Grace Notes @ Snarkattack

I think things are back to normal at u11 (that’s what our flat is referred to around our parts). Frosty told Rob and I that he won’t be able to apply to go to England till October because of new laws concerning I-can-only-imagine-what. Means tAlex and his awesomeness won’t be able to move in quite as soon as thought, and it may also mean he won’t get to spend as much time with Rob, seeing as Rob’s going to leave not long after Frosty. He’ll just have to put up with me, hahaha (sorry in advance, tAlex).

Even though I’ve already wished her happy birthday, I’ll do it again - happy birthday Ash! Have a cupcake at Cupcake Royale for me…

A lot lately, I’ve been listening to Coil’s Secret Love Domain - it’s virtually impossible to categorise (and last.fm tags don’t really help) and Radiohead’s Hail To The Thief (which is probably due to TH). It’s occurred to me it’s the album of theirs I’ve listened to the least (discounting Pablo Honey…can we not talk about that?). I had some weird half-awake epiphany earlier that if my life were a film, at the part of the film where I’m preparing to hang myself (I might add this is not my preferred method of suicide), I’d have the first track ‘2 + 2 = 5 (The Lukewarm)’ playing as the soundtrack. It’s so beautiful, but heart-breaking at the same time. A lot of things that I find beautiful and/or moving tend to have some sort of sadness attached to it.

I read a funny poem about, well, it’s pretty self-explanatory. It reminded me a lot of xkcd for some reason:

‘Prof of Profs’
by Geoffrey Brock

For Allison Hogge, in memory of Brian Wilkie

I was a math major — fond of all things rational.
It was the first day of my first poetry class.
The prof, with the air of a priest at Latin mass,
told us that we could “make great poetry personal,”

could own it, since poetry we memorize sings
inside us always. By way of illustration
he began reciting Shelley with real passion,
but stopped at “Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!” –
because, with that last plosive, his top denture
popped from his mouth and bounced off an empty chair.

He blinked, then offered, as postscript to his lecture,
a promise so splendid it made me give up math:
“More thingth like that will happen in thith clath.”

Who could resist a promise like that? Uh, I meant resist a recitation of Shelley that moving…?