At the recital hall, a beautiful sound emanated from the stage. The richness of violin, flute, clarinet and cello swelled in full and mellow notes, in subtlely textured harmony. Then the musicians stopped tuning their instruments, and the concert for contemporary chamber music began.

Contemporary music is terrible. At worse it sounds like a bunch of autistic kids who found the key to the band room; at best you can tell there's something like rhythm and notes, but it isn't anything. It's empty. If music is nourishment for the soul then this is just nothing at all.

I left (in the rain) during Intermission, while the table for the post-concert reception was set up. Lemon merangue triangles are among my favorite desserts, but I wouldn't for love nor money sit through the second half.

I did, however, pick up the pamphlet for the entire music program for this semester. There's some Bach and Beethoven to be had in April.

Thank the Lord.

I went to listen to the seminar in the library gallery on housing prices in the U.S, because I'm an econ major and feel like bettering myself. There were many graphs in shiny ink on glossy paper. I understood the principles of supply and demand in relation to the market. The speaker finished, and opened the floor for questions, and while faculty members asked questions that I didn't understand about things like tax deductions and refinancing mortgage and monthly payments, I walked around looking at the walls of the gallery, at an art exhibition with black and white photographs from the Cuban Revolution. For being black and white photographs, these were tremendously moving, full of so much hope and exuberance of a bygone era. They're such frail and ephemeral things, and not a little sad for it since we all know how that revolution under the Havanna night and Che Guevera's pen turned out. It made me wonder who the people in it were; who they are now, who that little girl laughing under the light of the sun in a little white dress lifted and swung up in Fidel Castro's arms is, whether she's still laughing. There's a sequential pair of photos, the first one showing maybe half a dozen members of a crowd waiting for the arrival of Castro to make a speech, wearing expressions of anxious anticipation, and the next photo, taken right as Castro arrives, when such joy breaks out on the people's faces it's like the surging of a wave. There's just that moment of a temporary dream that makes it so beautiful and sad. In the meantime the seminar concluded and the audience converged on the reception table for coffee, fruit, and lemon merangue triangles.

Kay made his first anime music video for Hellsing, to E.S. Posthumus' "Pompeii" (apparently an opera of some sort). It's badass, and he's going to show it at Otakon. Go download it. Now.

La Historia del Mamut

Cancer! Al mamut le dio cancer!

(This song is stuck in my head)

Wherein Angie Reverts to Fall Semester, Freshman Year

Niall and Paul have kicked me out of Jeremy's room, after staying there for five months, without any advance notice to either me or Jeremy. We didn't know there was any sort of problem but apparently we didn't deserve to be told what it was.

Yes, I technically have a place to live, but I'm not quite sure how I'm to call it home, and in the meantime I have no cash and I've got to get myself some soap and shampoo and toothpaste because I haven't used my own bathroom since September.

I should also like to note for the record that Tim has an endearing assholic facade but it's rather unclear if he's really an asshole or just acting for our amusement.

Quote of the Day:

"I only ever knew one guy who died. I had this friend who died, who ran across the street to buy some cigarettes and got hit by a car. I was like, 'Idiot! Everyone knows that cigarettes kill you!' "

On Sunday, we went to the Olive Garden with Jeremy, Jose, Kay, and Eric Numberless, Jose's tagalong friend. Kay says that the food isn't authentically Italian but nonetheless I thought it was good, which just shows that I really don't care about authenticity.

I also like General Tso's chicken.

Statement!

Watched our production of The Bald Soprano on Friday, an absurdist play by Ionesco, the same guy who wrote Rhinoceros. All the usual absurdist themes; the failure of logical deduction, the failure of language as a form of communication, failure of the ability of names as a form of identitym, people lack purpose and are alienated and don't really know each other, etc. Unlike Rosencranz and Guildenstern Are Dead, it was actually funny (or better performed at any rate). However, I find it kind of amusing that absurdist plays have a standardized set of themes in the first place.