In this time of trial, i find myself capitulating to every bizarre whim that doesn't compromise my study. I get very pernickety over the thickness of the paper i'm writing on, the colour and inkiness of the pens i'm using. It's this OCD fear that emerges during these times, where i get paranoid that if everything isn't just right, I won't, well, trust whatever it is i'm scribbling down. I'd instead get distracted by the unsuitableness of some trivial detail, and hence deflate the effectiveness of revision. So i give in to these weaknesses- perhaps also in compensation for the many other vices which i usually indulge that i am struggling to abstain from, i.e. staring into space for about half an hour a sponge for Crowded House, examining my finger nails, pondering what awaits me on the Other Side...of exams, not life that is.

Unfortunately, the TV in the lounge still manages to exert its gravity over me in the evenings.
Sunday: The Bourne Ultimatum
Monday: Good News Week
Tuesday: 20 to 1: Pranks and Practical Jokes

Eeeeuuughurgleurglesputsput

Trudges off dejectedly, arms trailing along the floor after her consiousness slaps her on the face to [quote] 'get a bloody move on'.

I find it rather provoking how nature can never let you down. Like the paragon student shining brightly in the face of all its struggling, sweating peers, there is not one occasion when it underwhelms. Oh, fine, just be perfect. Make me regret missing one second of you.
Annoying prat. Just lather me in your smugness why don't you?

Because it was a beautiful day today; just on the fragrant, fertile, fecund edge of Spring, the very cusp. And I holed myself in my room like a snivelling trogolodite. Not even for a good reason either. I was merely feeling sorry for myself, having had a day...a day...a day i don't want to talk about.

Well anyway, I did venture out at 5:30 for a walk (after much cajoling of my will) and the dusk just sunk into my bones. It's amazing how, well, one continues to be amazed at the elongated evening shadows, the whorls and patterns on trees, the intricacy of flowers and leaves.

This is no expression in pride in posting this literary revision, because there is only me here (and for some reason blogging is an environment where i will willingly write, whereas the cold MS word page repulses me). And if anyone is here, sod off, this is my territory (despite being theoretically a public domain).

Prufrock is the prototype of the modern man subject to the weighty predicaments manifest in contemporary urban existence. The first line sets up reader expectations of a journey and the ultimate attainment of an original purpose. By the end of this poem, this expectation is devestatingly left unfulfilled. Acutely aware of his impotency in a superficial and judgemental world, he stagnates upon his intention, probing his very motives for action and finding them weak and not even wholly of his own architecture.
The theme of artifice involved in everyday being is augured at the beginning of the poem in the fractured identity implicit in 'you and I'; half being the inert, sensitive psyche and the other constituting the pseudo personality or facade. Self is arrogated by culture, context and company; pre-determined by others through simplistic denomination. One is hence compelled to defer to that narrowly defined definition or "formulated phrase" to honour expectations and keep in line with inextricable social doctrine. Prufrock's cruel enlightenment to the fact his capacity to exist as an autonomous agent is inevitably curtailed is the source of his indecision to commit to any course of action. He senses the futility of embarking on the making of resolve; unable to invest his faith in anything, repeating the rhetorical question- "but would it have been worth it, after all?". With anguished honesty he remarks "in short, i was afraid". Fearful to follow through with his engagement to any kind of relationship and the destruction of his delusion that has manifested in his being so long for it to be shattered would be tantamount to the negation of self. He hence opts with despairing resignation to relinquish his quest for love and fruitfulness to preserve and safeguard his pride against a hollow society. In a somewhat disdainful tone he states he has 'known [women] known them all', characterising them in metonymic terms as 'eyes' or 'arms'; or pluralised, as in 'the women come and go'. This expansive generalisation signifies that Prufrock is not only a victim of society, but a representative of an impersonal social mentality that his sensibility is so inflicted by.

Styled as an intimate dramatic monologue, Prufrock remarks drily upon his superficial surroundings and inadequate self with a self-deprecating, ironic tone. The juxtaposition of issues of great gravity and trivialities (reinforced by child-like, buoyant rhyme) causes a descent into bathos. Abrupt anti-climaxes, such as from "be time for a hundred visions and revisions/before the taking of toast and tea" mockingly point towards the absurd proximity between the profound and the trite. They act also as a cynical tool examining Prufrock's individual paralysis and shortcomings. "Oh do not ask what is it" he says of the aforementioned "overwhelming question", "let us go and make our visit". He pointedly evades being pressed to articulate this question for the very reason that he cannot. Miserably he struggles to define meaning behind his mundane existence, but is unable to source any, and soon becomes overwhelmed by the ugliness of the urban civilisation to which he belongs. His mindset is mirrored in the description of the city surroundings; "the yellow fog which rubs its back against the window panes" is personified as cat-like and insidious; a claustrophobic presence.

Ultimately, Prufrock consigns himself to his fate in terms of sub-human alienation and withdrawal- "I shoud have been a pair of ragged claws/scuttling across the floors of silent seas." Despite being a highly cultivated and imaginative man, he cannot make the transition from potentonal into actual. Unlike the Hamlet he alludes to, he was not 'meant to be'; there need not be a dramatic culmination or finale; an eventual termination to procastination. His is a minor role in life; "deferential, glad to be of use, an easy tool...almost, at times, the Fool".

I is off now.

Once again, dear blog, i turn to you from my hollowed out, gloopy pit of despair for want of a better thing to do.
No, erase that, that's absolute poppycock. There are a quadmillion better things i could be doing right now. I could take the course of pleasure, and indulge in a little chapter of Hitchhiker's GUide to the Galaxy. I could paddle in the stimulating absurd and reconstruct the taj mahal entirely from disembowelled tissue boxes. I could- (although i would have to ruminate for at least half an hour on whether it was or wasn't beyond me)- resign myself to the absolutely essential and study for the 6 tests lurking about the corner of the weekend.

It's a very deceitful word, weekend. A weekend may begin when the week ends, but it then heralds the new week's start as well.

But the thing is, i just cannot contemplate for a milisecond the very idea of expending a fraction of my pitiful energy supply towards doing something remotely constructive. A resounding chorus of groans just strike up from my numerous personalities as soon as i brush against the periphery of the concept.

And so i tottered down this bloggy path (which has become rather overgrown and weed-strangled by now); and have hence proceeded my effusion of purposeless, dry, procrastination-borne self-pity.

Like old times.

Anyway, at the moment i am studying TS Eliot. The transmission of meaning (whatever that means) from this particular faculty of literature usually has the habit of oozing in in clumped molasses, and only through the desperately-sourced aid of study guides and teachers comments (although i have to say, they do seem one and the same). Eliot though- the bohemian prince of obscurity and abstruseness- i'm actually sensing something osmosing through! What a glorious, unprecedented sensation!

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

: an extract from The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.
Hah, i started just then to try and explain it. I was managing OK until the second word (the first was 'the'). If you want a worthwhile explanation, look it up yourself you lazy dog. You presume too much of me! Oh! I need to lay down for a while just at the strength of you presumption! someone, bring me a cool peppermint cider, quick! My ears are flapping, my tongue is licking my elbow and my eye is showing me the red gore of the inside of my socket!

*chews a cud moodily*

Do you actually know what a cud is? It's a globule of grass that has been eaten by the cow, passed through several stomachs (i think 2) and then smoothly regurgitated. It's so it can break down the tough cellulose cell wall of the plant (well, actually, so it can allow the cellulase bacteria in its stomach to break it down) and unlock maximum energy from its rather bland herbivore cuisine.
Cow = ruminant
Chew over= ruminate

'MAZING.

I wonder if the word 'amazing' has anything to do with maze.
I wonder where the word word came from.
I where from if do dum do daa do daa.

hurumph.

WISE WORDS:
"Before you criticise someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticise them, you're a mile away and you have their shoes."

What a horrible day. It’s not that anything explosively bad has happened. No angry horde of wasps has chased after me, no part of my house has collapsed on any of my family, I have yet to hurl another faux pas incident into my deepest chasm of memory.

It just seems object in sight is blank and cold, from the plastic bag curled menacingly over the top of the bin to the suffocating clothes packed in the yawning maw of the wardrobe. I don’t exactly know why, but the day just has an unfriendly air to it, a sterile tint that rubs and rasps against my skin and makes your jaw tighten.

It’s not only me either. Mum’s been irritable all day. Right now she’s engaged in a battle of wills with the computer. The computer’s winning, or so I can assume from the furious bellows of its rival.

Ah! Summer! My dearest season. I wish he’d hurry up on his world tour. I suppose he’s got to share the love though...he’s an international friend. Only vampires would make an enemy of him. And of course I have other reasons to wish for his arrival... reasons i don’t care to elaborate on. They pinprick my conscience with reminders of my exorbitant tendency to procrastinate.

I’d go for a walk, but I can’t help but baulk at the frigid air. The birds trill with no avail to draw me out of my heated abode. How to amuse myself? I spread the alternatives out before me. All look equally uninviting. Crosswords? Ugh. I’d feel like a cooped up and unimaginative granny. Art? No. That’ll just be depressing. I’m in no creative mood. Piano? Already have spent half the morning tinkling away. Read? Too passive. Write? Write what? Brace yourself now: homework?
...
Sigh. It’s not exactly appealing, but at least it’ll be the most productive. Hopefully. I fully hope. I am not full of hope.

By the way, i know this sites aesthetic and creative rating would be closer to nil than my skill with a dart, but it's not for want of...wanting.

And i have tried.
It just says (whenever i try to clothe blog in a more suitable skin) something about incompatibility. Yes, i have little intelligence for these sort of things. Oh the shame.
Why are you proud of your outward identity you idiot? i'm trying to reinvent you physically! Be glad you can you be assinine blog!
Ungrateful bastard.

On twitter

All right! I confess! Just don't clap me in irons and send me off to the subterranean sewers to die a putried death!
...
I've signed up to twitter.

Personally, i think it's a ridiculous outlet. So it'll probably grow on me. This microblogging thing.
My signing up wasn't of my own initiative, well, not really. Yes, i'm shifting the blame...onto none other than my idol of idols, Stephen Fry. Behind TIME magazine and Obama, he has the most followers on Twitter. Very technologically savvy that man. Upon learning this, i was intrigued. Surely if such an intellectual is embracing this en masse networking of menial descriptions of the worlds day-to-day activities, there's something more. Something exciting. Something new. Some massive shift in social awareness and thinking impulses implicit.

In my, erm, two days as a user, i have learned a great deal. Or perhaps it is more truthful to say i have been completely bewildered over these couple of days and hence my thought paths have trundled aimlessly in Twitter's direction. It's function, it's usage, it's benefits, it's downsides. Is it normalising personalities in the media limelight? Is it distancing mankind from more worthwile pursuits? Such as living? Why is the focus of technology always staring at a computer screen, a parallel universe, separate from earthly existence?
Predominantly: is it merely a medium for the vain and egocentric? I have no doubt it operates thus for a multitude. Probably me included.

But. But. Can it also be considered a tool for creative expression? The forging and refining of a talent of spewing forth pithy or witty lines.

For example: i am following Bill Bailey (!!)
He has posted today (read from bottom to top)

"RealBillBaileyam now punishing the ironing board for jumping out - have put it in the bath upside down like a drunk horse.

RealBillBaileyfeel slightly foolish now for being scared of ironing board, but it made me jump allright? making some camomile tea to calm down

RealBillBaileyopened the hotel wardrobe and a huge ironing board fell out onto me, like it was attacking me...actually shouted for help"

For all my criticisms of Twitter- how bloody amusing is that? He epitomises someone who isn't wasting the Twitter space, but revelling in its potential to entertain, to stimulate. To be creative. Imaginative. Hilarious.

I don't know. Of course, (as i posted at the start) i have no real right to be a Twitterer. Because my life is composed of me watching bits of fluff drift across airless, stagnant rooms with boring wallpaper on a bed with musty flannel sheets. Blinking stupidly. Scratching my nose from time to time. Stimulating for me is the sound of a toilet flush.
Comparitively anyway.

Well, maybe Twitter is positive, if only for the realisation of how boring i am. Perhaps this will be my final motivation to actually do something with myself.

Wow. I see a blank space before me and my mind somehow simulates it.
It's been a while since i've last posted, and suddenly this fear is gripping my throat, because i find myself scrabbling desperately to locate that elusive identity i lorded over in this cyber realm. It's as if i strode forth into a new epoch of existence and forgot to take a few essential items with me. Like a personality.

Something too much of this.

I'll tell you about my day, because it is a sordid little pleasure of mine to know that i've made another human being comatose.
Well actually, you're in luck. There's nothing much to tell. I woke, spent a couple of hours mooching about, then motivated myself to the next level of reading drowsily, peaked at beginning to write an introduction for my long essay, lost momentum halway through a word, and the rest of the day went downhill from there. Basically, I lapsed into a stupor and consigned myself with dramatic weariness to the pitiability of my being by observing comedians making fools of themselves on youtube.

Humour is such a particular thing. There is no joke, sketch or scenario that packs the paragon comedic punch to titillate the universal side. Call it narrowminded subjectivity, but honestly, the things some people laugh at! Stadiums of people roaring at some feeble pun or impression which would be subject to the most disdainful expression the facial muscles can work if it was spun at any other time than a comedy performance or show. I firmly believe in the theory that half the reason the audience laughs can be sourced from expectation and atmosphere. Well the two depend on each other really; the second is the partial plural of the first, add lighting, add sound, add setting. You can't blame participants pumping themselves up with air before a performance, ready to release the pressured, pre-packed and aimless hilarity, and explode it into a toneless 'haw haw' the air. The attitude: you pay to be amused, and you're damn well going to convince yourself you've had a good time. Eke the performance for all it's worth. Let intelligent sensibility impale itself if it's going to intercept your potential to be entertained.

Following that disparaging critique of the economic-minded or mind-less entertained, i have to put in i do have a great deal of respect for comedians. It doesn't quite have the right timbre, that word, 'respect'. Too serious to attach to such waggish careerists. But just that aptitude, to create laughter as though it was a chemical compound, and they some deviant, insane chemist.

Imagine life without laughter. Not even the occasional snigger eruption. How bleak. How terrifying.

I don't think it's something that defines youth, i won't be ageist. This almost rapacious search for a high. But don't you imagine older generations sampling humour like good cheese?

If only one could learn scholastically because one wanted to. As though it wasn't a grudging action, spoken of with whine or a moan.

It is the night before my first exams (note: plural. Plural! Why do i have to have a double whammy on the first day! Why, why, Whyhyhyhyhyyy was i so idiotic as to not think of at least attempting to relocate one of them until half an hour ago? Help, angels! Make assay!).

As i was saying. It is the night before my first exams. And i am slightly stressed. Not to put too fine a point on it. Becasue if I did, i would have to give you a lengthy description of the whole frantic process of gasping, shrieking into a hole dug in the garden with soil-streaked hands, experiencing an eye muscle tic every 2 seconds, eating a section of my bookcase, poisoning anyone who so much as came within two feet of me, and generally turning into goo.
And that would be just tedious.

Rearranged quotes from the Lord of the Rings i am finding are highly applicable to my present situation:

PIPPIN: Was there any hope Gandalf [some deity in the air] for Frodo and Sam[me]?
GANDALF: There never was much hope. Just a fool's hope.

SOLDIER: Too few [ideas] have come. We cannot defeat the armies of mordor [the tests to come].
THEODEN:No. We cannot. But we will meet them in battle nonetheless.

GIMLI: Certainty of death. Small chance of success. What are we waiting for?

ENTS: It is likely that we will go to our doom.

*hyperventilates*.
*struggles to refrain from swearing on her first post*
*suffocates slowly in a viscious pool of despair, which makes a malicious sucking sound as closes over her head*