Imagine going to a seminar or colloquium or conference in which the questions discussed had some kind of direct relevance or currency in your own life, and put into reflection your relationships with others, and the possibility for destruction in the work that you do.
So sick of feeling an obligation to go to shitty seminars where I feel too awkward to talk to anyone, head of dept and other profs’ passive-aggressive relationships with their students, the cackling sea of white hipster dudes with their stupid backpacks and glasses, the fact that people you’ve met a dozen times will recognise you but purposely ignore your presence, grim self importance, and so on and so on.
I hate my PhD
"Those things once clung to us like our skin, and this is how our property still clings to us today. Nothing of these contains us, and the photograph gathers fragments around a nothing."
If you’re lucky enough not to use the tube in London, you’re lucky. I spend a large portion of my wages on getting into work. Men are happy enough to physically push my body out the way to get on the first tube. Teachers swing children by their wrists. I must get out of my job.
I read the beginning of Glissant’s ‘Poetics of Relation’ on Friday, on a big, soft chair in SHL. Bodies on ships. All week the image of kalapani prison in my head. Fell asleep and went home.
Last night I dreamt that I saw **. He told me why he didn’t like me; he does, as far as I know, like me, in waking life. He rated me 3/10. Many things; my nose, my sense of humour, were unendurable to him.
March 11, 2013
Time is 16.22. Facebook reminded me that it’s an ex-boyfriend’s birthday. It occurred to me in the couple of years following the end of our relationship the date would only have been that, for me. And as months turned into years the possibility of any kind of distant intimacy diminishes until the date is unrecognizable to me, a marker of homogeneous time. And time becomes more homogeneous without love.
What I really came on here to record, the important thing, is that I’ve spent all day wanting a nap. I wouldn’t say that I’m tired. Some sort of mute sinking feeling has crept into every joint and corner of my body to the point where all the reading I’ve been attempting to do has been contending (or at least complicit) with this feeling of wanting to lie down. I wonder what it is. cold weather in London again. starting the day with Schumann. It’s less the everyday melancholy, more the flatness of things around me, amorphous and dynamic as they are, overwhelmingly flooding its way into my work, my reading (my attempts to organise my reading) and concurrently the distractions I yield to when avoiding work, which has rendered this state of utter impasse. It’s not wholly unproductive, but it’s an impossible feeling to articulate, when in the midst of an obviously dynamic world, you’re suddenly flooded for hours with an overwhelming feeling of vagueness.
I’m sure this feebly, snow-flurry, windy day in the surburbs of London will disappear into the unending vagueness of my life, but I felt compelled to record it, for now, if only because I am avoiding doing more work. Which I really need to do, now.
20/10/12. not at the TUC march.
today’s date has a nice symmetry to it. I am reading David Dabydeen’s Our Lady of Demerara. slowly, and only on the bus or tube, because I have too much work to do otherwise. perhaps I will write something about it when I finish. I read his cousin Cyril Dabydeen’s account of growing up in colonial Guyana the other night. a natural-historical memoir if there ever was one: dizzying, wonderful, smells, heat, tension, oppression, and all the water; I’ll certainly have to write on it at some point. but for now I am drinking blackberry tea & trying to care about allegory in Benjamin’s Ursprung.
sacked from minimum wage pub job. hello blog.
everything is golden out the window. later I will make some chicken soup. I need to read Kant for tomorrow but I feel anxious about jobs and money and my mind won’t rest.