Grace Notes @ Snarkattack

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You Are a Grace!

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There are two reasons this blog is called ‘Grace Notes’ but this is just coincidental!

An interesting day. Barely made it to specialist.

Turns out I was right: being unwell will make it extremely difficult for me to entertain the notion of giving birth to my own offspring. The planets would have to be correctly aligned, you’d need the blood of a unicorn, and you’d have to go to some mountain in Tibet and pick exactly ninety-three of this really special berry…ugh. I think you get the drill.

Honestly, it does bother me a bit. I reserve the right to change my mind about having children in the future.

Specialist also said I shouldn’t ever consider being a single parent. Hmm.

He also told me to get my thyroid checked out. Oh, new meds. Yea. It sucks. I will harden the fuck up.

There were highlights in the day. Got to speak to DG for an extended period of time online even though he was playing WoW, I finally got my grubby mitts on contentismissing (thank you Nick) and got to have dinner and a drink with a good chum, JW. I’ve seen him at various EMS functions and such, but probably the first time in ages I actually got to see him properly and hang. It was lovely…

Momotaro Rahmen - dumplings, cold udon noodles with sliced beef, and their regular cold ramen salad. Yum. We even have leftovers. My work lunchies tomorrow!

Had a bit of trouble explaining the awesomeness that is the film Tampopo - it’s a Japanese film, about being the best damn ramen maker you can ever be. Western-style - yes, cowboys-and-Indians Westerns. It also pokes fun at various aspects of Japanese culture - particularly when Japanese choose to mimic certain habits in Western society to appear more refined.

In short, it’s a hoot.

I also found out that Christian Bale is possibly his favourite actor. Talk about spectacular taste. Then that got us talking about all the awesome films he’s been in, and makes me crave Equilibrium desperately. It was still quite early but staff were closing up so we ventured down to a nearby pub. They had Chimay on tap, scrummy. The last time I’d been to this pub was when Z had made me cry, at Momotaro Rahmen. I told JW about how I captured Z’s attention with Belgian beer dates (seems amazing to believe that someone like me could attract the affections of someone like him, but it did happen).

There is some bittersweetness attached to seeing JW, alone. Not quite sure what it is, but perhaps wistfulness that I can’t seem to get the ‘nice’ guy. I’ve promised myself I have to make more of an effort to like nice guys.

Before home, med run. Ouch. A sixth of my pay for the fortnight…and the dosage is stuffed up on one script.

A lady I used to play in viol consorts with got in touch with me and I think I’m ready to start playing gamba again. I’ll sound dreadful, but hopefully will pick up? I did almost pull out my gamba last night after listening to early music on Last.fm. Still can’t believe that out of all my Last.fm friends, I have the best compatibility with Neil fucking Gaiman.

Au moment, il y a une personne que tu me manques beaucoup. J’ai essayé de dire que je suis désolée mais il n’y a pas de réponse. Encore, j’ai merdé. Sartre a raison: l’enfer, c’est les autres.

Rob’s car is gone, Felix’s bike is here…1am and they’re still not back, assuming they’re in cahoots of some sort?

Had a lovely dinner with dangerous Dave, though weirdly neither of us threatened to Wiki anything. Claypot dinners are nice, and horrendously cheap too. I had pear-soaked pork soup, and plum sauce ribs as my claypot. I taught Dave the Filipino word for the burnt rice at the bottom of the pot. Both my grandfather and I loved that bit of rice. She says we share uncanny similarities. I often assume I’m more like my father’s side of the family. Perhaps I ought to take up smoking and philandering (in very Mrs Malaprop fashion, I always have to check myself and make sure I don’t mix up ‘philanderer’ and ‘philanthropist’) too. How exactly is it that my grandfather was such an excellent wind player if he smoked so much it killed him? Then again, how is it that I’m so shite and am a non-smoker…*ponders*
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Some awesome fellow on Twitter (@andrewbarnett I’m pretty sure?) a few weeks ago posted a link to hybridized.org because he was all excited by new Jody Wisternoff mixes. A new set has just come up. Now I only really paid attention to Jody because Rob was always going on about how ace he is (our tastes in electronic music overlap, but not a great deal) so I told Rob, downloaded (legally!) some sets, and zomg. Yes, not eloquent, but this track, which begins the set just kills me with its beauty. And the words! They’re so beautiful (I think I would swoon in the right context if someone said some of the phrases in this song to me), gush. The label, Chi Recordings, has it pegged as minimal electro. I heart minimal.

(I might be a bit lame here and say that this reminds me of someone, it makes me happy to think of this person, but it’s probably more bittersweet than outright ‘happy’ Fondly, perhaps? Like being nostalgic for something that isn’t even absent. Much less painful than the ‘oh-my-fuck-Z’s-gone-forever-from-my-life-and-still-alive’ feeling).

Ack! Enough rambling! Listen!

In spring? A bit ridiculous. Probably my fault for going out on Monday night after work when I was already sick to begin with. Consumption of cold liquids doesn’t tend to help that sort of thing.

I think my housemates hate me less. Note, I said ‘think’. Major reparations are under way, in any case.
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I have not slept all day. Fuck you temazepam. There are children bigger than me and two of those softcocks didn’t even knock me out. They just make consciousness dream-like for a few hours. Between 2am and 5am who knows what I was doing, I certainly don’t recall.

At least I wrote some microfiction, afterwards. Vignettes tied together by a common…thread. When will it stop being confessional? Plath is a bore, and I don’t have the dry wit Sexton has.

At a more decent hour, @mspecht posted a link on Twitter to the following. More information on the poem can be found here.

Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten,
habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Kommunist.

Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten,
habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.

Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten,
habe ich nicht protestiert;
ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.

Als sie die Juden holten,
habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Jude.

Als sie mich holten,
gab es keinen mehr, der protestieren konnte.

When the Nazis came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews,
I remained silent;
I was not a Jew.

When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.

What is that Latin maxim quoted in Bolt’s A Man For All Seasons? Qui tacet consentiret - ’silence gives consent’.

Before sunrise, the sky is this vivid blue that makes everything seem like it could be beautiful. Twilight has this quality too and for this reason, it is my favourite time of day. The quality of the light is entrancing. Bewitching, even.

However, dawn has more stillness than sunset, and twilight. There is less traffic on the roads. Sometimes it’s foggy. I remember the last time I flew to the UK and our plane was circling, waiting to be allowed to land. The mist clung to the earth and rolled gently across it, as if caressing it. It was a most serene image. Everything looks so serene from above, however.

Here, it is barely spring, in Australia. The birds are very noisy - despite this, there still seems to be a sense of stillness. Not everything has woken up just yet.

I’ve not slept. The sleeping pills I took made me very groggy, and my bedroom seems stuffy, so I opened my balcony door, and am sitting here, typing, cross-legged, trying to absorb some of the stillness of dawn. The air is fresh - I should feel cold as my legs are bare, but the freshness is welcoming. It helps my mind become more lucid. A hot-air balloon gently floats past.

Yesterday’s events are not forgotten, but the sleeping pills make them seem very distant, dream-like. Though no less inexcusable.

At this very moment, I feel my most truest self. Stable, steady, clear-headed.

I wish I had the courage to be like this all the time.

Shakespeare-style.

Thought I’d post this in light of the recent Carol Ann Duffy - GCSE bannination. Yes, I realise that is not a real word. But if ‘burnination’ is good enough for Trogdor, then…yeah. Just roll with it, it’s 9am on a Monday morning, and it’s a bloody good poem.

James Richardson - ‘In Shakespeare’

In Shakespeare a lover turns into an ass*
as you would expect. People confuse
their consciences with ghosts and witches.
Old men throw everything away
because they panic and can’t feel their lives.
They pinch themselves, pierce themselves with twigs,
cliffs, lightning, and die—yes, finally—in glad pain.

You marry a woman you’ve never talked to,
a woman you thought was a boy.
Sixteen years go by as a curtain billows
once, twice. Your children are lost,
they come back, you don’t remember how.
A love turns to a statue in a dress, the statue
comes back to life. Oh God, it’s all so realistic
I can’t stand it. Whereat I weep and sing.

Such a relief, to burst from the theatre
into our cool, imaginary streets
where we know who’s who and what’s what,
and command with Metrocards our destinations.
Where no one with a story struggling in him
convulses as it eats its way out,
and no one in an antiseptic corridor,
or in deserts or in downtown darkling plains,
staggers through an Act that just will not end,
eyes burning with the burning of the dead.

*ass - the animal rather than the pejorative for ‘bottom’ which is ‘arse’ in British English

In other news, temazepam is that really hot guy that actually sidles up to you, gets you all flattered and charms his way back to your place with the promise of mind-blowing sex only to not be able to get it up. I am well pissed, and drug-hungover.

Woah, cold tonight. 2 degrees Celsius. I can has human bedwarmer nao plz?

Got sent home very early from work - why I bothered to turn up is beyond me. No matter, I had a package waiting for me at the post office - Villainess Titanium White scrub, and Retrograde perfume. Wow. The fragrance is gorgeous, and I love the bottle! Why doesn’t BPAL come in these amazing little vial-type things?

Twice I got heckled by dodgy guys in North Melbourne. One was this seedy truckdriver *shudder*. I hate it when people call out to me when I’m riding.

I was going to try and be productive for the rest of the day, but had the most glorious nap ever then woke at five or so in the evening in an absolute panic: for some strange reason I thought I’d actually missed work! When I realised that I’d actually been and come home, I got ready to meet up with some North Melbourne Twitterers - @saschabeaumont and @d00dman. I’d met S before, but the latter fellow tried to convince me his last name was Dudemeister. Haha, nice try dork *giggle*. There was also extensive discussion on XBox vs Wii - I seem to be having this debate with a lot of people lately! I want a Wii, primarily for Zelda and Guitar Hero…maybe I should buy that rubbish version for DS.

We met up at the Town Hall Hotel - I was first there and ordered a really lovely vegie lasagna - it was easily as tasty as a meat one. Then lots of pints of beer were consumed. Now I’m broke! Whoops! We did gossip a little…usually the sort that might prickle me slightly but instead just gives me reason to be on my guard *narrows eyes*. Some people are fucktards. Needless to say, the company I was in was not.

Started reading an anthology of short poems that Simon Armitage edited today - I think it might’ve been what knocked me out.

I think I might be receiving a speeding ticket. Drat. I still haven’t paid my parking ticket from burger date with @praxxis.

It’s one in the morning, Wednesday. There is a distinct lack of non-fiction in the body of work that one would call my oeuvre, and sadly I don’t have access to copies of my wanky undergraduate arts degree essays. I’m trying to compile a folio for submission to a course next year. So far, my folio is just over one hundred words over the limit.

I’m hoping they don’t mind.

Not that it matters now, but I lied about the word count on my final year French written assignment. As far as my drug-addled brain can remember, I never lied about a word count at university.

So, for the folio, I’ve got: a poem (well duh. Must remember to note it’s been published by an actual journal), a dialogue that would pass as a fragment of a play, a speculative fiction short story, and a concert review. Am hoping it sounds varied enough.

Technically last night, Rob and I cycled to fiancee’s house. Beforehand, we had an argument. I hate it when Rob snaps at me or looks pissed off at me (I am sorry Rob, honest…). Probably because he’s one of the few people I know who actually tolerates me. Things were better once we got to fiancee’s house, even though we got rained on a little during the ride there. Not to mention ace Indian food, several delicious teas and bonding over the use of the intarwebz (sic. chortle). I was worried I’d be too tired to enjoy Rob and fiancee’s company, but gosh, it was lovely to see them. Never underestimate the power of quality time with loved ones. It is especially good to see fiancee is so happy.

Can’t believe I’m actually well enough to apply for this course I’ve been wanting to do for ages. I will be seriously pissed if I get sick and mess it up. I will have a foot-stamping tantrum like the bride did for the first wedding I was ever a bridesmaid for. No, not my sister-in-law.

The night dubbed by @coliwilso as ‘ENEMA’ - it stands for something, but I forget what or am too lazy to look it up. It involved my only meal for the day (UB…mmm) some very tired Canadians and watching Howl’s Moving Castle and Velvet Goldmine. I could just about spontaneously combust when Ewan McGregor’s character first comes on screen in the latter…*pant* I shan’t fully describe why in case anyone reading this has not seen it.

Saturday - concert was fun enough. Day was exhausting because it was so hot! I missed the orchestra play Elgar’s ‘Enigma’ Variations - boo! I was too anxious about wedding to really enjoy the concert properly.

I thought I could blog about the wedding, but I can’t. I found myself wishing a few times during the day that it would be so nice to have the sort of happiness that the bride and groom have. Then I remind myself that having someone that cares about you means that they’d be privy to your bad habits and call you out on them! In case you can’t tell, yes, I am rationalising.

Workmate saved my life today at work (bless you Thomas, I swear) by giving me money for coffee (again, I woke up with twenty minutes to spare before work started). He said I looked rooted.

I cannot sleep. Unusually, it is for fairly regular person reasons. Got home too late to take something to help me sleep, sadly. Recently, something pretty nice happened, but I suspect that the happiness associated with this event is short-lived. So far, my suspicions seem to be accurate. If I had to find a bright side, it’d be that at least my heart is not sore over Z for once. Though am still avoiding chiptunes…

I’m sure I’ll feel better once my anxiety’s dwindled, readjust to absence of that which formerly made me happy (don’t worry, I was still nice and scared and cautious. Have to keep up my emo roots!), and get some fucking sleep!

Bruno must’ve sensed that I’m a little deflated - he’s curled, purring and pressed very closely into my seated bottom. He is rarely this affectionate - he actually cares for once! In fact, I think he might sleep here tonight - he’s passed out on my bed.

Belongings in communal areas of apartment rearranged.

Ruined skirt that just got dry-cleaned, courtesy of stupid bike grease.

Spent a lot of money on a lip product I couldn’t wear because it wasn’t the right colour (damn, I knew they’d want a nude lip!)

Not quite sure how to get false eyelashes off.

Boy in my bed last night and I wasn’t there! Proof there is no god. Speaking of which, where did Rob put my Christopher Hitchens book?

Flat beer in keg.

No drunken punch-up at wedding. Okay, kidding about last one. It’s just a really good Radiohead song. Guess what album I’m listening to?

Wedding update later!

Last night, upon the invitation of the person formerly known as hot mean guy (I’m assuming now that we’ve gone out somewhere that didn’t involve EMS, we’re actually friends, so I can’t really say he’s that mean), I was lucky enough to catch an event that was part of the Melbourne International Arts Festival - Philip Glass and Leonard Cohen’s ‘Book of Longing’.

Cohen’s Book of Longing is a volume of poetry which also includes sketches. The sketches remind me of Apollinaire’s Calligrammes (I’m still royally pissed about my father packing up my volume of Apollinaire poetry. Hiss), Picasso etchings I once saw at the Museum of Modern Art at Heide, and Jean Cocteau’s erotic sketches and etchings. That grainy quality that suggests they’ve been drawn by a rough nib that uses old-school ink. I liked that they were grainy, scruffy, but aside from that, I suspect they’d not be considered to have any artistic merit if they were by some unknown. Cliched, even…?Gasp!

Philip Glass, the composer, was actually there performing on keyboard. That was kind of a treat. It bugged me a bit that they had the director/conductor playing another (electronic) keyboard, but using a grand-piano-type sound? Hm? Wouldn’t it have been better if they just used an actual piano? The ensemble was small, pared-back, in fact. There were bits and pieces of Cohen’s pre-recorded voice reading out his poetry. I quite like the sound of his voice reciting. It sounds natural, conversational.

I wasn’t supremely impressed by the poetry. It was fine, but nothing really stood out and made me say “cor! wish I’d thought of that!”. Perhaps I need to read more of his work to appreciate it, or something. Coincidentally, companion was not that impressed by the music.

I’m glad I got to go (thanks L!). I often end up missing all these wonderful Arts Festival events because…I don’t know. Seems to be a chaotic time of year, when the Festival is held (October, every year).

Conradesque = Joseph Conrad = Heart of Darkness novella (upon which Apocalypse Now is based) = quote in story… “…the horror, the horror!” I liked his novel Victory but really didn’t see the appeal of Heart of Darkness. I still remember that week we studied it at uni, our tute came to the conclusion that it was a ‘boy’ book. Only one girl in our tute didn’t mind it. The males loved it.

I say this because at 4am this morning, I was woken up after actually falling asleep at a half-decent hour (1am?). Completely covered in sweat (despite wearing very little), struggling as if being attacked and screaming. It took a good while after to realise that yes, I was safe, and no, nothing was going to attack me and I wasn’t in any immediate danger. Except of looking like a loon. We’re talking old-school 19th-century asylum shit here.

Ah yes, the nightmares have returned! It’s probably since telling DG about the…bad stuff that happened a few years ago. It generally tends to cause nightmares whenever I confide in someone about them, though of course he was wonderful to talk to. It’s nice that someone so far away and someone I’ve never met in real life can be so caring.

But yes, bad dreams and violent nightmares have me completely wrecked. Am sleeping too much at the wrong times.

I do not recommend myself as a sleepover-lover.

Had a brilliant evening, despite my anxiety leading up to it. But of course, I can’t fecking sleep so I’ll go and watch some Twin Peaks while Frosty isn’t hogging the TV.

Now I understand why people get married. Aside from the presents, they want to do a vastly better job on every single crappy wedding-related event they’ve ever been to.

Insomnia is starting to mess with my life. I went home early from work to catch up on some sleep, and when I woke up, panic. I was supposed to be at my brother’s place, for his birthday and also to prepare his marriage bed. I’m sure Freud would have a field day with that.

When I got there, I was shoved into the master bedroom and told I had to help to make the bed. Various adults were tossing coins, rice and sugared almonds on the mattress. We then had to put sheets on top of this (huh?) and then witness the same thing (throwing of same such objects). Finally when the bed was made, my sister-in-law’s nephew was picked up by his mother and rolled on the bed several times.

I think my favourite part of the evening was convincing the groomsmen that females can and do actually drink beer (though sadly this meant having to drink crap beer. I reminded my brother it was only because it was his birthday). But even didn’t that make up for the fact that I missed the presidential debate-watching party at P&W (where a few EMS boys live). I did, however, come home to some drunken IMs from Rob. That was pretty amusing.

Canadian relatives arrive tomorrow - horrendously exciting!

And yes, I wore a skirt to work today. Honestly, I wish everyone would just fecking get over it. Well, at least Anya thinks I’m hot (thanks hon). Oh, and thank you to whosoever bought toilet paper - I suspect it was you, Rob. It’s much appreciated.