Seriously, such an amazing show. Let it be known, I did NOT film this, but thinking back on the experience, this is a smidgen of what it was like to be there that night. (:
Imogen Heap -- Just for Now
Showing posts with label LA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LA. Show all posts
28 June 2010
17 April 2010
Underground
And another! I swear, I'm just posting these for easy reference later on down the line but MAN does this bring back memories.
Underground bars, please.
Underground bars, please.
Anger management
Hilarious. Am going through all my clips to compile for my site (ETA TBD), and found this online.
It's been a while, but I do miss the days of snagging empty offices instead of having my own as an intern at LAMag. Whenever a writer would return unexpectedly to the office, I'd be given the polite nod and be expected to grab all my stuff and slink back into the hallway to find another empty office to occupy.
Classy.
It's been a while, but I do miss the days of snagging empty offices instead of having my own as an intern at LAMag. Whenever a writer would return unexpectedly to the office, I'd be given the polite nod and be expected to grab all my stuff and slink back into the hallway to find another empty office to occupy.
Classy.
31 August 2008
Up and Out
I'm going to really miss eating alone. The loneliness that I felt at the beginning of summer in the my first few days of moving to Westwood have come around full circle, and now I find myself really longing for more of the solitude and familiar routine that has reigned over these past few months.
One of my worst, more irrational, fears when I was younger was of eating alone. There are too many negative stereotypes about people who dine in public alone - either they are social outcasts or they are somehow incapable of carrying out normal tableside conversation. Or they have some sort of gross deformity that repels even the most understanding of dining buddies.
None of these are really true, though, because people who are able to venture out and eat on their own in public have to be pretty dang comfortable in their own skin to do so.
Either that, or they have to quickly become comfortable.
Over the summer, every lunch break would be a mental and physical break from hours upon hours of talking, listening, writing, planning – exercising my journalistic prowess, if you will. I’d grab a pen and paper and just write – freeform, stream-of-conscience poems, blurbs, thoughts, stories, as I munched on a wrap or stabbed at some salad.
The first day I did this as a form of security, because I didn’t want to attract sympathy for my dining alone even if I had done it by choice. I wanted to get over this irrational fear of mine. But over the weeks, turning down lunch invitations didn’t feel so bad anymore – I rather looked forward to having a meal by myself and being able to gather my thoughts in an hour away from work, home, or obligations. I felt at ease in my solitude.
Friday was my last day at the Daily News, and I'm really going to miss working there. The features department has become my journalism family, and they've adopted me as one of their own, which is flattering. I'll miss Sandra's advice, Rob's sarcastic quips, Sharyn's blunt observations, even Simone's long, drawn-out stories about interviewing John Cusack and Dave Matthews.
I think that it was honestly very rare and lucky for me to stumble into such a nurturing work environment. My editors came off as cold and calculated in the beginning, but I've since learned that just because they aren't overly, fakely happy to see me all the time doesn't mean that they dislike me. In fact, I really appreciate the way they treat me like a real human being, as opposed to a golden intern spouting hope and naivety. They’re realistic and down-to-earth and so much what I needed to get my head back in the journalistic game.
Their quiet approval and support throughout the summer really helped me to move out of my comfort zone and learn to be more proactive in my quest for the story. If I wanted to cover an event or issue, I had to speak up. If I was unsure of what to do in a given situation, I had to speak up. Nothing came easy, and they intended it to be that way. You get what you give, and sometimes more if you’re lucky.
I got lucky.
I learned as I wrote, and really discovered what I was capable of doing as a journalist and as a writer. Simply being genuinely interested in a person and having good follow-through opened doors in ways that being pushy and condescending probably could not. Understanding and empathy made reporting a joy rather than a burden. Telling stories in intricate new ways was a challenge I loved to meet.
This is what I’m meant to do with the rest of my life, I’m pretty certain.
Well, maybe.
Don’t know how long this certainty will last, though, but I can say this: even in the face of a dying journalism industry, I think there’s still a place at the table for me. I hope there is.
Even if it means dining alone out in the real world, because at least I’ll have my thoughts to keep me company.
One of my worst, more irrational, fears when I was younger was of eating alone. There are too many negative stereotypes about people who dine in public alone - either they are social outcasts or they are somehow incapable of carrying out normal tableside conversation. Or they have some sort of gross deformity that repels even the most understanding of dining buddies.
None of these are really true, though, because people who are able to venture out and eat on their own in public have to be pretty dang comfortable in their own skin to do so.
Either that, or they have to quickly become comfortable.
Over the summer, every lunch break would be a mental and physical break from hours upon hours of talking, listening, writing, planning – exercising my journalistic prowess, if you will. I’d grab a pen and paper and just write – freeform, stream-of-conscience poems, blurbs, thoughts, stories, as I munched on a wrap or stabbed at some salad.
The first day I did this as a form of security, because I didn’t want to attract sympathy for my dining alone even if I had done it by choice. I wanted to get over this irrational fear of mine. But over the weeks, turning down lunch invitations didn’t feel so bad anymore – I rather looked forward to having a meal by myself and being able to gather my thoughts in an hour away from work, home, or obligations. I felt at ease in my solitude.
Friday was my last day at the Daily News, and I'm really going to miss working there. The features department has become my journalism family, and they've adopted me as one of their own, which is flattering. I'll miss Sandra's advice, Rob's sarcastic quips, Sharyn's blunt observations, even Simone's long, drawn-out stories about interviewing John Cusack and Dave Matthews.
I think that it was honestly very rare and lucky for me to stumble into such a nurturing work environment. My editors came off as cold and calculated in the beginning, but I've since learned that just because they aren't overly, fakely happy to see me all the time doesn't mean that they dislike me. In fact, I really appreciate the way they treat me like a real human being, as opposed to a golden intern spouting hope and naivety. They’re realistic and down-to-earth and so much what I needed to get my head back in the journalistic game.
Their quiet approval and support throughout the summer really helped me to move out of my comfort zone and learn to be more proactive in my quest for the story. If I wanted to cover an event or issue, I had to speak up. If I was unsure of what to do in a given situation, I had to speak up. Nothing came easy, and they intended it to be that way. You get what you give, and sometimes more if you’re lucky.
I got lucky.
I learned as I wrote, and really discovered what I was capable of doing as a journalist and as a writer. Simply being genuinely interested in a person and having good follow-through opened doors in ways that being pushy and condescending probably could not. Understanding and empathy made reporting a joy rather than a burden. Telling stories in intricate new ways was a challenge I loved to meet.
This is what I’m meant to do with the rest of my life, I’m pretty certain.
Well, maybe.
Don’t know how long this certainty will last, though, but I can say this: even in the face of a dying journalism industry, I think there’s still a place at the table for me. I hope there is.
Even if it means dining alone out in the real world, because at least I’ll have my thoughts to keep me company.
19 August 2008
Ridiculous, self-inflicted busyness
Have you ever been so busy that you literally didn't even know where to begin to tackle your enormous pile of THINGS TO DO?
I'm at that point right now, and am obviously not helping myself by posting instead of working. But I'll consider this stress relief of sorts, har har.
Am in the midst of packing up to move-in for my senior year, and I just can't seem to finish. Am thinking about everything I'll need to do within the next 24 hours - start and finish the layout for an entire issue of a student publication, finish a story for my internship, show my friend around LA, interview several people, and settle into a new apartment.
Haven't had time to breathe in a while, but this busyness IS self induced, so don't feel as though I can really complain. Oy soy.
...this is so ridiculous that all I can do is sit here and eat mochi ice cream by the box. This can't be healthy.
I'm at that point right now, and am obviously not helping myself by posting instead of working. But I'll consider this stress relief of sorts, har har.
Am in the midst of packing up to move-in for my senior year, and I just can't seem to finish. Am thinking about everything I'll need to do within the next 24 hours - start and finish the layout for an entire issue of a student publication, finish a story for my internship, show my friend around LA, interview several people, and settle into a new apartment.
Haven't had time to breathe in a while, but this busyness IS self induced, so don't feel as though I can really complain. Oy soy.
...this is so ridiculous that all I can do is sit here and eat mochi ice cream by the box. This can't be healthy.
28 June 2008
Isolation and Solitude
It’s a shame that more people don’t walk in L.A. It’s too bad that the convenience of speeding from one location to the next outweighs the therapeutic effects of a casual stroll down Wilshire.
It’s dusk and as I shuffle along the sidewalk, only glancing up at every third car horn, I notice that I’ve already passed five cars in the span of 20 steps. I’m counting. They haven’t moved. I have. I shift my eyes to the right and study the face of a businessman mouthing angry words into his Bluetooth headset. Fancy car, fancy man. Everything about him is clean in a way that is uncomfortable and, moreover, unhealthy.
It looks like he’s washed and pressed his shirt a thousand times before donning it, a pristine disguise meant to conceal his very human flaws.
I wonder how many times he scrubbed his hands at the sink before leaving the office, purging himself of the germs he no doubt contracted from one handshake after the next.. Human interaction, washed down the drain.
Do his kids run out to greet him when he gets home, I wonder?
A large sedan tries to merge in front of his car. Red light. No one is moving, and yet the man in the pressed shirt inches forward to prove a point. Do not pass. Every man for himself and damn the rest.
Isolation. I know nothing about this man, can only judge him based on this quick snapshot of his life. It’s not his best moment. I momentarily catch his eye, and I quickly pretend as though I’m looking through his window at a point just beyond his head. Behind my sunglasses, I close my eyes quickly in a silent apology.
It’s wrong to stare.
I continue on my walk down Wilshire, and I’m all too aware that I’m the only one out on the barren L.A. sidewalk. It’s too much. The smell of car fumes finally gives way to the overwhelming scent of pines as I make a quick left to start the steep ascent up a hilly residential street.
Escape.
People say they need therapy to figure out what’s wrong with them, what other people have that they don’t. Money. Happiness. Sanity. Time. They want a quick fix, a diagnosis and a pat on the back and reassurance that everything will be okay – they don’t have time to dig deeper toward the root of the problem, nor do they want to admit that their dissatisfaction might stem from a problem within themselves.
Generally speaking, people are always in pursuit of a kind of simplicity they claim to have achieved at some point in their lives. The reality, though, is that this simplicity still resides within them, and always will.
But it takes a certain kind of calm to find it again. The kind of calm they can only find in solitude, but never in isolation.
Walk it out.
It’s dusk and as I shuffle along the sidewalk, only glancing up at every third car horn, I notice that I’ve already passed five cars in the span of 20 steps. I’m counting. They haven’t moved. I have. I shift my eyes to the right and study the face of a businessman mouthing angry words into his Bluetooth headset. Fancy car, fancy man. Everything about him is clean in a way that is uncomfortable and, moreover, unhealthy.
It looks like he’s washed and pressed his shirt a thousand times before donning it, a pristine disguise meant to conceal his very human flaws.
I wonder how many times he scrubbed his hands at the sink before leaving the office, purging himself of the germs he no doubt contracted from one handshake after the next.. Human interaction, washed down the drain.
Do his kids run out to greet him when he gets home, I wonder?
A large sedan tries to merge in front of his car. Red light. No one is moving, and yet the man in the pressed shirt inches forward to prove a point. Do not pass. Every man for himself and damn the rest.
Isolation. I know nothing about this man, can only judge him based on this quick snapshot of his life. It’s not his best moment. I momentarily catch his eye, and I quickly pretend as though I’m looking through his window at a point just beyond his head. Behind my sunglasses, I close my eyes quickly in a silent apology.
It’s wrong to stare.
I continue on my walk down Wilshire, and I’m all too aware that I’m the only one out on the barren L.A. sidewalk. It’s too much. The smell of car fumes finally gives way to the overwhelming scent of pines as I make a quick left to start the steep ascent up a hilly residential street.
Escape.
People say they need therapy to figure out what’s wrong with them, what other people have that they don’t. Money. Happiness. Sanity. Time. They want a quick fix, a diagnosis and a pat on the back and reassurance that everything will be okay – they don’t have time to dig deeper toward the root of the problem, nor do they want to admit that their dissatisfaction might stem from a problem within themselves.
Generally speaking, people are always in pursuit of a kind of simplicity they claim to have achieved at some point in their lives. The reality, though, is that this simplicity still resides within them, and always will.
But it takes a certain kind of calm to find it again. The kind of calm they can only find in solitude, but never in isolation.
Walk it out.
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