some poetry while i'm getting myself together

i've written a haiku about my current work ethic:

Procrastination
I'll do the third line later

bullet points.

some things that happened during the time i abandoned this blog for a while:

• i finished at university
• i started doing another degree at a different one
• i had a birthday (just. yesterday) - no noir party this time.
  
• i joined twitter, so when i thought of a pun i would post it there instead. this meant it was over and done with quicker. so a kinder method i think. (although that doesn't explain why i still post jokes on facebook i guess)
• i hatched chickens. the bestest and tamest one is called Twitter. (it's a good name for a chicken)
  
• i did this: which i still need to edit.
• that's all i can think of right now. more things have happened, obviously. meals etc.
  
• i've also discovered (through twitter via the internet) Friday Flash, which is an idea i really like, so i thought i might have a go at it. it would be a good way to keep creative writing-ness going on while i'm putting off doing NaNo revision and (last and least) all my school stuff. so that might happen.

err.

i seem to have stopped updating this. what happened was i didn't update this for a while and then lots of things happened and i still didn't update this. and now it's a new year and i am updating this! if only with the news that i haven't been updating this.

something i made and like

ready?

this was nice. made with yoghurt, honey, pomegranate seeds and icing sugar roasted pistachio nuts. the Independant Pudding Recipe Success Rate has now risen to 50% (our first experiment being the chocolate and beetroot cake.)

Chaplin called laughter "noise from a hole."

"I find nothing so illebral and so illbred as audible laughter... not to mention the disagreeable noise that it makes and the shocking distortion of the face is occasions."

- Lord Chesterfield, 1748.

a description of film noir that i like very much. it is by Geoffrey O'Brien.

This is the music of his own world, the one he lives in. It has the same air, the same weather, the same floors and walls and cars, the hot evenings, the eyes glimpsed for an instant looking out from someone else’s porch. This is no dream; it’s the very stuff of reality, as real as the thick paper of the book cover against his fingers. As real as the radio report crackling into the room from another outpost of reality. For sure, it’s happening out there, somewhere in the neon wilderness, in the asphalt jungle. A woman screams. The lights go out. A window breaks. There’s a siren, a shot, a dark figure running down the street. The shriek of the saxophone through the nightclub’s swinging doors, a body slumped over a steering wheel in an empty lot, a telephone ringing for someone who can’t answer, the elevator rising ominously toward the penthouse floor. And he’s in the middle of it somehow, he’s on the ledge, just coming through the door, peering through the latticework, crouching silently in the stairwell as the assassin goes by, his knees poised to spring forward. He reads it as another might read a lyric poem – because its images sustain the life in him.

who makes these for children? they're creepy enough on adults

we see a girl, about ten years old, wearing one of those FREE HUGS hoodies

we exchange looks of weirded-out awkwardness

i say, for the sake of saying something,
"that's a bit... wrong, isn't it? in the current climate"

he says, "yes. yes it is. it's far too hot"

and i like this.