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radfrac_archive_fullThe 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.
I went to a concert a few weeks ago, the first concert I'd been to in a long time other than intimate coffeehouses for talented friends. The Handsome Furs it was, and they were, both in appearance and in composition.
The show though did not start until about 9:30. This would have been all right had I not arrived at 8:30 to secure one of the three tiny tables Lucky Bar provides. Once the first band had played, there was a good half-hour pause of no particular activity. Then the next band came on. "Hang on," I said to me, "This is a stageful of blokes, and not the handsome couple I had been expecting."
Three bloody bands. They must not have got onstage until midnight. This is perfectly all right for the Youth, but I am a craggy 33-year-old with a job and a complicated debt to be paid to Wm. Shakespeare.
The music was not bad, though there were only a couple of moments that made me grin madly, which is my usual standard for gigs. The Furs made well-crafted sounds, but they were not really jump-up-and-down-sounds.
While I was waiting, with waxing and waning misery, for the music to start or end, as may be, I found myself writing an essay. A remarkably coherently formulated essay, given the context. All about desire, theatre, and how, of course, everyone is really queer. I was excited about this for days, until I realized that there was no way to make it work for my actual assignment.
Since I could not use it for class, I don't see why I shouldn't lump it onto you instead. A sllllightly maddening search for the backup CD proving (ahem) fruitless, let us convene tomorrow.
{rf}
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.
I went to a concert a few weeks ago, the first concert I'd been to in a long time other than intimate coffeehouses for talented friends. The Handsome Furs it was, and they were, both in appearance and in composition.
The show though did not start until about 9:30. This would have been all right had I not arrived at 8:30 to secure one of the three tiny tables Lucky Bar provides. Once the first band had played, there was a good half-hour pause of no particular activity. Then the next band came on. "Hang on," I said to me, "This is a stageful of blokes, and not the handsome couple I had been expecting."
Three bloody bands. They must not have got onstage until midnight. This is perfectly all right for the Youth, but I am a craggy 33-year-old with a job and a complicated debt to be paid to Wm. Shakespeare.
The music was not bad, though there were only a couple of moments that made me grin madly, which is my usual standard for gigs. The Furs made well-crafted sounds, but they were not really jump-up-and-down-sounds.
While I was waiting, with waxing and waning misery, for the music to start or end, as may be, I found myself writing an essay. A remarkably coherently formulated essay, given the context. All about desire, theatre, and how, of course, everyone is really queer. I was excited about this for days, until I realized that there was no way to make it work for my actual assignment.
Since I could not use it for class, I don't see why I shouldn't lump it onto you instead. A sllllightly maddening search for the backup CD proving (ahem) fruitless, let us convene tomorrow.
{rf}
