bad day, shit in need of burning
Saturday October 30th 2010, 6:29 pm
Filed under: fear,Work Tags:

Don’t really have time for em, so today’s shite day, brought to you by the letters QQ and the number of days I don’t have left, feels like a spectacularly shite day. Thursday’s inspiration on how to finish the chapter helped me make the transition from part 1 to, well, the chapter, but leaves me cold as far as actually finishing the chapter. An inspired transition to nowhere, really, suggesting I should be a politician in Alaska. Friday’s inspiring lecture (one student emailed me to thank me; one of my grad students emailed me to tell me how inspired the students were, etc.) fucking useless in the face of an undone chapter, and unwritten pages. The chapter that was supposed to be done by tomorrow, and won’t be (maybe just under 2/3 complete), and so November will be a month of doubling up, of polishing the shit out of everything else while still trying to add shit to the end of the chapter of shit (which was a different chapter, but has now officially shifted) and sorting out shit more generally, plus writing shit to append to beginning and end, plus summarizing the shit so that I can sell this shit. Well, shit. This shit might not end well. Or it might. Shit. Perhaps I should try burning it. “He burned the shit at both ends during that last month,” they’ll say. Or, not. Shit.

the final countdown, again
Monday October 25th 2010, 11:00 pm
Filed under: Boozy,tired,Work Tags:

Seems like I’ve done this, here, before. The interface was different (the “L” key fucking worked), the year was 2004, the month September, but I’ve done this, here before. But not. The book is, 6 years later, so much better. I thought the thesis was, but, well, fuck it, it wasn’t. I imagine the book isn’t, really, either, but it only has to be good enough. Good enough to make it worth going gray, the alcoholism, the giving up of all music for the last year+, the giving up of interests beyond self-preservation, the guilt, the guilt, the guilt, and the guilt. I want to be interested in things again, rather than weighing that which catches my eye against what its cost for getting it done might be. I’m out of time, really, 10 days to finish a draft of the body, a month to finish edits to the entire body, plus intro, conclusion, and prospectus for good measure. Fact check quote check translations transcriptions and in the post (proverbially, I would presume, but maybe not) for mid-December for meetings at MHelLA and a restart of the clock for the next phase of operation oh-god-please-don’t-fire-me. It all draws to an end, again, but without feeling as if it’s an end. Last time first and second prize was leaving the UK. This time, first prize is not leaving HelLA, but being where I want to be and who I want to be and doing what I always said I would. Yet, I feel I haven’t won at all? Not true. I definitely feel as if I’ve won. I’m just not sure I meant it in the first place. An email to a student today, who put in for an award s/he’ll never receive, despite my lyrical letter in his/her support. My advice? It’s gonna hurt when you don’t get it, but that’s the point of jumping, it’s only meaningful for having jumped at all. And thus I counsel the next generation into the sick, sick dysfunction of the celebration of suffering that is this this. The highs are low, the lows are lower, but the cultural cred. is unbeatable. Almost 400 words, this. Two pages of double-spaced prose that aren’t the book, that last glass of wine that’s not going to make tomorrow any easier, music that reminds me that it hurts enough to remind me there’s no hurting in baseball, no complaining in the endgame I’ve chosen, season two Buffy episodes that remind me that I’m not 17, or 24, or even close, any more. Seven and a half years of TPT down the left margin, and I wasn’t young when it started. 7 years ago I was trying to get out of CA and back to the UK, trying to get out of a relationship that defined me, that meant more than words could mean, that always will but never could be. Now, I’m in CA, wondering if it’s worth trying to get back to the UK, in a relationship I don’t want to get out of, worth more than words can mean, that always will be and never need not be. Maybe I should have moved in with the 33-year-old lawyer and the 69-year-old poet. It would have been an adventure, and god knows those have been thin on the ground of late. “Until it’s done,” I keep telling myself, “when it’s done.” Skoro.

i forget
Wednesday October 20th 2010, 10:45 pm
Filed under: Miscellaneous, Truly Tags: ,

i forget your name, woman/girl who lived in my first year dorm before moving to cloyne. woman/girl with freckles and impossibly vibrant eyes, whose mother smuggled dope in your teddy bear when you were young. cheap beers and dirty punks and that boulder in north berkeley, a sunset, a spot later visited with a video game playing republicanish political science major, jew, hairy, who published a mediocre piece of mine for the undergraduate law review, despite the piece’s evident ignorances and flaws. but dead can dance plays, and you and your freckles and your eyes come pressingly, urgently to mind just not your name. oh, wait. jessica. there it is. jessica.