All entries for Sunday 27 March 2005

I think I may actually be losing it

So I tried. I sat down with my essay plan, and I tried. I thought, how about some stream of consciousness stuff, just to get me flowing. Just to start me writing something, anything. Who knows, with all my notes and research in front of me, it may even be good.

Ahem. Or not. All it seems to have done is prove I'm finally on my way to insanity…

How is the city (and/or the country) represented in the European novel? Is the setting crucial to events and characterisation? (5000 words)

The notion of the city in Victorian literature was an interesting and complex one. The Victorian city was bloody marvellous. It was like – woo – amazing. And this essay is going to be amazing too – I mean, woo. How can it not be, quite honestly, I mean, I’m planning the bloody thing and I have all these little pieces of colour coded paper so I can’t go wrong. Come on, woo indeed. La la la. Like Kylie. I could even do a little dance. Watch me dance. Isn’t it great? Who needs critical opinion when you can just watch me dance in a swishy swishy skirt. I can jump up and down too, and twirl. Ooh look, I’m twirling, twirly twirly twirl. Like chocolate. Sweet like chocolate. Ooh, you give me so much joy. Sweet like chocolate boooy. God, how can this only be 139 words? I feel as if I have been writing this for all eternity and then some. Maybe this is enough. Can I stop now? I need tea. Tea and biscuits and someone nice to bring them to me. That rhymed. That amuses me. Is that sad? Yes, so sad I might cry, only then my makeup would run, and now that would be a pity.

Oh dear, Lizzie. Surely you can’t be this desperate to not write this essay. Hmm, it would appear that I am. Oh dear indeed. Maybe… No, I don’t know. Forget it. Raaaaaaaaaaaaar work! Come on! Get on with it girl! Write the damn essay! Maybe I should start again. Probably a good idea. Considering. I don’t think old Pablo will appreciate this, seeing as he has no sense of humour apparent. Like the heir apparent, but less crowns and stuff. And no waving. Definitely no waving.

I’ve always thought the royal wave was a bit silly. I mean, if you’re going to wave at least look a bit enthusiastic about it. I’d rather not be waved at if all the person was going to do was limply circle their hand from behind plate glass. Bit crap, to be honest. Bit of a disappointment. Luckily, I’m cynical anyway, so these sorts of things don’t get to me. Does this bit count as social-historical content, do you think? Because it’s that or literary theory, and to be honest with you literary theory’s a bit pants and I really can’t be bothered with it. Leave it to Bennett and Royle. Ol’ Tin Foil, as they’re affectionately known. Affectionately being a relative term, you understand. Having said that, they were quite useful last week. I said to them, you’ve got to earn your keep around here. I said, this isn’t good enough. Said I, this can’t go on. You’re malingering, that’s what. Hanging around on my bookshelf for a year and a half, giving cryptic hints and smiling smugly in your glossy cover. It can’t, I told them. Show me what you’ve got.

And then they took me by the hand, and led me through their essentialist mirror that represents the self and the world and I and place and the female form and nature and God and the whole of existence (possibly), and showed me all of this and this again, and did not offer me any conclusion but left me there to ramble unaided, and then I sat down and wrote my essay, and gave them a mention on the front page. Absent friends, I think is how I phrased it, because although the book was there they had floated off. I think they might have said their work was done. Watching the movie, the world’s gonna end, and there ain’t no place for a boy and his friend-

-To go. They’re gone now. It’s just me and the yellow wallpaper. (I chose it though, so I can’t use it as a tool of oppression.) I like yellow. It’s sunny and happy, even when the sun isn’t shining. Like now. Efil’s God is dog’s life backward. I never realised that. I just thought the Eels had got all religious cult-esque on me. It’s a bit of a relief. Also a good song. Efil. Ethel addressed by a five year old. ‘Auntie Ehhhfil?’ Piss off you little bugger. Auntie’s a mad bitter old woman with far too many cats. Hates children. If witches existed, she’d be one. 741 words. Wow. Funny what happens in the name of procrastination.

: 27 Mar 2005 18:45 |  Tags: Course Related Gubbins Whoops |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem