radfrac_archive_full: (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] argus_in_tights wrote a delightful email to say he'd seen Nobody's Father on the ferry and read my essay in the gift shop. I'd forgotten people might actually see the book in stores.

There's something perfect about the book being on the ferry, since the ferry (or at least the lineup) is in the essay.

He called himself a "word thief" because he read the book in the shop instead of buying it. Being sneaky about books is a part of loving them. Reading is private, and reading in public is just slightly perverse.

As the ex-co-con discovered while reading the new Maupin, also on the ferry.

{rf}

to do

Sep. 15th, 2008 05:05 pm
radfrac_archive_full: (Harold Ross of the New Yorker)

  • Create plausible graduate paper topic to present to dept head (Due THURSDAY) - for bonus points invoke Foucault

  • Research & write paper on... something to do with post-war British youth culture (due Oct uh 9?)

  • Research & write presentation on semiotics of punk (Due Nov uh 3?)

  • Write SSRHC application (Due Nov 6)

  • Convince 2 professors to support SSHRC presentation

  • Write grad school application(s) (Due Jan 15)

  • Convince 3 professors to support grad application(s)

  • Drop dead of brain fag



{rf}
radfrac_archive_full: (And you wonder...)
The restless emptiness of a school night. I can't settle to anything. Can't concentrate on a movie. Sat down to write and couldn't conceive that any words might ever have come out of me and into that bland funnel of screen. I copied out some notes I'd made from the books GMRB! Prof loaned me. I studied these heavily in my desperation to make a queer reading of "A Midsummer Night's Dream". I even read over my class notes in a perfunctory way, which I can't remember ever having done in my life.

I glanced at my essay to get the bibliographical reference for one of the books (I like to put these at the top of my notes files so that I can return the book and keep the reference) and discovered a COMMA SPLICE in the last paragraph of my essay.

You cannot conceive. I knew I was tired, but it's like forgetting my own name. Any error but this. It's as though I stapled a cockroach to my paper. To my TONGUE. I feel ill.

Remembered just in time that dancing about au lunatic tends to help the mood fairies locate one, so I danced about a bit to the merrie tunes of the CBC podcast, and indeed was refreshed. And of course there is my maxim: If you can't do anything else, you can probably do the dishes.

So I have filled up the sink with hot soapy water, and am posting to Livejournal.

In which our hero is inspired, though to no immediately productive end )

{rf}

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