Summer fever
Yeah, I cannot wait for the summer to get here. I mean, by the year's cycle it is summertime but I'm not at summer liberty for another week and three days. Only three exams left, two psychology and one ballet, and I'm FREEEEEE. I was going to write 'fuhreeee' but that looks a little like Fuhrer and we all know what happens when people call themselves that.
My last two English exams were grand. The Hero/Romanticism and Revolution went well; the questions on Paradise Lost and Tristram Shandy left plenty of scope for me to show off my secondary study, ooh yeah. The week before Easter there were about 25-30 people in Prof. Campbell-Ross's lecture so he said he'd give us a hand with the exams - 'Hegelian bourgeois epic'. There was no direct question on it, that would be unfair, but I brought it into my answer on darling Tristram. The answer on John Clare was alright, I was a bit tired by the time I got around to it though. Writing Ireland/Literature and Sexualities was today. My answer on "The Fox" meandered like a mofo, and the questions on "The Great Hunger" and The Last September were quite broad and left scope for a lot of discussion, but not much originality. It was hard to bring stuff up that hadn't been mentioned in Delaney's lectures. It wasn't a bad exam, by all accounts it actually went well, but I think the preceeding two went better.
Ignore the camera time, there is no way that was taken at 1.30 in the afternoon.
I really like that photo from last summer because of the memories it entails. It was taken in Seán Ó Dea's house around the end of the summer, UCD and Aisling's Mad Montessori Teacher Training Den (tm) had just started and Trinity would soon. Parties in Seán's were amazing, not because they were wild or crowded or because anything epic happened, but because they just seemed to epitomise sixth year (and its end). Now he spends his weekends in Cavan so we can't crash his gaff. Tear. These things happen, we move on.
I've forced myself recently to write shite in the paper journal Jason gave me as a Christmas present every day. Even if it's just "too tired to write, fuck off journal, I don't love you anymore". I don't even write accounts of my day, just little incidental thoughts and ideas and poem fragments. I find with exams and study I don't have much creative time or energy so I'm using the journal to document ideas I could develop later. And because it's fun to write lists and character sketches and rhyming couplets.
My last two English exams were grand. The Hero/Romanticism and Revolution went well; the questions on Paradise Lost and Tristram Shandy left plenty of scope for me to show off my secondary study, ooh yeah. The week before Easter there were about 25-30 people in Prof. Campbell-Ross's lecture so he said he'd give us a hand with the exams - 'Hegelian bourgeois epic'. There was no direct question on it, that would be unfair, but I brought it into my answer on darling Tristram. The answer on John Clare was alright, I was a bit tired by the time I got around to it though. Writing Ireland/Literature and Sexualities was today. My answer on "The Fox" meandered like a mofo, and the questions on "The Great Hunger" and The Last September were quite broad and left scope for a lot of discussion, but not much originality. It was hard to bring stuff up that hadn't been mentioned in Delaney's lectures. It wasn't a bad exam, by all accounts it actually went well, but I think the preceeding two went better.
Ignore the camera time, there is no way that was taken at 1.30 in the afternoon.
I really like that photo from last summer because of the memories it entails. It was taken in Seán Ó Dea's house around the end of the summer, UCD and Aisling's Mad Montessori Teacher Training Den (tm) had just started and Trinity would soon. Parties in Seán's were amazing, not because they were wild or crowded or because anything epic happened, but because they just seemed to epitomise sixth year (and its end). Now he spends his weekends in Cavan so we can't crash his gaff. Tear. These things happen, we move on.
I've forced myself recently to write shite in the paper journal Jason gave me as a Christmas present every day. Even if it's just "too tired to write, fuck off journal, I don't love you anymore". I don't even write accounts of my day, just little incidental thoughts and ideas and poem fragments. I find with exams and study I don't have much creative time or energy so I'm using the journal to document ideas I could develop later. And because it's fun to write lists and character sketches and rhyming couplets.