Purge Please

Photo by CowGummy

Starting a new (ethnographic) chapter involves conjuring - it requires faith, intense channeling, intuition, and magic.

Here are some thoughts that are pawing me like a cheeky cat, blocking my ability to summon this little bastard chapter forth:

1. I am in a room by myself. I need attention. Who wants to play? Writing my chapter or clicking Firefox logo...empty page or sleepy fox?

2. I wrote an email to a Professor whose article I used in my last chapter telling him how brilliant it was. He said it made his day. Glad to have brought some generosity and positivity to the academic world...But will I continue to do so once I take a sip from the glory cup? Mwahaha!

3. My best eggs are going each month or thereabouts. Babies have recently become appealing and cute instead of strange and boring. But the problem is: I don't want to keep one. Have I mentioned my velcro wall on which I hope to stick any future kiddies?

4. Love...marriage...the usuals. Can I be bothered?

5. Extrinisic versus intrinsic rewards...another regular in the pub of my mind. What a liberty!

6. I have specialised too much. I know beaucoup about the legal profession of England and Wales, a bit about law, some neat theories from Sociology, Philosophy and Education, a tad from Anthropology, I have a smattering of History (Europe 'between the Wars', American, Australian, Art), I can tell you about UK Higher Education policy, how not to make a short film, but then nothing else. I am still not over the grandiose desire of my teens to know a little bit about everything, even just a bit more science and politics...and that damned Russian literature. Got to get back to that. I'm a lightweight who will never be great at anything. I can barely get my head around Microsoft Word.

Dangling carrots

I have just recovered from having a draft chapter (that will hopefully serve as a conference paper, or perhaps it's the other way round...) knee-capped by my supervisor. Her criticisms were almost all valid (per ugge), but it's the old 50s-style no positive feedback or simple 'you can do it' encouragement which, made me, already tired and vulnerable, feel so punished.

I have this dreadful sense that I will, on some level, feel tired, defensive and inadequate until I submit (Kate???).

When you're in write-up mode, small escapes count, like yesterday when I rode up from my Department to Summertown, North Oxford. It was thrilling.

Here are a few carrots that I am dangling from a stick attached to my head:


1) The 12 October release of the Cohen Brothers movie, Burn After Reading. I am certain my cousin, cinemaphile Alice, will provide a deft analysis (hint hint!) on her blog. I saw the preview a couple of weeks ago and it made me feel uncomfortable excited, as if small stars were being drilled into my stomach. The cast alone makes you froth, right?



2) Seeing Frankie Boyle, the acerbic, outrageous Scottish comedian in early October. I just found this YouTube tribute to him. (Be warned. It contains a lot of slut jokes which makes him seem misogynistic instead of what he is: dark about everything.) Later that month, I am seeing Russell Howard, the little Brighton-born cutie who is less stinging than Frankie but no less witty. Click here for his YouTube salute. They're both regulars on an excellent television show I try to catch: Mock the Week, a satirical comedy based on the week's news.


3) Receiving used books from the exchange system, BookMooch. I have the black heart of an idealist - I can't quite believe that people are so honourable. Three goodies to....walk into my arms soon. I will let you know when they arrive.

Meet you at the bonfire?

I have spent most of the last few weeks in a manky, mismatched tracksuit. I would like to think I look like the cutie (Alexa Cheung) below, but I rarely have a lollipop by my computer and my hoodies are for boys.
When you're a student it's easy to continue to dress like a teenager. Every year I tell myself that I will dress my age, more like these pretties:





I have decided that the end of my thesis means goodnight to my grotty teenager wardrobe. Who wants to come to my thesis submission party and burn tracksuits, and 1991 conference and heavy metal band t-shirts with me?