prevarication #9
For what seems like the twelve-hundredth time I find myself entranced by a half-filled screen, containing, currently, all the possible permutations of a conference-paper proposal. Three hundred words, this time, of which I have at the present moment exactly... 383. Not only is this clearly in excess of the allowance, but I judge approximately 160 of them to be superfluous. Almost certainly, it is impolite to dismiss previous criticism of the subject as "focussed overwhelmingly on thematic criticism to the detriment of individual text-analysis", even though this may be true. The phrase "fate-laden quasi-divine virago" has also crept in, which I suspect is similarly imprudent (this was part of the above dismissal of previous criticism and is emphatically not a feature of my own proposal, but still). If I am accepted (d.v.) it will be the fourth of this year, and the most significant to date - all dependent, of course, on the damn thing being finished before my keyboard turns to butter and my hands sink beneath waves of dairy. Or I decide to switch careers, and compose a symphony with the above title (tho' I suspect John Cage to have got there before me).
This week also contains a somewhat horrifying list of teaching, marking, rehearsing and performing (this time for a party of jovial birthday-party attendees), as well as continuing to puzzle out the current chapter. Drowning in dairy, not to mention ice-cream or soya-friendly equivalent, seems rather attractive, and will almost certainly be more so before friday (there is also a quasi-social occasion to be managed, being a gathering for the tenth anniversary of the establishing of my current department in its present location - a notice has been posted asking for the donation of 'impossibly green food', which I take to be a reference to its equal billing as a St Patrick's Day hootenanny. Hopefully - otherwise, I could be forced to report next week on the aftermath of an imitation Deathday party).
I went to Alnwick on wednesday and found a silver heart upon its market cross. Also, it was (tentatively) proven that wishing aloud does not work, not even beside the fountain of St Michael.
This week also contains a somewhat horrifying list of teaching, marking, rehearsing and performing (this time for a party of jovial birthday-party attendees), as well as continuing to puzzle out the current chapter. Drowning in dairy, not to mention ice-cream or soya-friendly equivalent, seems rather attractive, and will almost certainly be more so before friday (there is also a quasi-social occasion to be managed, being a gathering for the tenth anniversary of the establishing of my current department in its present location - a notice has been posted asking for the donation of 'impossibly green food', which I take to be a reference to its equal billing as a St Patrick's Day hootenanny. Hopefully - otherwise, I could be forced to report next week on the aftermath of an imitation Deathday party).
I went to Alnwick on wednesday and found a silver heart upon its market cross. Also, it was (tentatively) proven that wishing aloud does not work, not even beside the fountain of St Michael.