I can't get my window to close and my right hand is chilly. Chilly, I tell you!
I haven't done any work since the end of the fabled 24-hour megapaper (which I'm sure was a piece of shit, now that I think about it). Well, that's not true. I've written like eighteen crazy haiku (haikus?) since then and edited a few poems and written a new one and tried to puzzle out my portfolio and had an advising appointment and two classes and watched "the guys" play chess for about two hours. But I haven't done any of the Absolutely Urgent things. Nor have I done any of the things that I Don't Want To Do. Which basically are Write Another Essay and Write Yet Another Essay.
I don't know why I'm giving everything such lame capitalized titles all of a sudden. I guess I'm just weird.
So about watching "the guys" play chess for a couple of hours. After my poetry class the girls decided to go shopping downtown, and the boys decided to sit out on the patio which looks out onto one of York's main thoroughfares and stare at the babes, who, presumably, would be showing a lot of skin. I had to go to class to hand in my paper, so I told the boys I would join them afterwards (short class). I show up after class with a headache. Sometimes seminar classes can be horrifyingly boring. Especially if no one has signed up to do a presentation on the author we're studying, half the students are absent, and no one can figure out what the hell Ken Babstock is getting at. (My take on it? He's a kwazy Newfoundlander. :D But anyway.) I show up, and the boys are inside playing chess. It got cold, they say. So I sit with them and geek out for a few hours. They seem genuinely glad to see me, which is unsettling. I don't know what's wrong with me lately, but I don't feel very wanted. I feel like when I talk to people I'm actually fighting my way through to them. Through what, I don't know.
But the boys seem to like me. They beg me to play chess but I just won't. I won't and I won't, though probably next week when we all get really drunk I will. But for now I won't. I had some poutine (which I got a surprisingly small amount of mockery for from Kevin, who's French and had perfect license to make fun of me) and shared some onion rings with Jon. It was nice, although I didn't say much. Sometimes I feel like I might squeak if I open my mouth to talk, like a mouse.
Posted by hKath at 11:26 PM ()
Wednesday, March 26
I just posted... well, it's either three new poems, or 21, depending on how you're counting the collection of parodic haiku I just wrote. Go check them out :)
Posted by hKath at 11:56 PM ()
I'm done. Well, kind of done. Well, done. My conclusion is a little pathetic, but hey, it's a 24-hour essay, people. Now I have to decide between seeing my friend Anya's punk band at Rancho Relaxo, or staying home and making *that* the Rancho Relaxo, so to speak. I'm not sure yet what I'm going to do, but I better decide quick, cause the show supposedly starts at eight. Although, I find that hard to believe. It would be so nice to show up there and for there to be 6 or 7 people I know and like, and if Priscila came the way she said she wanted to, that would be wonderful. But if it's just me watching Anya, with no one else there that I know, that would be weird, weird, weird. I guess me going is dependent on how well I think my friends are handling their own final essays. As for me, I'm home free, baby.
Well, on this one, anyway.
Posted by hKath at 7:08 PM ()
3,246... it's almost time to wind this bitch to a slow close.
Posted by hKath at 3:43 PM ()
Only 1,198 words to go... I'm sure you're sick of hearing that by now.
Posted by hKath at 2:50 PM ()
1,989! Half done!
Posted by hKath at 11:45 AM ()
eeee... 1,496. Tonight's very boring show entitled "Kath Types a Lot" is winding to a close. Oh, well. Only 2,504 words to go. And you know, I won't cry if I come up a little short, although honestly with the arguments I have left for tomorrow, I really shouldn't be short unless I somehow manage to chop off both my hands and go temporarily blind. Ah. My essay on "The Glass Essay". This one is going to go down in history, people.
A status report mostly for myself: I've so far explored the tension between lyric and narrative engines in the poem, and the effect of layered narratives on the way the story is experienced. I've given my take on the outcome of the 39-page monster. Tomorrow, I have to talk about the post-colonial elements and superimposition of a British landsape onto a Canadian landscape in the way it relates to colonialism, and also tie in the way the poem presents sex as a dehumanizing, colonizing experience. I also have to go into some detail about the history and themes of the long poem, and make the distinction between the sequence and the long poem.
That previous paragraph was brought to you by Katherine's Brain, who likes to think these arguments up while Katherine's head is in the fridge looking for the marmalade, but who always seems to forget them when she's sitting in front of the computer typing out a memo to herself that starts "don't forget to mention..."
Arg. Stupid brain. I'd get it fixed, but I don't think it'd do any good. It likes its testicles too much, anyway.
Posted by hKath at 12:50 AM ()
Tuesday, March 25
(columbus is sailing the ocean blue!)
Posted by hKath at 10:55 PM ()
So, it turns out that the essay I was panicking about? The 4,000 word one? It's not due next Thursday... it's due this Thursday.
I'm in trouble. But I have written some. Only 3,594 words to go!
Posted by hKath at 7:01 PM ()
Sunday, March 23
It's been six days since anyone commented on my blog. Sad sad sad. I hate you all all all.
So I'm trying to do research for this massive paper I'm supposed to be writing. And I got this book called "Aesthetics of Modernism". I figured there was a good chance it was about Modernism. I don't know why I figured that.
I've gotten to the fourth chapter (page 70 or so) and the book has still not mentioned Modernism, although there was a chapter called "Modernism", which consisted of an excruciatingly vague history of philosophy from Plato up.
Luckily, there seems to be a chapter near the end about TS Eliot. I'm betting that one will mention Modernism, somehow.
I finally called my mom in the hospital. She seems to be doing well. I got my aunt on the first try and thought it was my mom, they both sound so similar. I miss my aunt. It's close to being time to go home for the holidays. Except for me, my holidays are going to be on completely random days that I pick. But still.
Posted by hKath at 12:18 PM ()