I do very little and there isn’t enough hours in the day for it. I work part-time, research even less, I pub quiz once a week, visit a girl I like occasionally and recently did see some of my other friends, if by accident. I get between 5 and 6 hours sleep, read the Sunday Papers but rarely get through more than a clue or two of the cryptic, and write increasingly dull lists. I used to create, I tell myself, although how productive I ever was is a debate not worth having. I interrupt anything I start, and rarely finish, and decide to sack off this increasingly narcissistic attempt to capture life as (what will eventually be performative) researcher and instead indulge in a even less productive creative something…
[some time later]
A Fragment (consider revising)
(having no the due respect for and being a horrific corruption of A Fragment by G. G. Byron)
Tomorrow, maybe yesterday, to their gaseous disapproval, the song of my fore
far- crying for my liquor, merry in their cup of tea;
Yesterday, maybe tomorrow, imperturbable in eye of tornado, the shape of me glides,
Or, pitch in missed, down and down the mountain slides;
O! mark my adumbration, behold ashes blown to stained glass,
illuminating every where entropy to entropy returns!
No The Greater American, no gospel-stunted high;
Mark no monument but have a child draw my name in dirt:
If that with honey fail to preserve my mind,
O! mark no other musical transaction cost!
In order that, only that certain spot lights up I, blemish;
By, in order, that misremembered, only that, may be forgot.
Still a writer is always working, life is material and it might as well all come good in the end. For those that are interested I have recently also taken up the Cornell method for note-taking because the thesis whisperer told me to and switched to Zotero as my citation software of choice as it’s free, it can be used to add references to Scrivener and because it will help me keep an annotated bibliography. I have also now definitely read more about the fragmentary imperative in 18th century poetry than I’ve read 18th century poems.
Until we do not meet again… x