score, costumes and overall cinematography make An education worth the ticket's price. Convincingly enough, for the first time since I'm here, nobody left before the end.
Eager to live like an adult, albeit trapped in a middle-class suburban life in 1961 London, Jenny (Carey Mulligan) grinds at school, ploughing through Latin translations and brilliant English essays, paving herself a way to gain a much yearned Oxford bursary. Her daydreaming about wearing black, smocking and reading philosophers of the Exsistentialism crashes into an unsettling chance encounter with David (Peter Sarsgaard), a well-mannered man that easily gains the girl's parents affection. The under-the-rain setting of the encounter only adds to the momentousness of the meeting.
However, David drags Jenny into a life of fun and enjoyment, gambling and dancing. The Swinging sixties peep out in Jenny's life as she joins David's privileged lifestyle and his rich posse: handsome partner in fraudulent sales Danny (Dominic Cooper) and his beautiful though dimwitted girlfriend Helen, played by Rosamund Pike, whose performance is imbued with charm and grace in a Marilyn Monroe kind of fashion. When David takes Jenny to Paris for her 17th birthday, the girl finally experiments with her sexuality and fully enter adulthood.
The only character who seems to be aware of the danger of the liaison with the older man is Jenny's thoughtful English teacher (Olivia Williams). And as everybody encourages the marriage between Jenny and David, Jenny's mom (Cara Seymour) and dad (Alfred Molina) included -the latter relieved by the expenses saved for her daughter's education- the cracks in the couple's relationship become bigger and bigger until everything falls apart and the truth is unveiled.
Historia magistra vitae, said Cicero long time ago, meaning that history is our first teacher in life. Our own history in the first place. But a more conventional form of education can be an indispensable loophole. As in Jenny's case, as she struggles to win back her headmistress' backup.
The story has all the potential to be a weepie, but instead the drama is interspersed with sparks of vibrant hilarity, in particular in the character of Jenny's father, whose bigotry and dullness reveal nevertheless a warm-hearted fondness for his only child. Mulligan's debut performance is moving and refreshing at the same time. Genteel features and strong personality have never mingled in such a harmonious way before. No wonder, rumour has her as possible nominee for next year's Academy Awards.
Scriptwriter Nick Hornby played an important part in the success of the film. His rendition of journalist Lynn Barber's memoir adds wit and humour to the story. Memorable quotes make the film all the more enjoyable: bitter remark by Jenny's school headmistress "You are not a woman" or Jenny's confession to her teacher "I feel old, but not very wise".
Lone Scherfig crafted all the details of the film with composure and taste, making it a delightful ensemble: casting, score, costumes and overall cinematography make An education worth the ticket's price. Convincingly enough, for the first time since I'm here, nobody left before the end.
Friday, 6 November 2009
Privileges of the Press and Scantily Dressed Journalists
I'm starting to enjoy being a journalist. Access is what I appreciate the most. Today I participated in a dreadfully boring conference on expert witnesses and their role in proceedings. Guest speakers included Lord Justice Leveson and Lord Justice Wall. Big names, those who wear wigs in court.
I just had to say "I'm a trainee journalist! I'm the press" and the doors went wide open. Badge with my name, free coffee, free lunch. Three weeks ago I got a wonderful goody bag full of toys to send home to my nephew for Christmas at a retailers' fair meant for the media. How lovely is that? I'm getting poor in expensive London, but at least I'm a journalist, which entitles me to some free meals and goody bags every now and then. I was thinking that if homeless dress up a little and attend this sort of events as "The Press", there it goes. They fill their bellies at the expenses of some rich companies.The conference, however, as I mentioned earlier, was painful for most of the time. Some people in the audience even fell asleep. And they paid loads money.
The funniest -and most embarrassing for me!- moment though, was at the very end. I was approached by an old lady who reminded me of the crone who introduced Anastasia to Dimitri in Disney's animation picture and had the voice of a transvestite. She asked me if I was a doctor and, of course, I said "No". Then she made some bitter remarks on my outfit, saying that doctors usually dress in a more humble way.
I felt a huge boulder right at the junction of the head with the neck. I was apparently too scantily dressed for her taste. "Luckily I am a trainee journalist and I'm young!" I added. She agreed that my outfit was alright for a journalist, flirty enough, but I wasn't wearing that much anyway. I was speechless, literally gaping. The two ladies I was talking to tried to back me up and reassure me. As the old crone left they told me I looked fabulous.
I didn't think I was dressed in an inappropriate way. I hope I wasn't. I went shopping precisely for this purpose last week. I dressed smartly for the occasion and now this woman tells me I don't have much fabric on me. How disappointing! Just because I'm wearing a tight skirt. Sorry if I'm 22 and I don't want to look like a nun!
I just had to say "I'm a trainee journalist! I'm the press" and the doors went wide open. Badge with my name, free coffee, free lunch. Three weeks ago I got a wonderful goody bag full of toys to send home to my nephew for Christmas at a retailers' fair meant for the media. How lovely is that? I'm getting poor in expensive London, but at least I'm a journalist, which entitles me to some free meals and goody bags every now and then. I was thinking that if homeless dress up a little and attend this sort of events as "The Press", there it goes. They fill their bellies at the expenses of some rich companies.The conference, however, as I mentioned earlier, was painful for most of the time. Some people in the audience even fell asleep. And they paid loads money.
The funniest -and most embarrassing for me!- moment though, was at the very end. I was approached by an old lady who reminded me of the crone who introduced Anastasia to Dimitri in Disney's animation picture and had the voice of a transvestite. She asked me if I was a doctor and, of course, I said "No". Then she made some bitter remarks on my outfit, saying that doctors usually dress in a more humble way.
I felt a huge boulder right at the junction of the head with the neck. I was apparently too scantily dressed for her taste. "Luckily I am a trainee journalist and I'm young!" I added. She agreed that my outfit was alright for a journalist, flirty enough, but I wasn't wearing that much anyway. I was speechless, literally gaping. The two ladies I was talking to tried to back me up and reassure me. As the old crone left they told me I looked fabulous.
I didn't think I was dressed in an inappropriate way. I hope I wasn't. I went shopping precisely for this purpose last week. I dressed smartly for the occasion and now this woman tells me I don't have much fabric on me. How disappointing! Just because I'm wearing a tight skirt. Sorry if I'm 22 and I don't want to look like a nun!
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Fate vs PR: the pitiless battle
I went shopping at Westfield's (big shopping centre, near Shepherd's Bush) on Saturday afternoon. First task: buy a new sim card and get a contract that allows me to make lots of phone calls without emptying my wallet. The shop assistant approached me and...wow...isn't he gorgeous?
He explained thoroughly what the offer was about, what I needed to do and so on and so forth. We engaged in a mild flirtatious conversation about my birthday that is coming soon, about me missing my family, about his family spread all over the world. It was all very cheerful and fun - albeit he cheekily told me I look older than I am.
So, he encouraged me to look for a new right number to pick up. I really didn't care about the number, any number was just fine. But he insisted I should pick a "nice" number. Thus, since both my current numbers end in 69, I decided not to interrupt the tradition and started searching for a number ending in 69. But I had no luck. F., the handsome clerk, went in the backroom and checked if there was any number that could satisfy my request. But, he had no luck either.
"Whatever," I said, "I'll just pick up a number." I closed my eyes, shifted the sim cards before me and picked up a number. Well, believe it or not, the number ended in 69. Fool of me -or should I rather say blind of me- not to see it before. But in the end I got it. It's my fate, I guess, to have a mobile phone number that ends in 69. "That's incredible. No, that's weird!" F. added. And I was puzzled and bewildered.
I am quite fascinated about esoteric stuff: numerology, astrology, destiny. It cannot be a coincidence. The whole situation. It must mean something. The number thing just adds a nuance of mystery to this momentous chance encounter. Such was the fancy whirling around in my head.
To make it short, after signing the contract, F. invited me to come back to the shop again in case I want to upgrade the offer or I have problems or anything else. He wanted to know my opinion about the customer service. I felt dizzy and just mumbled that since I don't like talking on the phone I might as well just come back to the shop. "However," I told him "it takes me a while to get to the shopping centre, so I don't know." His lips curled down as if upset. I left.
For the rest of the day, I couldn't help but wonder how far this flirting could go. "Should I go back and ask him out?" "Or maybe leave him my number?" "I don't have anything to lose, after all." "And he was clearly flirting." In the end, I didn't go back. As the day went on and the shadows of the night moved forward, I became wiser and realized what was really going on.
No fate, no destiny. A mere, albeit eerie, coincidence had taken place. And the mild flirting was just self-promotion. After all, if nobody goes back to the telephone shop, if everybody does everything on the phone or on the internet, poor F. risks to lose his job. The fancy of this sort of magical chance encounter vanished, or rather crashed against the concrete wall of an age of consumerism and business-driven human relationships. Fate vs PR? 0 : 1.
Flirting is fun and healthy, but when selling is the goal, then it's no more fun. My self-esteem went down, and so did the cash in my bank account. Great shopping, though.
He explained thoroughly what the offer was about, what I needed to do and so on and so forth. We engaged in a mild flirtatious conversation about my birthday that is coming soon, about me missing my family, about his family spread all over the world. It was all very cheerful and fun - albeit he cheekily told me I look older than I am.
So, he encouraged me to look for a new right number to pick up. I really didn't care about the number, any number was just fine. But he insisted I should pick a "nice" number. Thus, since both my current numbers end in 69, I decided not to interrupt the tradition and started searching for a number ending in 69. But I had no luck. F., the handsome clerk, went in the backroom and checked if there was any number that could satisfy my request. But, he had no luck either.
"Whatever," I said, "I'll just pick up a number." I closed my eyes, shifted the sim cards before me and picked up a number. Well, believe it or not, the number ended in 69. Fool of me -or should I rather say blind of me- not to see it before. But in the end I got it. It's my fate, I guess, to have a mobile phone number that ends in 69. "That's incredible. No, that's weird!" F. added. And I was puzzled and bewildered.
I am quite fascinated about esoteric stuff: numerology, astrology, destiny. It cannot be a coincidence. The whole situation. It must mean something. The number thing just adds a nuance of mystery to this momentous chance encounter. Such was the fancy whirling around in my head.
To make it short, after signing the contract, F. invited me to come back to the shop again in case I want to upgrade the offer or I have problems or anything else. He wanted to know my opinion about the customer service. I felt dizzy and just mumbled that since I don't like talking on the phone I might as well just come back to the shop. "However," I told him "it takes me a while to get to the shopping centre, so I don't know." His lips curled down as if upset. I left.
For the rest of the day, I couldn't help but wonder how far this flirting could go. "Should I go back and ask him out?" "Or maybe leave him my number?" "I don't have anything to lose, after all." "And he was clearly flirting." In the end, I didn't go back. As the day went on and the shadows of the night moved forward, I became wiser and realized what was really going on.
No fate, no destiny. A mere, albeit eerie, coincidence had taken place. And the mild flirting was just self-promotion. After all, if nobody goes back to the telephone shop, if everybody does everything on the phone or on the internet, poor F. risks to lose his job. The fancy of this sort of magical chance encounter vanished, or rather crashed against the concrete wall of an age of consumerism and business-driven human relationships. Fate vs PR? 0 : 1.
Flirting is fun and healthy, but when selling is the goal, then it's no more fun. My self-esteem went down, and so did the cash in my bank account. Great shopping, though.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
No City for Old Men
London is chaotic, fast-paced, full of cracks on the pavement. Not to mention the roller coaster-like experience of treading up and down its underground tunnels hurrying up towards the next train. Not the ideal environment, as you can see, for an elderly person. Last week, I beheld three sad episodes that proved my thinking right: London is no City for Old Men.
First one was an old man in the tube. Leaning on his staff, he was hobbling along struggling against the crowd of busy rushing people. Glued to the handrail he seemed a small boat tackling hundred-metre high waves in the eye of a seastorm. He seemed a bit lost, however relentless. He must have been a long-time citizen of this town, hence, used to the hustle and bustle of the underworld of its efficient public transport system. As my friend approached him to offer some help, he grumbled something indistinctly and climbed with difficulty the staircase. Slow-paced and stubborn, the old man showed his pride despite being in a situation that is at odds with the city's hectic lifestyle.
The second one was far less proud of being old in London. And again, it happened in the tube. The train came to a grinding halt and this old guy fell on his knees. He hung on the pole and swayed for a while like a washed out sock pegged on a line. A man standing close to the poor chap helped him out, but with so little energy that the old bloke stared beggingly at a young boy passing by, carelessly listening to some music on his i-pod, for some extra help. The extra help didn't come. In the end I jumped up and tried to help, since none of my tube-fellows seemed to be bothered by the scene. And the old man managed to get out of the hellish train towards unknown destination.
Finally, we get to the third and last episode: an old lady that fell on the pavement. I was walking to the cinema with a friend of mine, when we saw this elderly woman sitting down on the cold pavement. An old man stood close and a young guy was leaning over the lady offering some help. The woman was visibly shocked and so was her husband. She touched her head and her hands in pain. Like blinkered horses people passed by. Not even the most basic of first aid was put into force by those who saw the scene. The security man and the shop assistant of the store nearby seemed even more lost than the old couple. They had probably never heard of 999 or 112. At last, a woman arrived, leaned over the old lady and called an ambulance. We assisted the old woman for a while, until two policemen arrived. My friend and I served our elementary duty of helping a needy person when almost nobody else cared.
Frenzied, energetic and lively as it is, London sometimes lack the most warming of human needs: being helpful, being friendly, being unselfish.
First one was an old man in the tube. Leaning on his staff, he was hobbling along struggling against the crowd of busy rushing people. Glued to the handrail he seemed a small boat tackling hundred-metre high waves in the eye of a seastorm. He seemed a bit lost, however relentless. He must have been a long-time citizen of this town, hence, used to the hustle and bustle of the underworld of its efficient public transport system. As my friend approached him to offer some help, he grumbled something indistinctly and climbed with difficulty the staircase. Slow-paced and stubborn, the old man showed his pride despite being in a situation that is at odds with the city's hectic lifestyle.
The second one was far less proud of being old in London. And again, it happened in the tube. The train came to a grinding halt and this old guy fell on his knees. He hung on the pole and swayed for a while like a washed out sock pegged on a line. A man standing close to the poor chap helped him out, but with so little energy that the old bloke stared beggingly at a young boy passing by, carelessly listening to some music on his i-pod, for some extra help. The extra help didn't come. In the end I jumped up and tried to help, since none of my tube-fellows seemed to be bothered by the scene. And the old man managed to get out of the hellish train towards unknown destination.
Finally, we get to the third and last episode: an old lady that fell on the pavement. I was walking to the cinema with a friend of mine, when we saw this elderly woman sitting down on the cold pavement. An old man stood close and a young guy was leaning over the lady offering some help. The woman was visibly shocked and so was her husband. She touched her head and her hands in pain. Like blinkered horses people passed by. Not even the most basic of first aid was put into force by those who saw the scene. The security man and the shop assistant of the store nearby seemed even more lost than the old couple. They had probably never heard of 999 or 112. At last, a woman arrived, leaned over the old lady and called an ambulance. We assisted the old woman for a while, until two policemen arrived. My friend and I served our elementary duty of helping a needy person when almost nobody else cared.
Frenzied, energetic and lively as it is, London sometimes lack the most warming of human needs: being helpful, being friendly, being unselfish.
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