Monday's child hit Thursday, and is almost to ready to puke.
Q.
UKers. Maybe just Londoners, not sure:
Do you know that energy advert? - You know: every single unnecessary lightbulb, every extra moment with the fridge door open, every TV left on standby... brings the world one step closer to exploding in an enormous explosive ball of light: Poof!
Yes?
Well it's irksome. It itches uncomfortably like a bad wool jumper in spring. It gets my goat, a touch, at the moment. My goat is got. It irks.
I'm not a fan of advertising at the best of times. On the one hand, I marvel at the way we lap it all up... to the degree that I kind of get off on the very idea of that kind, that level of power. And then the protoMarxist kicks in on the other, and I realise that I am as much a subject of that power, a subaltern, one of the subjugated, the shepherded, the manipulated, as everyone else... and I start to gag a little. I feel it. In the pit of my gut, in the depths of my self: a distant, almost tremulous stirring... It feels like... pride; heartbrake; jealousy; nausea; fear; loathing... It feels like an awareness of mortality; of weakness; of emptiness; of loss... It feels like I'm going to
.
Even if the object of advertising is morally acceptable, even ideal, how can I (or should I) possibly appreciate being mentally and emotionally, consciously and subconsciously manipulated by that malign black box, by all media, in anyway?
That's alot of italics. Clearly it irks.
I was feeling guilty as I stared into the fridge, uncertain of what to have.
And yes, that's how that started. Truly. (I went for the mushroom pate, as it happens.)
Well, on a different (mostly) note, I fear I must toddle off into the land of single-minded cleverness. That's right, my dears: it is time for the fair (or dark) Saint Adatha to prove his academic mettle again. And I decided today that I'm probably not going to do the Language and Reality essay that I've been knocking around... Which means that I'm jacking in a poor week-or-so's worth of research in favour of a title that I think I shall find easier. Thus am I left with the following two essays:
1. Ritual and theatre are linked only by the term performance. Discuss within the context of ethnography; and
2. Anthropology must consider the passage of time.
The first one would be better if I wasn't tied by that god-awful addendum. And the second one is a little bit like well, yeah. obviously, except that clearly it's not that obvious, and there's a wealth of anthropological history proving that everyone didn't think it at all obvious.
They really were the best titles of a bad bunch.
I should be fine, but it means I shan't be around much for the next few weeks... because otherwise I'll end up doing this instead of that.
It doesn't mean that I don't love you. Or that I think you're all bitches.
Honestly.
See you soon. And do keep talking... I will be listening... Somewhere...
Love and lollipops,
ads
x
Q.
UKers. Maybe just Londoners, not sure:
Do you know that energy advert? - You know: every single unnecessary lightbulb, every extra moment with the fridge door open, every TV left on standby... brings the world one step closer to exploding in an enormous explosive ball of light: Poof!
Yes?
Well it's irksome. It itches uncomfortably like a bad wool jumper in spring. It gets my goat, a touch, at the moment. My goat is got. It irks.
I'm not a fan of advertising at the best of times. On the one hand, I marvel at the way we lap it all up... to the degree that I kind of get off on the very idea of that kind, that level of power. And then the protoMarxist kicks in on the other, and I realise that I am as much a subject of that power, a subaltern, one of the subjugated, the shepherded, the manipulated, as everyone else... and I start to gag a little. I feel it. In the pit of my gut, in the depths of my self: a distant, almost tremulous stirring... It feels like... pride; heartbrake; jealousy; nausea; fear; loathing... It feels like an awareness of mortality; of weakness; of emptiness; of loss... It feels like I'm going to
.
Even if the object of advertising is morally acceptable, even ideal, how can I (or should I) possibly appreciate being mentally and emotionally, consciously and subconsciously manipulated by that malign black box, by all media, in anyway?
That's alot of italics. Clearly it irks.
I was feeling guilty as I stared into the fridge, uncertain of what to have.
And yes, that's how that started. Truly. (I went for the mushroom pate, as it happens.)
Well, on a different (mostly) note, I fear I must toddle off into the land of single-minded cleverness. That's right, my dears: it is time for the fair (or dark) Saint Adatha to prove his academic mettle again. And I decided today that I'm probably not going to do the Language and Reality essay that I've been knocking around... Which means that I'm jacking in a poor week-or-so's worth of research in favour of a title that I think I shall find easier. Thus am I left with the following two essays:
1. Ritual and theatre are linked only by the term performance. Discuss within the context of ethnography; and
2. Anthropology must consider the passage of time.
The first one would be better if I wasn't tied by that god-awful addendum. And the second one is a little bit like well, yeah. obviously, except that clearly it's not that obvious, and there's a wealth of anthropological history proving that everyone didn't think it at all obvious.
They really were the best titles of a bad bunch.
I should be fine, but it means I shan't be around much for the next few weeks... because otherwise I'll end up doing this instead of that.
It doesn't mean that I don't love you. Or that I think you're all bitches.
Honestly.
See you soon. And do keep talking... I will be listening... Somewhere...
Love and lollipops,
ads
x
VIEW 10 of 10 COMMENTS
deadline is the 18th for me. its a research kind of project. but about a month ago all my notes and writing and everything got stolen when some asshole broke into my office. so its not going to be a very good essay, and i'd probably be embarassed to show it to you. but i'd love to read yours.
looking forward to reading baudrillard. for my project next year i'm planning on doing some sociology of the arts or something like that--just to prove how useless and pointless comtemp art is and and how stupid everyones assumptions are about it.
so are you a soasian? what are you studying? (or just writing essays for fun???)
yeah, soas is so lenient. i like it there. i love all my professors too, they're so cool. i'm 26, but still doing my undergrad degree. yes, i choose to do some other things (usually not so healthy ones) with my life while everyone else did their undergrad degree, so i'm behind schedule, but i dont care what the rest of the world thinks.
anthro is very interesting. i made the mistake of taking the soas intro to social anthro my first year and i really hated the teacher which kind of made me shy away from it this year. however, i do like reading all about it on my own. its very much like art history. but with less pictures.
yes, i know. i should be working. i'm currently doing 3 things: 1) lurking on the web and looking at porn; 2) trying to write my essay, or at least read some stuff and organize thoughts about it; and 3) working at my day job--writing letters to clients and asking them to send loads of money to my boss, the lawyer, who just might pay me a tiny little bit of it come the end of the month...
did you know that lagsangne's (ok, i can't spell) origin can be traced back to the british isles rather than to italy? there is a very old cookbook with a recipe that is highly similar to today's typical lag, attributed to this part of the world, and titled something similar to lag. (might be celtic or something, i dont remember. i'll have to dig up the source, but thats really getting off topic for me)