Perfected :: Her Body :: Greek Necessity :: Deep Throats :: Scrolls

The mermaids singing, each to each. Words cannot do justice to my current loathing of T.S Eliot. This is largely due to the fact that I have to write another 1,700 words or so on him before 12pm tomorrow. The two facts can hardly be a coincidence. I first took against him years ago, after seeing William Dafoe being (there really is no other word) absolutely beastly to Miranda Richardson in ‘Tom and Viv’, and I’ve never really gotten over it. Much as I – albeit grudgingly – like his poetry, he sucks as a literary critic. And I’m putting that in my essay. Maybe. I will admit to secretly liking the idea of being included in a tradition dating back to Homer simply by virtue of Being A Writer, (the three most odious and pretentious words in both the English and American English languages to my current, creatively blocked mind). Nevertheless, ‘The Tradition and Individual Talent’ reads like one half of a Socratic dialogue, and I would dearly love to have the man himself come along and take Mr Eliot down several pegs. His argument is flawed and shifting, imploding in on itself like some star somewhere in the galaxy probably does. There’s an astronomical simile floating around there somewhere, I’m sure of it. In the space of a few minutes I have managed to get almost as far into this journal entry as I have in my essay in the space of about an hour. So I should probably stop here, and save my invective for the place it will do me most good. Another all-nighter, I fear. Now I have around 400 words to go and my mind is searching around for things to do. Re-read that fortnight old copy of The Guardian, paint my nails, make some breakfast (for yes, it is by now breakfast time) write wordy and pointless journal entries… At some point the bomb site that is my room needs to be smartened up due to the impending visit of a certain someone who has been absent from these city walls for far too long. Get rid of the mountains of (someone ELSE’S) washing up, the several zillion empty Ribena bottles on my desk, the mice. ______________________________ we have come so far :: it is over

Accomplishment :: The Moon :: Toga :: Night Flower